A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2)

by Victoria Bylin

  “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, right. We’re all fine.”

  “I am.”

  “You don’t look fine to me. Your eyes are bloodshot, and that’s yesterday’s shirt judging by the wrinkles. So what is it? Hanging out at a bar somewhere?”

  No drinking was one of Jesse’s rules, and it applied to Rafe as long as he was on the payroll. “No, sir. I had a bad night. Couldn’t sleep so I went for a drive. That’s all.”

  Ben waited for more, but Rafe remained silent.

  “So that’s all,” Ben repeated. “One bad night?”

  To confess to Ben or not? Rafe had already asked for time off for the phone appointments with Dr. Susan, but he’d been vague. Why open that can of worms now? He decided not to explain to Ben, so what came out of his mouth surprised him. “Sometimes I have nightmares. Bad ones.”

  Ben lowered his boot from the bench. “Sorry to hear it. Next time you run late, text me.” He clapped Rafe on the shoulder and walked away.

  That was all. No haranguing. No demands. No probing questions or pitying looks. Just understanding and respect, though Rafe supposed a second offense would lead to a tongue-lashing, and a third infraction might get a man fired.

  Still tense, he walked over to the back side of the building and went to work. No one said a word to him—not even a sarcastic jab. He would have welcomed some teasing, even a snide remark, but he didn’t take the shunning personally. He was still an outsider, even the enemy, but he could have used some banter to get his mind off last night.

  He worked alongside the crew, using a nail gun to shoot nails into the two-by-fours that formed the interior walls. Rafe lost himself as much as he could in the work, but he kept an eye on the road from the house with the hope of spotting Daisy. Lunch with her had been the highlight of his week, and he wanted to see her again. Unless he’d misread her cues, she’d say yes if he asked her out again.

  Daisy didn’t happen to appear, but Cliff Lopez drove up in a Gator. He approached Ben and they spoke.

  Ben whistled to the crew for attention. “My friend Cliff needs a volunteer. Any takers?”

  Anyone who’d been in the military or prison knew better than to volunteer without knowing the score.

  When no one spoke up, Ben scanned the crew. “Drake? How about you?”

  Drake was in his forties, short, and barrel-chested. He never smiled, and his jokes were usually sarcastic. He didn’t look pleased to be singled out. “It depends.”

  Ben arched a brow at him. “On what?”

  Drake looked to the side, then tilted his head back toward Ben. Daggers shot from his eyes. “I don’t like animals, and they don’t like me.”

  There was a story there, probably an ugly one. Rafe saw a chance to play the good guy and raised his hand. “I’ll go.”

  Approval flickered in Ben’s eyes, but he erased it with a blink. “All right, SuperCop. You’re it.”

  The men turned away, but Drake made eye contact with Rafe. Still glaring, he acknowledged Rafe with a curt nod before going back to work. The nod wasn’t much, but Rafe counted it as a start.

  He shed his tool belt, went to the Gator, and climbed in. “So what’s up?” he asked as Cliff headed for the barn.

  “Just some general repairs.” Cliff ran down a list that included changing out a broken light switch, repairing a leaky faucet, and replacing a busted window pane in the hayloft.

  Rafe had made similar repairs to his mom’s house in Cincinnati before she moved to Indiana to be close to her sister. “Sounds simple enough.”

  Cliff parked outside of a two-story barn with three cupolas on the roof, a row of small windows below the weathered eaves, and a high square door that led to what Rafe presumed was a hayloft. Dutch doors lined the side of the building, and a split-rail fence marked off a grassy field. A big gray horse stood on the far side of the pasture, grazing contentedly. Two other horses stood a few feet from him, their heads down as they ate.

  Rafe followed Cliff into the barn. To the right was an empty office. To the left he saw a room holding saddles, halters, and other things beyond his city-boy knowledge. The building was cavernous—and sadly empty. Rafe didn’t know much about the ranch’s history, but the big barn no doubt had stories to tell.

  Several of the empty stalls still displayed signs with a horse’s name, plus a photograph and a written biography in an 8-by-10 frame. “This place must have been something in its prime.”

