They meaning our parents. They’d been convinced, when swooping to my rescue after the crisis, that they could take all my settlement money. I owed it to them, in their books. They’d been dead wrong, of course. I recuperated at their home—as much an excuse to see how Cheyenne was doing and to remind her that I loved her as not having other choices—because God only knew if the letters I sent home were reaching her. She never wrote back and, in the end, my instincts had been right. She hadn’t been getting the letters I diligently wrote.
“Yeah, I gave them what I owed them for caring for me for a few weeks, and not a penny more. And I’m not sorry.” I’d left their house as soon as I was able.
I stayed with a friend until I got the settlement in my bank account. After sending five hundred bucks to my folks for their inconvenience in taking care of me, I bought the used SUV, packed up what little stuff I had, picked Gaynor Beach, and drove west. And here I was, with this place and the dogs, and yes, happy at last.
“Did you have breakfast?” I hadn’t seen signs in the kitchen, but she could’ve grabbed something while I’d been in the backyard.
She shook her head. “Not hungry. In fact, a little nauseous.”
My stomach clenched in memory. All the times Mom had been nauseous in the morning. Oh God, is Cheyenne pregnant? What the fuck are we going to do? Will she keep the baby? Will she need help raising it? What about the father?—
She snorted. “Breathe, Brooklyn. I’m not knocked up.”
“How…?”
“I know pure panic on your face when I see it.”
For all her laissez-faire attitude, she’d also been the most intuitive and empathetic of all my siblings. “Well, you can’t blame me. I have an underage sister show up at my doorstep and I’m not supposed to panic?”
She bit her lower lip—something I’d witnessed her doing a lot when I’d stayed with my family. “Oops, I need to eat.”
“Cheyenne.” I frowned. “You just said you couldn’t eat.”
“Between an interrogation and food? I’ll take food every time.” She rose and headed for the kitchen.
Several pooches made to follow her.
“Close the gate?”
“Am I allowed to keep any of them?” She poked her head around the corner. “I think there are enough to share.”
Well, I couldn’t argue. “Keep Twain—the beagle—he’s been a little quiet this morning and the extra attention won’t hurt. Not a scrap of food, okay? They get fed plenty.”
Twain gave me a baleful look, but followed Cheyenne into the kitchen.
Hiro nearly made it through the crack as she closed the gate, but didn’t manage. He yipped his displeasure at being thwarted.
“You can come cuddle with me.” I used my sing-songy voice. “Ear rubs.”
I had five dogs lining up for their turn until Cheyenne returned with a plate of toast and a cup of coffee.
She sat in a chair, holding the plate up, and eyed her newfound doting audience.
Xandra leaped to a closer shelf but stayed up out of dog-reach.
Twain whined.
Eb drooled.
“Brooklyn says no. He’s the mean one for not letting me share.” She jutted her chin.
I mock glared. Then considered what I could and couldn’t ask. “How’d you find me?”
She snorted “It’s called the internet. There aren’t many Brooklyn West guys out there, and none in a gay friendly town with a doggie daycare business. Plus, your picture’s on your website. You and a pile of grinning dogs.”
Shit. The publicity shoot Anderson Michaels had done for me when I was first setting things up. Honestly, it had never occurred to me that anyone from my old life would want to find me. Or maybe you wanted to make certain Cheyenne could if she ever needed to. That would’ve been a subconscious thought at best. God knew, I hadn’t deliberately left breadcrumbs. “And you just, what, hitched from Piperston?” That terrified me.
She eyed her food as if trying to determine if she could manage it, then set the plate on her knee.
