A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2)

by Victoria Bylin

  Walter finally broke the silence. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  I tipped my head toward him. “What business?”

  Trey broke in. “This is where I come in. Rather than go into it now”—he motioned to his bloody clothes—“I’d like to talk about it over dinner. How about that new place in town?”

  “I don’t think—”

  Walter interrupted me. “She’d love to, Trey.”

  “Walter!” That was just like him—running the show as if he were on a movie set.

  “Do it, Joanie.” He winked at me. “You know that conversation we had about what to do with this place?”

  Yes, I did. With the show coming to an end and westerns losing popularity, Cottonwood Acres needed a new purpose. None of the old ones fit anymore. My father had loved the cattle operation. Me? Not so much. When he died of a heart attack, I was in college and my mother turned that responsibility over to a ranch manager. Two years later, she passed away from a fast-growing cancer, leaving me, their only child, with the burden and privilege of ownership.

  I considered selling the place, but how could I? Seven generations of Prescotts were buried in the family cemetery high on a hill. I loved the land, the river, the grassy meadows, riding the trails at sunrise and dusk. I especially loved the history tucked away in nooks and crannies and wanted to preserve it. But how?

  My father had ideas about that. On my twenty-third birthday, he leaned in, poked me in the arm, and winked. “The clock’s a-tickin’, Joanie. Find a good man. Get married and have some kids. We can’t let the Prescotts die out.”

  I bristled when he said that. I was in grad school at Cornell, the birthplace of women’s studies as a discipline, and eager to take on the injustices of sexism. I objected to being treated like a broodmare and told him so. But neither did I want Cottonwood Acres to be handed over to distant cousins.

  Walter knew my concerns. He also respected me professionally, so when he clapped Trey on the back, I knew he meant well.

  “Take a chance, Joanie. You and Trey have something in common.”

  “What is it?”

  Walter smugly sealed his lips, but Trey looked me straight in the eye. “I’m starting a charity to give worn-out rodeo horses a decent retirement. That’s what I want to talk to you about—tonight over dinner.”

  I loved horses, especially Miss Priss, the chestnut mare that saw me through adolescence and the pain of losing two parents. She shared the barn with a half dozen other horses left over from the ranch’s more active days.

  Walter knew how much I loved horses, but I didn’t appreciate his gloating, or the cockiness Trey Cochran didn’t bother to hide. As a world champion rodeo rider, perhaps he was entitled to that self-confidence, but I saw it as arrogance. Inviting me out to dinner struck me as a power play. Why not suggest a business meeting instead? On the other hand, I was free tonight and interested enough to make a small concession.

  “All right,” I finally said.

  “Perfect. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “That’s not necessary.” I refused to allow him to set the stage. “We can eat at the house. Is six too early for you?”

  Trey’s eyes glinted. I’d thrown down a gauntlet and he knew it. My time and my turf. Take it or leave it.

  He nodded once. “Six it is.”

  I turned to Walter. “Would you like to join us?”

  My old friend gave me a look like the one my father used to give—overly patient, as if I were a child missing the point. “Sorry. I already have dinner plans.”

  I didn’t believe him, but the three of us exchanged friendly good-byes. Walter went back to speak to his assistant; Trey took a golf cart to his dressing room in the bunkhouse; and I went into the house to find Graciela, my housekeeper, cook, and self-appointed surrogate mother.

  I found her in the kitchen as usual, baking something that smelled delicious.

  “Pan dulce?” I pointed to the tray of cinnamon swirls fresh out of the oven.

  She waved the spatula at me. “Eat up, Joanie. You’re too skinny.”

  Graciela thought everyone was too skinny. Feeding people was her mission in life, so I lifted a pastry and took a bite.

  A comfortable silence settled between us, with Graciela wiping down the tile counter and me being grateful for her presence in my life. We saw the world through very different lenses, but I loved her—despite her maddening hints that I should get married and have a houseful of children.

  Bracing myself for her matchmaking, I told her about Trey Cochran coming to dinner.