  “It was.”

  “Were you around then?”

  “For some of it. I hired on twenty years ago to take over the horse rescue operation Miss Joan started back in the 1970s with Trey Cochran.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Old rodeo star. Rode broncs.” Cliff threw back his shoulders and stood a little straighter. “So did I. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Were you any good?” Rafe threw down the challenge so Cliff could relive his glory days.

  “Good enough for a buckle or two.” The foreman shrugged, apparently not wanting to brag. “I held my own, but Trey Cochran—he was a legend. I wish I could have met him. He took home more buckles than any rider in history. Nice guy, too.”

  Cliff indicated a workroom next to the office. “You’ll find tools and parts in there. The bad light switch is here”—he pointed to the wall by the door—“and the leaky faucet is in the wash area. You’ll need to replace it. Come on. I’ll point you to the hayloft.”

  Rafe followed him to the opposite side of the barn, where a ladder led to an open area filled with hay bales. Cliff told him to call when he finished, clapped him on the shoulder, and headed for the door. “Call my cell if you need anything.”

  “Will do,” Rafe replied.

  As he turned back to the workroom, he paused to look at the photographs on the three stalls filled with hay. The first one was of the big gray now grazing in the field. Juggernaut was a retired thoroughbred and distantly related to the famous Secretariat.

  Curious, Rafe glanced at the second stall, home to a palomino mare named Comet. The photograph showed Comet poised for action, her tail and mane waving in the breeze. The bio said she’d been in several A-list movies.

  The last stall belonged to Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah. Zippy, now thirty years old, had been a rider favorite on the rodeo circuit.

  The names made Rafe smile; the smell of manure not so much. But he was glad to be here and pleased to have gotten a nod from Drake.

  The handyman work suited him, and it didn’t take long to change out the switch. The old faucet was another story. Coated with rust and lime, it took some manpower to remove, then patience to clean the fittings before putting in the new hardware. When he finished, he decided to get some fresh air before tackling the more delicate job of installing glass.

  He walked outside and around to the paddock fence to look at the horses. They were on the far side of the pasture, and so was Daisy Riley, standing on the bottom rail of the fence, waving a carrot in the air with her camera dangling from her neck.

  This morning’s photoshoot wasn’t going well at all. Daisy wanted a picture of the horses with the barn in the background for Miss Joan’s history book, but Jug, Zippy, and Comet were grazing in the back part of the pasture. If she could lure them closer to the barn, she’d have the angle she wanted.

  She didn’t need to be close; she just needed the horses to move. Going to where they were now and shooing them to the middle of the field was an option, but she didn’t want to hike around the perimeter of the fence, nor did she want to hop the fence and cross the pasture.

  Waving a carrot, she tried to whistle like Miss Joan but failed miserably. The only sound came out of her pocket—the “Here Comes the Bride” text tone she had assigned to MJ. Curious, she stepped off the railing, looked at her phone, and saw a photograph of a bridesmaid’s bouquet with the words What do u think?

  Daisy answered with Gorgeous! and added hearts and smileys for good measure.

  The wedding was just six weeks awa
y, and MJ and her mom were finalizing the flowers today. The bridal shower was Daisy’s undertaking, and she could hardly wait. Now that she had a good job, she could go all-out on food, decorations, and the “sisters forever” necklace she was having custom made. Thank you, Miss Joan. It was a privilege to share, and Daisy couldn’t have been happier.

  She was about to put her phone away when it chirped again, this time with a text from Chelsea. Daisy hoped it was good news about this morning’s job interview.

  Chelsea’s message stream flooded onto the screen and ended with the words Daisy hoped to see. Interview went great!!! Got the job!

  Daisy shot back Congrats!!! with a row of smileys.

  Two seconds later, Chelsea responded. Found an apt too! Two BR-1bath. Want to be my roommate????

  The question wasn’t a complete surprise. Daisy and Chelsea had talked about living together and reached an understanding. If Daisy said yes, the apartment would be an alcohol-free zone. Daisy would help with Hannah, but her own commitments to work and family would come first. Any lease would have to be month-to-month, because Chelsea still planned to return to Michigan.

