Hideaway

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With a groan, she rolled over on her side and threw off the comforter. Its weight wasn’t nearly as heavy as the oppression that dragged her down when she remembered. She always remembered when she first woke up. Susan…

A sudden movement in the far corner of the room startled her, then a mouse scuttled out of sight.

She picked up the comforter and folded it, recalling how Susan had always panicked, screaming and jumping onto the nearest piece of furniture, whenever she heard a telltale squeak or saw a small furry body racing across the room. She’d always called on big sister to come and chase it away. That had been when they were growing up, when Dad was off on a business trip and Mom was working late at the office.

Cheyenne’s throat constricted. Would it always cripple her like this when she allowed herself to think? Would she always have to battle this horrible, gnawing guilt when she thought of Susan?

The voices reached her from outside again.

“Don’t let her eat the flowers!”

“What now?” Cheyenne tossed the comforter over the sofa, combing her fingers through tangled hair. This was supposed to be Ozark wilderness, where she could hide out and not see anybody for weeks at a time. So far, if she counted the mice skittering around the living room half the night and the howl of coyotes that had awakened her sometime in the darkness, she’d had very little solitude.

She drew the lacy curtain from the window and looked out.

Three wizened faces peered at her over the ledge of the three-foot-tall concrete wall around the porch. One was an older woman, at least in her eighties, with pure white hair framing her face. An even older man hovered next to her. He was bald with white tufts sticking out around his pink head, and age spots covering his face. Most startling was the third face—that of a mottled brown goat.

As Cheyenne’s lips parted in surprise the man’s smile widened in a toothless grin. He nodded sagely as she backed away from the window.

Cheyenne took a sustaining breath and pulled the door open. Three heads bobbed as the visitors filed to the steps.

The man smiled again, and the woman turned to look at him. She stopped, placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Oh, honey, you went off and forgot your teeth again. What’s she gonna think?”

The man leaned forward. “What’s that?”

“Your teeth! You forgot your teeth!”

“Oh.” The man dashed his hand over his mouth, caught sight of Cheyenne watching him and gave her an embarrassed smile.

The woman sighed and turned toward Cheyenne. “Mornin’.” Her strong, hearty voice held the warmth and spice of hot apple cider. “Heard you’d moved in here. I’m Bertie Meyer, this here’s my husband, Red and the one with the teeth is Mildred.” She pointed to the goat.

Cheyenne blinked at Mildred. The animal blinked back.

“Don’t worry, she don’t butt no more,” Bertie assured her. “Used to, but I broke her of it. Told her I’d trade her off for one of the ranch racing pigs.”

Cheyenne groaned inwardly. Racing pigs and pet goats. If she had any sense, she’d load all her things back and get out of here. She could go stay with her aunt Sarah in Sikeston. Nobody would visit her there. Or she could just buy a tent, drive to the nearest park and camp out for the next few years. Come to think of it, New York City probably wasn’t as populated as Hideaway.

She realized that her visitors were watching her expectantly. “My name’s Cheyenne Allison.” She stepped onto the porch as she glanced at the goat. Mildred?

Red took an unsteady step up one of the concrete steps, tottered on the edge until Cheyenne was sure he would fall backward, then gained his balance and found his smile once more. “We’re Red and Bertie Meyer. What’s your name?”

“She told you, silly goose!” Bertie shouted at her husband. “Name’s Cheyenne!”

“Hmph. You mean she’s too shy to tell us her name?” he shouted back.

Bertie shook her head at Cheyenne. “Don’t mind him, he’s deaf as a flowerpot. We just came over to see if you needed any help settling in. This is a good ol’ house, in spite of what some thinks. Knew this place’d sell someday. You and your husband planning to farm it?”

“Not at this point.” Why bother to explain the whole situation?

“Knew the Jarvises. They lived here until a couple of years ago, did a little farming.”

While Bertie talked, Mildred stepped daintily up onto the porch and sniffed Cheyenne’s leg. She darted a glance down at the goat, who gazed up at her with an air of innocence, then took the leg of her jeans in her mouth and tugged. No one else seemed to notice.

“Tell her about the Jarvises,” Red instructed his wife.

Bertie grimaced and shook her head conspiratorially at Cheyenne. “Okay, Red, I will!” She lowered her voice. “It helps to humor him. He gets mad if he thinks you’re ignoring him. Lizzie Barlow called me this morning to warn me they saw lights out here last night, and that there was probably vandals messing up the place.”

Cheyenne tugged the hem of her jeans out of Mildred’s mouth. “Lizzie?”

“Austin Barlow’s mother. He’s the mayor of Hideaway. Lizzie hears everything that goes on around here.” Bertie snorted. “You have to watch her. Sometimes she gets ahead of herself. Not that she likes to pass judgment on people, but…well…any ways, don’t tell her anything you don’t want the whole town to know. Would you listen to me? Now I’m doing it. Anyways, around here, everybody knows everybody else’s business. You’ll be needing a cat.”