  She waggled her brows at me. “He must be handsome if he’s on TV. Single, I hope?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” I gave her a pointed look. “This is a business dinner—not a date.”

  “Business! Ha! You should still wear something pretty.”

  “Graciela, you’re unstoppable! Like I said, this is a business meeting.”

  “Whatever you say.” Her tone called me a liar. “So what would you like me to cook?”

  Trey struck me as a steak-and-potatoes kind of guy. I liked a good steak, too, but something in me rebelled. “Let’s go with your vegetable alfredo.”

  “What? No meat?” Graciela propped her hands on her ample hips and grinned. “So you do like him.”

  “I do not!” Her attitude annoyed me. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you’re trying so hard not to like him!”

  Did she really think I was a six-year-old playing schoolyard games? Far from it. I knew my own mind. If I wanted something, I possessed the confidence to work for it. “Fine,” I said to her. “Fix whatever you’d like.”

  “I will, and it won’t be vegetarian!”

  She knew me well, but I hated to lose. “If you go with steaks, at least add some broccoli.”

  Before she could roll her eyes, I headed upstairs. With Trey coming to dinner, I needed to put a dent in the stack of blue exam booklets sitting on my desk. They were from my favorite class to teach, an upper-division seminar that focused on women as motivators of social change. The assignment was to compare and contrast the lives of women in 1872 and 1972, keeping social class in mind.

  My own family history was a living testament to that theme, but as much as I admired my female ancestors, I deplored their need to fight battles for things I took for granted, like the right to vote and own property. I loved history, but I had no desire to live in an era when women were limited in their career choices and denied economic power because of their gender.

  Three hours later, I marked the last exam with an A-minus and went to my bedroom to change clothes for dinner. I took my time getting dressed—not for Trey, but for myself. Like Ali MacGraw in the movie Love Story, I wore my dark hair long, straight, and parted in the middle. High-rise bell-bottoms, a paisley top with a preposterous collar, and clunky platform shoes completed the look.

  As bad as that look was, I owned it.

  Trey arrived promptly at six. I was still upstairs, dabbing on lip gloss, but I heard the doorbell and knew Graciela would let him in. I gave Trey credit for punctuality—and not playing a power game by being late. I honored his effort by coming immediately down the stairs.

  When I breezed into the living room, he stood up from the couch and swept me with his eyes. The glance wasn’t the least bit wolfish, but when his brows rose a notch, I knew he liked what he saw.

  I felt the same way about him. Trey Cochran cleaned up well. A rodeo star to his marrow, he wore dark trousers and a black shirt embroidered with white swirls and arrows across the chest. The sleeves, buttoned at the cuff, pulled tight when he placed his hands on his hips. My platform shoes put us eye-to-eye, but he’d beat me hands-down in an arm-wrestling match.

  “Hello, Joan.” He extended his hand and we shook. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “Walter knows me well. I can’t resist anything that involves horses.” I indicated the sofa. “Please. Sit down.”

&n
bsp; Trey returned to his spot, and I took the armchair at a right angle to the sofa, the biggest chair in the room and the one my father used to claim.

  Graciela walked in with iced tea for me and a bottle of Corona with a wedge of lime for Trey. He thanked her, especially for the lime, which was a surprise to him. Apparently lime went well with Mexican beer.

  She told us dinner would be ready in twenty minutes, then smirked at me and smiled at Trey. “Mr. Cochran, how do you like your steak?”

  “Medium rare, thank you.”

  Graciela didn’t need to ask me, but I wanted the last word. “Medium for me, please.”

  She gave me a smug look, and I knew that tomorrow she’d quiz me mercilessly about Trey Cochran.

  Graciela returned to the kitchen. Trey bit the lime and took a swig of the Corona, but I left the iced tea on the table. This was a business meeting, so I rested my hands on the arms of the big leather chair, my imitation of a CEO, or maybe my father. “Let’s talk about your horse rescue operation. What do you have in mind?”

