Finding Her Way Home by Linda Goodnight Page B

breeze was soft on her skin, whispering affirmations of life and safety. She was okay. Everything was fine. Tree leaves rustled. A car motored past. An insect droned nearby.
    Normal sounds in the here and now.
    â€œCheyenne?”
    She opened her eyes to find Trace standing two feet away, peering at her with concern.
    â€œWant to walk down to the bank?”
    Cheyenne took a deep, cleansing breath and let the air out slowly, somehow finding a weak smile. The man must think she was nuts to stand here on the side of the road with her eyes closed, gripping a truck door for dear life.
    â€œIs someone fishing down there?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded thready and strange.
    After watching her for one final, frowning moment—enough to let her know he’d noticed something was amiss—Trace shaded his eyes and looked through the lace of green leaves and grass toward the riverbank.
    â€œLooks like G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones. Want to go down and say hello?”
    Zoey tugged on her father’s hand. “Yes, Daddy. Let’s go. Come on, Cheyenne. Come on!”
    Zoey’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Cheyenne couldn’t resist the special little girl. Never once had she heard the child complain about her handicap. The world could take a lesson from this seven-going-on-eight-year-old.
    â€œI paid a dollar for this tour,” she said, forcing cheer into the words. “Might as well get my money’s worth.”
    They headed down a sharp, grassy incline, skidding a little as they went. When she began to slide, Cheyenne reached for a tree limb, but Trace caught her elbow first. His grip, strong from work with large animals, held her steady.
    She seldom let anyone touch her intentionally, but she didn’t pull away. Instead of feeling threatened, she was comforted by his strength.
    She must be hallucinating.
    â€œThe river is always stinky down here,” Zoey said, nose wrinkled as she sniffed in a noisy rush of air. “But I like it.”
    â€œThis from a child raised in a veterinary clinic.” Humor crinkled the skin around Trace’s eyes.
    â€œOh, Daddy, puppies smell good. The clinic doesn’t stink.”
    This time, Trace laughed. “That’s why God sent you to be my daughter.”
    â€œAnd it’s a good thing, too, huh, Daddy?”
    â€œA very good thing. Couldn’t live through the day without my Zoey. You’re my best girl.”
    Zoey tilted her head in a knowing gesture. “Margo thinks she’s your best girl.”
    Trace flicked a glance at Cheyenne, but his expression was unreadable. Quietly, he said, “Margo’s only a friend. You and I have talked about that before.”
    His reply sent a burst of energy zipping along Cheyenne’s nerve endings. She tried to tamp back the rush of emotion, but, good or bad, there it was. She was glad Trace Bowman wasn’t married or involved.
    Biting hard on her bottom lip, she pretended to focus on thetrail ahead, but her mind was on Trace Bowman, on the soft denial, on the way his powerful fingers steadied her elbow, on the kindness he’d shown her since their first meeting.
    That was it. Kindness. Like a dog that had been kicked and starved for attention, she was responding to this man’s innate kindness. That was what this rush of feeling was all about. Kindness. Nothing more.
    There was nothing else left for a woman like her.
    â€œI can walk the rest of the way without help,” she said, abruptly pulling her arm from his grasp.
    Trace shot her a look of surprise but didn’t argue when she held back, letting him go ahead.
    Zoey held tight to her daddy’s other arm, feeling her way with her sneakered feet. Trace moved patiently, giving her time, though Cheyenne thought the little girl was amazingly confident.
    When they reached the bottom of the incline, Trace glanced back at her. “Okay?”
    â€œFine.” She skidded the last few feet