Mildred took another tug at Cheyenne’s jeans, and Cheyenne jerked back. “A cat?”

“For mice, unless you want to share a bed with ’em.”

Cheyenne nudged the goat out from between her legs.

“Our cat’s a good mouser, and you’re in luck. We’ve got some almost grown kittens that’ll do you fine. I’ll bring one over.”

“No, thanks, I don’t need a cat.”

Bertie blinked up at her.

“I mean…I’m not moved in yet.” Cheyenne hesitated, looking at the three expectant faces. “I’m only here temporarily. I won’t be staying.”

Bertie’s shoulders drooped slightly. “Don’t you worry, those cats’ll be with us awhile. No hurry on that.” She turned to Red. “Guess we’d better be going. We got the goats to milk yet this morning, and I need to work in the garden this afternoon.” She patted Mildred’s behind and nudged her off the porch, then herded Red along behind the goat.

Red nodded smilingly at Cheyenne again. “Nice to meet you, young lady. You come and see us real soon.” He turned to his wife as he stepped to the ground. “I bet she could use one of those kittens for the mice around here.”

Bertie chuckled. “I bet she could, too.” She turned to Cheyenne and said, “If you need us for anything, we’re the next house on the road south from your gate.”

As they strolled back toward the gate, Cheyenne called out, “Why don’t I drive you there?”

“Thanks, but Mildred wouldn’t appreciate us cuttin’ her walk short,” Bertie called over her shoulder as they continued down to the rocky driveway.

Cheyenne chided herself for her lack of hospitality. They were just two harmless senior citizens…and a goat who liked to chew on pant legs.

She went down the steps and strolled around the yard, surveying the place that would be her home for the next few weeks…months?

Seven cedar trees congregated at the center of a grassy knoll twenty-some yards south of the house. New leaves sprinkled bright green across the tops of the otherwise naked gray-and-brown oaks in a forest that formed a natural barrier between this property and the rest of the world, except for the shoreline. Jonquils bloomed in splashes of yellow where the woods met fields.

The house sat on the crest of a hill that overlooked Table Rock Lake, and across the lake she saw a big red barn. The boys’ ranch, no doubt.

Judging by the position and lack of warmth of the sun, it was probably about six or seven o’clock in the morning, but Cheyenne had no way of knowing. She had purposely left all clocks and watches back in her apartment. Someday, perhaps, she would rejoin the human race, but now she wanted to forget.

Behind the house she found a small barn within a fenced corral, with two other outbuildings, apparently in good condition. One outbuilding was the well house, built of whitewashed blocks. The other looked like a chicken shed.

Chickens…mousing cats…milk goats. She’d never lived on a farm, though she’d often thought it might be interesting.

So far, she could definitely call this experience interesting.

Before she stayed here another day, she would need some supplies. Maybe Hideaway, small as it was, would carry what she needed. She’d finish unloading the car, then take a short drive to town.

Dane loved the smell of freshly cooked bacon, even if it was poison to arteries. He especially got a craving for it on Monday mornings, when he had a whole week of work to face. This morning, Cook had also made biscuits, fried eggs and potatoes with onions, and whipped up a batch of cream gravy that could tempt a man to sin.

Snatching a strip of bacon from the platter on the warming tray, Dane nodded good-morning to Cook. “Where’s your kitchen help this morning?”

“I sent him to town.” Cook grabbed an oven mitt and opened the oven door. “Our hens are getting a little carried away lately, and they were low on eggs at the store.”

Dane paused with the bacon halfway to his mouth. He checked the schedule on the side of the refrigerator. Gavin Farmer.

“How long ago did he leave?”

Cook stirred the potatoes and onions, then peered at Dane over the rims of his reading glasses. “About thirty minutes ago. Something wrong?”

“I hope not. It doesn’t take that long to go over and back.” The dock was barely a block from the store. After the hullabaloo this weekend…but searching for problems never did anybody any good. Dane crunched the bacon.

“You know how Blaze likes to hang around and shoot the breeze with ol’ Cecil when there’s time,” Cook said. “He got the milking done early and already had the potatoes shredded when I got down here. He was just underfoot, driving me nuts. I figured—”

“It’s okay,” Dane said. “He’ll be back anytime, I’m sure.” He strolled to the back door and peered out the window.

“You worry about that kid too much,” Cook said, stepping up behind him.

“And you don’t?”

“He’s a piece of work, all right. Charmer. He got Bertie Meyer to bake him a batch of her chocolate black-walnut cookies last week, then he traded half of them to Willy to do his chores one morning so he could sleep in.”

“Well, if he doesn’t get back soon, he’s going to be eating the rest of them for breakfast. We’re not waiting around if he’s late.”

Brightly colored houses graced the narrow, roughly paved road into Hideaway. The peridot green of budding springtime gave the morning a crisp, fresh feel, the multitude of pink-and-white dogwood trees providing a splash of elegance to a progression of postage-stamp-size yards. Larger, more elegant brick and stone homes graced the cliff line across the lake. Other houses were set deeply into the hillsides above the road.