  Trey gave a nod and set the bottle on the coaster, a granite square etched with a P for Prescott. “Rodeo has been good to me, very good, in fact. But I wouldn’t be where I am without the team that makes it happen. That team includes the horses that made it a point to buck me off. Horses wear out just like people do, and they deserve a good retirement.”

  I liked what I heard. “That’s very kind of you.”

  The compliment blew right by him. “Some people view rodeo horses as machines. When they break, you send them to the junkyard. I’m not that way. Those horses are beautiful creatures deserving respect, so I’m starting the TC Double R—the Trey Cochran Retirement Ranch. I’m firmly committed to the project, but I don’t want to buy property until it’s been in operation for a while and I’ve worked out any kinks.”

  I thought of my father. “That sounds wise. There’s nothing like hands-on to show what works and what doesn’t.”

  “I looked at a couple of places in Texas, plus one in Oklahoma. The Oklahoma site was too small. I planned to lease a place near Amarillo, but the owner died and his wife wants to sell. The second ranch in Texas was a falling-down mess. So here I am with fifteen horses waiting for a new home and a manager ready to start work as soon as I find the right location. Cottonwood Acres would be perfect.”

  I appreciated Trey’s planning. I knew as well as anyone that life took unexpected turns, and he seemed to handle them well. “It sounds like you’ve done your homework.”

  “Thanks to Walter, yes. He told me about Cottonwood Acres last week, so I came a few days before my episode started filming. I hope it wasn’t presumptuous, but I borrowed a horse from the set, rode around, and camped out by the river. I don’t get to do that very often, so it was both business and pleasure.”

  I didn’t mind at all. There was so much activity around the TV production that I hadn’t even noticed him. “Where did you camp out?”

  “About five miles from here. You know the spot where the river curves and spreads wide? There’s a big oak tree that hangs over some rocks.”

  I knew exactly, because I loved that spot. “The water’s calm there. It’s perfect for fishing.”

  “And a quick swim after a long ride. That was the best day I’ve had in months, maybe years.”

  His thoughts seemed to drift, something the Refuge River inspired for me as well. More than once, I’d stood on the bank and mentally tossed my cares into the water, everything from grief over my parents to a broken teenage heart, and most recently my worries about the ranch. The river eased my burdens, and it pleased me to share that gift with Trey.

  I sipped the iced tea, the glass cold and invigorating against my fingers.

  Trey took another swig of the beer, set it down, and relaxed into the couch. “The way your place is laid out, the Double R staff could work out of the bunkhouse and a barn, just like the show does now. You could stay in this big house and not be bothered.”

  I chuckled softly, letting my eyes twinkle for the fun of it. “Not be bothered? If we reach an agreement, I’ll be a hands-on partner. Nothing less.”

  His eyes twinkled back at mine. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The cool businesswoman I wanted to be morphed into the little girl who told her daddy she wanted to breed racehorses like the ones in Walter Farley’s The Black Stallion books. I read Marguerite Henry’s pony stories a hundred times and sat glued to the television for Flicka reruns. Then there was Mr. Ed, the talking horse who caused all sorts of mischief. My father loved that show. I was away at college when it debuted in 1961, but I came home every summer and laughed with him at the reruns.

  Those memories put a smile on my face, plus I admired Trey’s passion for his cause. Thanks to Thunder Valley and the cattle operation, I could afford to indulge in a good cause. “I see why Walter set this up. Cottonwood Acres would be ideal for what you have in mind.”

  “So you like the idea?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Always.” His eyes stared into mine, and that night I believed him without question.

  I scooted forward in the chair, clasped my hands over my knees, and forgot all about being businesslike. “I love what you’re doing, Trey. Not only is Cottonwood Acres the perfect setup for you, the rescue operation is ideal for the ranch. With the show ending, it needs a new purpose. This could be it.”

  “So you’re in?”

  “Maybe. We still have a lot to discuss, but I want it to work.”

