A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2)

by Victoria Bylin

  He didn’t say anything more as he worked, and neither did she. In the silence her fear kicked back in, so she turned her head long enough to scrutinize the red Camaro with Ohio plates. She didn’t think he was lying about his brother in Refuge, but she couldn’t be too careful.

  She watched as he put away the jack and flat tire, then closed the trunk. “This will get you to Refuge, but don’t drive on it any longer than necessary. It’s safe, but just for a short distance.”

  He sounded just like her brother. Shane was worse than a mother hen since she’d left her old life in Los Angeles and moved into his fiancée’s house, but Daisy secretly loved it. They’d been estranged before he found her, and now she cherished their “sibling-ness.” When Shane learned about the flat tire, he’d probably tell her again that she didn’t need to work right now, that she was still recovering from the assault and could take all the time she needed.

  She appreciated his concern, but sitting around made her crazy. She did better with a routine, plus she was determined to move into her own place rather than take over Shane’s above-the-garage apartment when he and MJ tied the knot in June. She didn’t want to be in the way of the newlyweds, though she loved being Aunt Daisy to MJ’s six-year-old son, Cody.

  “Miss?” Her personal road warrior peered at her through the glare of the headlights. “You’re good to go.”

  “I really appreciate what you did.”

  “No problem. If you don’t mind, I’d like to follow you back to Refuge just to be sure that spare holds up.”

  It was a good idea, but she didn’t want to inconvenience him any more than she had. “But you were going the other way.”

  “I was just out driving. It’s no big deal.”

  His words sounded casual enough, but who just went driving at three a.m.? Someone who couldn’t sleep. Someone running from the same kinds of thoughts that kept Daisy up at night and made her pace or play too much Candy Crush. It seemed they were kindred spirits, though she wasn’t about to follow that line of thought.

  Instead she focused on her safety. If he followed her to Refuge, he would find out where she lived. “How far would you follow?”

  “Just to downtown. You’ll have cell phone reception then.”

  “All right.”

  “So,” he said, “now we have to change places.” He put his hands up where she could see them. “I’m going to walk back to my car. I’ll wait there until you’re in the driver’s seat. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  With that, he walked to his car. Just like he’d said, he waited until she climbed into the Hyundai and started the engine. Using the rearview mirror, she watched as he eased into the Camaro. When he flashed the headlights, she took off down the highway toward home. As promised, he followed her to Refuge, veering away before she needed to turn toward home.

  She wished she’d asked his name. Then again, why would she? She wasn’t ready for a relationship. Right now, all she wanted was to stay sober, stay strong in her faith, and stay out of the kind of trouble that came with a good-looking man who made a frightened woman feel safe.

  Chapter 2

  Rafe entered the combo into the keypad lock on Jesse’s front door, walked silently to the guest room, and stretched out fully clothed on the bed. Sleep came fast and hard.

  Four hours later the aroma of coffee tickled his nose, but what most brought him to alertness was the memory of the woman with the flat tire. The way she wielded that can of pepper spray told him a lot about her personality. They hadn’t even exchanged names, but he felt a connection to her, a shared understanding of how fragile life could be.

  He wanted to see her again.

  Jesse had connections—a lot of them between his construction business, church, Twelve-Step meetings, and eating out every night. Maybe he knew something about a woman who drove a 2015 Hyundai Elantra, forest green, with a Life Is Good sticker in the rear window.

  Rafe hauled himself off the bed, took a moment to stretch his back and shoulders, then ambled into the kitchen.

  Jesse indicated the Keurig. “Help yourself.”

  Mug in hand, Rafe chose the strongest blend in the tray. “So last night I changed a flat tire for a woman stranded on the road out to Three Corners. A waitress. Blond. Drives a green Hyundai. Do you know anyone who fits the description?”

  “You sound like an episode of Cops.”

  Rafe glanced at Jesse, who raised his mug to his lips and took a long sip. Was he stalling or savoring the coffee? Rafe sipped his own strong brew, decided Jesse was stalling, and challenged him. “So do you know her?”

  “Maybe.”