  Daisy had given the decision a lot of thought. Paying rent would dent her budget, but once Shane and MJ were married, she didn’t want to be in their way.

  Neither did she want to be around all that newlywed love. At times, just seeing Shane and MJ together swamped her with envy. She didn’t begrudge them a minute of happiness—not even a second of it. She just wanted the same joy for herself. But first she needed to be independent and strong, leaning only on God, before she trusted a man with her heart, even a good man like Rafe. Especially Rafe, because he called Cincinnati home, and Daisy couldn’t even spell it.

  Moving into her own place struck her as an excellent first step toward independence, so she texted Chelsea, Address? When can I check it out? Need to see it before I say yes for sure!

  They shot back and forth a few texts that ended with Daisy planning to visit an apartment complex she recognized. It was old but well maintained and affordable.

  She put her phone away and went back to waving the carrot. “Hey, horses!”

  She tried again to whistle, but she sounded like a tire going flat, which reminded her of Rafe, who she hadn’t seen except for his car driving past the house this morning. Her evil twin wanted to find a reason to visit Heritage House, even invite him to the barbecue Shane and MJ planned for this Sunday. Or maybe that wasn’t her evil twin—maybe it was just a nice thing to do for a lonely guy—maybe she—

  “Stop it,” she muttered.

  Annoyed with herself, Daisy hopped the fence and walked toward the horses. She was twenty feet away when Jug saw her. Or more correctly, he saw the carrot still in her hand and plodded in her direction. So did Comet and Zippy. Somehow plodding turned into a slow race between the three horses, with Jug kicking out a back leg to keep the other two away.

  Jug reached her first, so she fed him the carrot. Zippy crowded to the side, so she reached into the carrot bag and gave him one too. When Comet circled to the other side, Jug shouldered the gentle mare away.

  “Hey,” Daisy lectured. “Be nice.”

  She gave Jug the next carrot to keep him settled, then fed Zippy again. Comet hung back, looking sad, so Daisy stepped around Jug to give the mare the next treat. When Comet snapped off a bite, Zippy crowded in. Jug whickered and stomped his foot, then nudged Daisy in the shoulder with his nose.

  A wall of horseflesh closed in on her, trapping her with Jug’s big head above hers and his eyes glinting with carrot-fever. Fear shot through her—as much for her camera as for herself. Clutching it to her chest, she backpedaled but Jug didn’t let up.

  “Hey!” a male voice boomed from behind her.

  Zippy and Comet wheeled and ran off at a gallop. Jug backed up, whinnied a warning, then ran after them.

  She turned and saw Rafe running toward her, his pace slowing from a dead run to a jog. He looked both brave and silly, but there was something even more intense on his face, and that was fear—a feeling Daisy knew all too well.

  Rafe couldn’t breathe—and not because he’d sprinted fifty yards to save Daisy from the horses. The run was nothing to him. The suffocation came from the danger to Daisy, more imagined than real. He could see that now, but when he first saw Jug crowding her, Rafe had hopped the fence and run toward her without thinking. His imagination was too vivid for his own good, and it was slaying him now.

  Daisy trampled . . . her bones broken . . . her body lifeless and bleeding.

  Stifling an oath, he put his hands on his knees, hung his head, and sucked in lungfuls of the warm spring air. With a little luck, Daisy would think he was just out of shape.

  “Rafe?” She rested her hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently so that the warmth of her hand soaked into his shirt, then his skin. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Stand up, you idiot! But he could only shake his head, pulling in air through the straw that used to be his throat. His chest heaved and he almost puked. He was a blink away from a panic attack like that night on the job, and though he wasn’t a praying sort of person, he silently cried out to God. If this was what dying felt like, he didn’t want to feel it ever again, or see it again.

  Kara . . . the needles . . . the dream.

  Daisy stayed at his side, her hand light on his back. By now she had to realize he was more than winded. Pull it together, Donovan. But his pulse refused to listen, and his lungs demanded more air than he could take in. Daisy didn’t speak; neither did he. The quiet gave him a chance to recover on his own, and after a few minutes, some of his usual confidence seeped back into his brain.

