LITMIR.BIZ

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sorry.”

      “Forget it, Brent. Paul walked out on me when I needed him most. Why would I care about a man like that?”

      “Right. Okay. Sure.”

      She’d adored Paul Ramos, but now she felt nothing but sadness—not for Paul, but for the woman she’d become. A woman no man would want. Paul had taught her that.

      A lull ensued when neither could think of anything to say and Cheyenne ended the call. She loved her only two relatives, but they had been adversely affected, too. Whether they admitted it or not, and no matter how much she hurt to know, Dad and Brent were glad to have her gone.

      The Sugar Shack smelled sweet enough to give her a toothache. If the crowd gathered at round tables and along a low counter with stools was any indication, the Sugar Shack was the local meeting place, at least for breakfast. Besides the scrumptious pastries and breads filling the display cases and tinting the air with a warm, yeasty fragrance, the shop served country breakfast fare and sandwiches.

      As she stood inside the door, analyzing the inhabitants, several heads turned her direction. But instead of suspicion, their expressions showed only momentary interest before they turned back to their companions or their steaming coffee cups. After looking for a seat and finding none, Cheyenne made her way toward the cash register. The chatter of friendly voices mingled with the clink of thick white mugs against matching saucers and the occasional ka-ching of the cash register. A few customers nodded a polite greeting as she walked by.

      The small gesture buoyed her.

      As she turned sideways to ease around one table, a voice called out, “Miss Cheyenne.”

      She glanced down into the whiskery face of G. I. Jack.

      “Did Doc Bowman take the puppies?”

      The grizzled old bum had an undeniable sweetness about him. She smiled. “He did.”

      The man pushed at the extra chair between himself and Popbottle Jones. “You’ll not find another empty. Sit down and we’ll treat you to breakfast. Won’t we, Popbottle?”

      His Dumpster partner hoisted a cup in her honor. “Indeed we will.”

      They’d treat her? These two raggedy old derelicts? “Oh, I couldn’t, but I will share your table if you don’t mind.”

      G. I. Jack frowned, thick bushy eyebrows pulled together in bewilderment. “Why would we mind? We invited you.”

      Barely holding back a grin, Cheyenne took the offered chair. “This place is busy.”

      “Always is. Best biscuits and gravy you’ll find anywhere.” He poked a forkful of the aforementioned food into his mouth.

      “Thank you for your help yesterday.”

      “Glad to be of assistance.”

      “Good because I’d like to ask you something else.” Considering how full his mouth was, she didn’t wait for his reply. “I need a job. Any kind of job.”

      G. I. Jack’s brow creased in thought, but he kept right on shoveling food into his mouth.

      Popbottle Jones lowered his coffee cup. “Dr. Bowman hires a person now and then.”

      The handsome vet again.

      A stick-thin woman in a baker’s apron sashayed up to the table. Graying black hair yanked straight back from an angular face met in a bun at the nape of her neck. Long, bony hands with overlarge knuckles wielded a pad and pen.

      Cheyenne gave her order before saying, “I’d like to speak with Miriam. Is she here?”

      “She sure is.”

      G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones chuckled. The woman shook her pencil at them before turning a friendly look to Cheyenne. “I’m Miriam. Whatcha need?”

      Popbottle Jones laid aside his fork. “She’s new in town. Her name is Cheyenne.”

      “She’s looking for a job.” Without the least bit of self-consciousness, G. I. Jack slid a fluffy biscuit into his shirt pocket. Yesterday fries, today biscuits. “She’s staying over to Kitty’s. And she likes dogs.”

      How did they know where she was staying?

      “Well, let’s see.” Miriam took the order pad, ripped off a page, turned the sheet over and began to write. When she finished, she handed the short list to Cheyenne. “A lot of places have shut down in the past few months or cut back. The economy, you know. But these are worth a shot.”

      “I appreciate your help.” As Cheyenne started to fold the list, Miriam reached for the paper again.

      “Wait. I thought of one more place. G.I. said you like dogs.”

      Cheyenne had a feeling she knew what Miriam was writing. Sure enough, when she took the paper, there he was again—Trace Bowman.

      By noon, she’d gone through the list of potential employers and found nothing but a town filled with mostly friendly folks and an assortment of entertaining characters. Worse, she kept hearing about the bad economy and Trace Bowman.

      “Is there some kind of conspiracy in this town to find the vet an assistant?” she muttered as she slid behind the wheel of her car and slammed the door, discouraged.

      Just as she cranked the engine, her cell phone jingled.

      Cheyenne’s eyebrows lifted. Brent again? She punched Talk. “Is something wrong?”

      “Nah, just wanted to hear your voice.”

      “Right. Two calls in one day means something. What’s up?”

      “No hurry, but if you’re settling in Weirdo-ville for a while, I’ll forward your mail. You’ve got some bills here.”

      “Lovely. More bills. I thought I had everything paid. What are they?”

      She heard the swish of paper as he shifted through the envelopes and rattled off a few minor debts. “Anything major?”

      “Law offices of Windom and Green…”

      Cheyenne groaned. She’d already paid them an enormous amount. “How much is that one?”

      “I’ll have to open it.”

      “Go ahead.”

      She heard the rip and then the hiss of indrawn breath.

      “Wow.” He named a sum that made her gasp as well. Her remaining severance pay from the police department wouldn’t cover the amount. The price of proving oneself guilty of nothing except being a madman’s victim was exorbitant.

      After giving Brent the address of the motel and assuring him she had everything under control, she flipped the cell phone shut and leaned her head on the steering wheel. On the floorboard lay Miriam Martinelli’s job list. With a sigh of resignation, she picked up the paper. All but one suggestion was crossed off.

      Dr. Trace Bowman.

      “Dr. Bowman, Barry is on the phone. His raccoon has diarrhea.” Jeri Burdine, the middle-aged assistant who answered the phones and maintained the clinic accounts, peered around the doorway of Exam Room One. Bright beads rattled at the ends of tidy black cornrows.

      Trace barely looked up from examining a dog with a high fever.

      “Tell Barry the treatment’s the same as usual. Give him a teaspoon of Kaopectate every four hours as needed. No food, but a lot of liquids, especially Gatorade. Bring him in if he’s not better tomorrow.” Ten-year-old Barry was a kid after his own heart. He rescued critters, the latest being a baby raccoon whose mother had been hit by a car.

      The coffee-brown face flashed a grin. “Will do.”

      A cacophony of yapping dogs had Trace raising his voice to be heard. “And tell Toby to check that sheltie pup

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