  That was code for Don’t ask. With Jesse’s history, he was the keeper of a lot of secrets, a trait Rafe respected, though right now he wanted his brother to spill the beans. “What’s the big deal?”

  “There isn’t one, but I’m not talking. How would you like it if I blabbed your business to anyone who asked?” Jesse put on a newscaster-like voice. “Hello, everyone. Meet Rafe Donovan. He’s a cop in Cincinnati, but he’s here in Refuge because he’s having bad dreams—very bad dreams. In fact, he—”

  “Yeah, I get it.” His neck hair prickled with the memory of the nightmare that had launched him out of bed last night.

  Jesse set down his heavy mug. “Rule number one for Donovan Construction is ‘Don’t run your mouth about other people.’ You know that.”

  Rafe muttered under his breath. “It was just a casual question.”

  “For people like me, there’s no such thing.”

  Rafe got it. His clean-cut brother hadn’t always been a good guy. Jesse had done prison time for drug charges, become a Christian while behind bars, and come to Refuge to start a construction business modeled on the one that had given him a fresh start. The men and women he hired all needed a break, and Jesse gladly provided one.

  Rafe admired his brother’s efforts, but he didn’t share Jesse’s ramrod posture about not blabbing. Gossip stank, but legitimate information enabled people to make smart decisions. He wasn’t ready to let go of finding out the woman’s name—or to let Jesse win. “So let me guess. You know her from prison. She’s a mysterious cat burglar released on a technicality.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “So you won’t help me out here?”

  “No, I won’t.”

  Rafe held back a snort. Over the past few years, Jesse had morphed from a selfish jerk into St. Jesse, Redeemer of Ex-Cons, Addicts, and Losers of Every Kind. Rafe didn’t want to think too hard about the fact that he was living in Jesse’s house right now.

  The mysterious woman interested him far more, and he didn’t really need Jesse’s help. He knew she worked the late shift at a restaurant in Three Corners. She wouldn’t be hard to find if he wanted to meet her again under safer circumstances, but no way would he act like a weirdo stalker. To Rafe’s way of thinking, life was a string of random events. Human beings were like marbles sliding around a great big box. They met, kissed, ricocheted, then rolled away from each other when the box tilted in a new direction.

  Jesse glanced at the clock on the microwave. “I’m outta here.”

  “Where to?”

  “Church. You’re welcome to come along.”

  Rafe shrugged off the invitation. “No thanks.” Crosses and steeples had been part of his upbringing, but he’d lost his affection for God when Kara died. He didn’t mind church on Easter if he wasn’t on duty, but he usually worked Christmas so officers with families could be home. As for Sundays, he far preferred sleeping in, watching the Bengals lose, or working on his car.

  Jesse rinsed his mug, set it on the sink, then snagged his keys and wallet off the kitchen table. When he put his hand on the doorknob, Rafe thought his brother would leave, but Jesse turned around. “About those nightmares.”

  Rafe shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about them.”

  “If you don’t talk to someone, they’ll get worse. Last night you were screaming like a lit
tle girl.”

  He decided to throw Jesse a bone. “I talked to a psychologist before I left home. The department set us up for weekly FaceTime sessions while I’m here.”

  “FaceTime?” Jesse’s brows arched. “Is that legit?”

  “Apparently so.” Rafe had been surprised too. “Apparently telemedicine is the latest thing. I’m okay with it. The dreams aren’t all as bad as last night. That one had Kara in it.”

  “And how long ago did that all happen?” Jesse had moved to Florida before she died, but he knew perfectly well how much time had passed.

  “Eight years,” Rafe admitted. “Yeah, I know it’s a long time. But—” He didn’t want to go there now, so he shook his head. “Get outta here, all right?”

  “Fine. But one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to take over for Brooks starting tomorrow. He bombed out at Cottonwood Acres.”

  Not a surprise. Brooks was a tough guy with a big mouth. He’d been assigned to handyman duties at a historic ranch that once served as the set for Thunder Valley, an old TV western. The ranch was also home to Miss Joan Prescott, an old lady known for not suffering fools gladly. Brooks had been handyman number three in the past month and had complained heavily about both the lowly job and Miss Joan’s perfectionism.