  When he could breathe without his chest heaving, he stood straight, and Daisy lifted her hand from his back. He opened his mouth to say something, anything to hide his weakness, but he could only hitch up one corner of his mouth in a broken smile.

  Concern radiated from her wide blue eyes, the kind he feared because it led to questions he couldn’t answer. He braced himself now.

  But Daisy just shook her head. “What a crazy moment, huh?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “If you wanted to talk about it, you’d talk. So I’m guessing you don’t want to talk, and you’d probably like it if I didn’t talk either. Or maybe you’d like it if I talked about something else—like the weather, or what’s for dinner, or—or why is the sky blue, anyway?”

  That broken smile on his face found its other half. “You nailed it.”

  “No, you did.” She raised the camera with one hand. “I didn’t expect the horses to be quite so enthusiastic. You saved me and my camera.”

  Rafe dragged his hand through his hair. “Yeah. Well. I freaked out a little when I saw them crowding you like that.”

  “So did I. They’re a lot bigger than I am.”

  He needed to change the subject again before they crossed back into the danger zone, but he also needed to face the fear. “It wasn’t just the horses,” he admitted. “I’m on leave because of some PTSD related to Kara’s death. It’s weird how it popped up on me.”

  “It happens.” Daisy’s words carried authority. “Trauma is a sticky business. Are you getting help?”

  “I FaceTime with a psychologist. She’s a cross between a drill sergeant and my grandmother. I like her a lot.”

  “Well, good.”

  Daisy waited, giving him time to decide how much more to say—if anything at all. To change the subject, he indicated the camera. “Did you get the shots you wanted?”

  “No. But it can wait. I’ll try again tomorrow.” She stunned him by reaching for his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Rafe looked down at her fingers, then into her eyes. She knows . . . But what exactly did she know? That something was wrong with him? He took her hand in his, and they walked in silence through the swaying grass. Somehow, having her hand warm and snug in his, her fingers delicate yet strong, connected them in a way words couldn’t.

  They
picked their way across the lumpy ground until they reached the gate by the barn. Rafe ushered her through, reluctantly let go of her hand, and latched the gate behind them. Daisy turned back to the paddock, climbed on the lowest rung of the fence, and aimed her camera at the horses on the far side of the field.

  She took several shots, then stepped down and swiped through the pictures until she settled on one. After fiddling some more, she showed him the viewfinder. “How’s that for an equine mug shot?”

  Jug’s big head filled the screen in profile, complete with the sour expression of someone who’d just been busted.

  Grinning, Rafe pulled out his Cops’ voice. “Wanted for second-degree carrot robbery: Juggernaut aka Jug. Large gray male, four legs. One tail.”

  Laughter bubbled out of Daisy’s throat, the contagious kind that wrapped itself around a man’s soul and lifted him up. He and Daisy cracked a few more jokes, then she graced him with a tender smile.

  “My brother and his fiancée are having a barbecue on Sunday. Would you like to come over?”

  Relief washed through him. No nosy questions. No worried looks that made him feel like a goof. “I’d like that a lot.”

  “Good.” Daisy gave him the time and her address. “You can meet my friend Chelsea.”

  “Hold on.” Rafe didn’t think she was playing matchmaker for Chelsea, but he needed to be sure. Planting his feet a little wider, he put his hands on his hips. “You’re not setting me up with Chelsea, are you?”

  A rosy glow bloomed on her cheeks. “Do you want me to set you up? I could do that, but . . .” She let the sentence dangle, leaving it for him to finish.

  “Don’t even think about it.” His voice came out deep and low, determined, confident, and much more like himself. To prove just how not interested in Chelsea he was, he trailed his knuckles down the side of her cheek.

  She leaned ever-so-slightly into his touch, her eyes closing as a soft breath whispered from her lips. But when she opened her eyes, he saw a flash of doubt, maybe even fear. He needed to lighten the mood fast, so he lowered his hand and grinned. “How about if I bring Jesse? We can set him up with Chelsea. The guy needs all the help he can get.”