  “That’s half the battle. Maybe more, because I have a good plan in place and it’s ready to go. In the long run, I’d like to see our horses adopted out, but they won’t all be fit for new owners. Some will live out their lives here. Once that part of the operation is stable, I’d like to start a rodeo school. An old cowboy taught me a lot when I was a teenager looking for trouble. That’s the kind of difference I want the Double R to make.”

  “I like everything I’m hearing.” Actually, I loved it.

  Graciela walked in from the kitchen, glanced at me, and indulged in another I told you so smirk. “Dinner is ready.”

  We moved to the dining room, where Trey pulled out my chair. This wasn’t 1872, and I was wearing bell-bottoms, not a long dress and starched petticoats, but I enjoyed the attention nonetheless. Not that I’d admit it to Graciela.

  Over her delicious meal, Trey and I roughed out a plan for the rescue operation. When we finished eating, we retired to the deck and sat under the stars with coffee and a plate of Graciela’s homemade churros. A fire in a chiminea kept us warm, and so did the two blankets Graciela walked out to us when she came to say good night.

  Snug as two bugs in our separate rugs, we talked until after midnight.

  I learned a lot in those first hours with Trey. He grew up in a small Texas town that profited from the oil boom in the 1920s, then shriveled when the well ran dry. His father worked as a mechanic and owned a gas station. His mother checked groceries at the A&P until Trey earned enough to pay off his parents’ mortgage. The youngest of four children, he was the family clown. His two older brothers went to college and worked in business. His sister was everyone’s favorite and the true baby of the family. Trey, a third son, was mostly forgotten.

  He didn’t tell me that he felt forgotten. I saw it in the way he talked about himself, the distance from his brothers, and the fact that he rarely returned home.

  The rodeo bug bit when he was fourteen and working at a ranch owned by the richest man in town. When the owner’s son dared Trey to ride the meanest horse in the barn, Trey handled the animal like a pro. The foreman, a retired bronc rider, saw his skill and took him under his wing. Instead of bothering with college, Trey hit the circuit and became a star.

  I knew enough about rodeo to understand what that meant. Money. Women. Drinking. His life was a country song in the making. No way did I want to become a lyric in that song, so I prepared to ask the question that matters most when a woman notices a man as mor
e than a friend. If Trey was married, I needed to know.

  He beat me to the question. “Somehow I’ve told you all about my life and left out something important.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m in the middle of a divorce.” He swung his gaze away from mine, maybe to hide his pain. “It’s over between Kathy and me, and it has been for a while.”

  “I’m sorry.” I meant it. Divorces tore lives and families apart. But my heart thumped with a confusing mix of sadness and hope. Legally, he was still married and off-limits. But emotionally, he appeared to be a free man. Did his wife feel the same way? I needed to know. “How is Kathy taking it?”

  “We’re both ready to move on. The lawyers are hashing out the details—and making a fortune I might add.” Bitterness tinged his voice. “It’s been a lot more complicated than I expected.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Eight years, but we were high school sweethearts before that. She was nineteen when I won my first big competition, and I’d just turned twenty-one. It seemed like the most glorious thing in the world to fly her to Vegas to celebrate. A day later we tied the knot and called our families with the news. Her father wasn’t thrilled, but Kathy and I thought we owned the world. Looking back, neither one of us was ready for that step.”

  “Any children?”

  “No. She wanted them, but I didn’t. Considering how things fell apart, it’s probably for the best.”

  I nodded but wondered about that probably. Did he regret that decision now? I thought of my father admonishing me to carry on the family line. In one of the great inequalities of gender, my biological clock was ticking and Trey didn’t have one.

  I must have let out a sigh, because he gave me a thoughtful look. “What about you, Joan?”

  “Me?”

  “Any broken hearts?”

  “Just one.” Playing Shakespeare’s Juliet to the hilt, I laid a trembling hand over my heart. “I was ten. Kenny was eleven. He liked Bonnie Delco better than me and chose her for square dancing.”