  “Great.” Rafe faked a groan. “Just what I need—a cranky old lady bossing me around.”

  Jesse smiled. “Cliff Lopez is the ranch foreman. He’ll do the bossing. But be nice. Miss Joan will eat you for breakfast and me for lunch. We’re just getting started on Heritage House. It’s a big contract for us.”

  “I heard you mention it the other day.” Rafe had been in the office to fill out employee tax forms. “What exactly is it?”

  “A seven-thousand-square-foot building with museum space on the first floor and offices on the second. Miss Joan is a retired history professor and the last of the Prescott family. Apparently she wants to leave a mark of some kind. I don’t know anything else.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be nice.” Rafe was glad to help Jesse, and he didn’t mind cranky old ladies at all. They were just part of a cop’s life—the life he wanted back.

  But first he had to beat the nightmares and regain confidence in himself after that weird panicky moment in the alley. Until then, he’d take what pleasure he could find. When it came to the woman with the flat tire, who knew which way their marbles would roll? With a little luck, he’d bump into her again and find out.

  Since arriving in Refuge three months ago, Daisy had applied for dozens of jobs but missed out on everything except waitressing. She possessed solid office skills thanks to vocational training at Maggie’s House, the women’s shelter in Los Angeles that gave her a fresh start, but she lacked experience except for clerking at Mary’s Closet, the thrift store associated with that ministry.

  The flat tire incident proved without a doubt that she needed a better job. She also needed a break, which came in the form of a Craigslist ad the day after the flat tire. Miss Joan Prescott, owner of Cottonwood Acres, needed a personal assistant. The position required computer and photography skills, a creative mind, and a good driving record. The hours were flexible and the salary negotiable.

  What the position entailed—the word of the day on Daisy’s Grow Your Vocabulary app—fit her skill set perfectly. But landing the job? That was another matter.

  Determined to do her best, she dressed professionally for the interview, and left in plenty of time. If she didn’t get the job, she’d be disappointed but not defeated. No matter what happened, she refused to lose hope. How could she doubt when God had rescued her so thoroughly? Yet she wrestled with fear as much as ever.

  “You can do this.” She spoke the words out loud as she turned down the long road to the famous ranch. If talking to herself made her crazy, too bad. Voicing good thoughts muffled the bad ones in her brain.

  You’ll never get the job. Everyone knows who you really are. You haven’t changed, Daisy. You’re still the same stupid—

  “Stop it.” She glared at her evil twin in the rearview mirror. When the twin glared back, Daisy scowled harder. “I mean it!”

  To make her point, she added a bear-like growl. It was more Care Bear than grizzly, but it scared away her evil twin.

  Pushing up her sunglasses, she refocused on the road leading to the ranch made famous by Thunder Valley. The old show lived on in syndication, and Daisy used to watch it after school. She had loved the horses, the big family meals, and especially the teenage heartthrob who played the oldest son. Back then, she had wanted a horse and a boyfriend. Now she just wanted a decent job.

  The interview was scheduled for two o’clock. The dashboard clock showed exactly 1:43. Perfect. For once in her life, she would be on time.

  A hundred feet away, something shiny flashed in the green canopy of a cottonwood tree. When the blob jarred loose, a cluster of Mylar and latex balloons shot into the sky. The colorful balloons flew high, higher still, shimmering on this May day so beautiful she wanted to fly, or run away, or—

  “Stop it,” she muttered.

  Sometimes she felt like that dog in the movie Up, the one that saw a squirrel and—yes, that dog.

  Or maybe she had ADHD, or maybe—never mind. She hated it when her thoughts ran wild, but at least the balloons were pretty and a welcome distraction from her nerves.

  But then she saw him—the man who had changed her flat tire.

  He was standing by a split-rail fence and gripping the strings of a second cluster of balloons, this one still tied to the top rail. He was looking down, so he didn’t see her car, but she saw him plainly. The same dark hair. More beard scruff. The broad shoulders she would never forget. Today an olive green t-shirt with a small logo hugged his chest. It looked like a Donovan Construction shirt, the kind Jesse sometimes wore to AA meetings after a long day at work.

  The man looked up, saw her car, and broke into a grin as she sped past. She returned her attention to the road, but her eyes darted defiantly back to the mirror, where she saw him raise his hand in a casual wave.

  “Stop staring!” She didn’t know if she was talking to him, herself, or her evil twin.

  Irked by the distraction, she shoved him out of her mind. But every twenty feet or so, yet another cluster of balloons bounced and bopped on the railing.

  The balloon trail didn’t end until she reached the scrolled-metal arch marking the entrance to Cottonwood Acres. A banner at the top declared Welcome! in primary colors that matched the balloons. Smaller print spelled out Horses, Hay, & History! Annual Children’s Festival with this past Saturday’s date.

  Daisy’s insides jiggled like one of those inflatable bouncy-houses, and they jiggled even more when she saw a red Camaro in the eight-car parking lot. The man had been careful of her fears when he changed her tire, but in Daisy’s experience, fast cars signaled trouble. If she crossed paths with him, she’d be friendly. If she didn’t see him at all, even better.

  A glance at the clock assured her she was five minutes early, so she dabbed on lipstick, checked her teeth in the mirror, then picked up her gently used Coach bag from Mary’s Closet. She had emailed her résumé, but the purse held hard copies, plus three of her seagull photographs and a letter of reference from Lyn Grant, the head of Maggie’s House and Daisy’s mentor and friend.

  Clutching the purse, she strode up the concrete walk to the house. The path ended at a wooden staircase eight steps high and wider than the double doors at the top of the wraparound deck. She took the stairs a step at a time, then used the door knocker to rap twice.

  A full minute passed. Or was it a minute? Maybe it had been only seconds—or maybe it was longer? Should she knock again, or—

  The door opened wide enough for Daisy to see a black-and-white Great Dane and a woman with stylish gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and perfectly applied lipstick. A tailored white blouse topped a pair of peacock blue capris and worn ballet flats.

  Daisy didn’t
know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t a Judi Dench look-alike with a slobbery dog. She almost stepped back, but the Great Dane sat and offered its paw. A pink-and-white-checked collar with a heart-shaped ID tag hung from the dog’s neck. Daisy couldn’t help but smile.

  Bending slightly, she accepted the shake and spoke to the dog. Somehow it calmed her. “Well, hello to you too. I’m Daisy Riley, and I’m here for an interview with Ms. Prescott.”

  “That would be me.” The woman patted the dog’s head. “And this is Sadie.”

  “She’s huge.”

  “But friendly.” Ms. Prescott opened the door wider. “Please come in. My office is down the hall to the right. May I call you Daisy?”

  “Of course.”

  “I go by Miss Joan.”

  Daisy stepped into the foyer and glanced around. An arched opening led to what looked like a living room, but the rest of the entry gleamed with memorabilia from Thunder Valley. Posters of old TV Guide covers adorned the walls, and a display case showed off other souvenirs and props.

  Impressed but nervous again, Daisy followed Miss Joan down the hall. Sadie padded behind them, her nails tapping on the wood floor until Miss Joan turned into the last of three doors on the right.

  Daisy tried not to gape at the picture-perfect office. Dual computer monitors sat on an L-shaped desk, stacks of papers lined a credenza, and built-in bookshelves covered an entire wall. Across from the desk, a leather couch and two chairs formed a casual sitting area near a sliding glass door.

  Miss Joan indicated the couch. “Please. Sit down.”

  Daisy set her purse on the floor and sat, her fingers laced together in her lap. Miss Joan took the chair across from her, and Sadie laid down at her feet in a beam of sunlight pouring through the window. The view was stunning—distant purplish mountains, glowing blue sky, lush green meadows, and a rustic barn in the distance.

  Just as eye-catching were the photographs on the office walls, especially the one of a younger Miss Joan with a man in a black cowboy hat. The way they stood, their heads tipped together and almost touching, put a hitch in Daisy’s heart. Being in love scared her to death, but she was also female and lonely.