They ruled out three others: A Boys Town–style facility because the proposal indicated the desire to build large dormitories; a summer camp dedicated to science and technology because it would close during the winter; and a second wildlife program that wasn’t as impressive as the first one.
“Six down, four to go,” Daisy remarked as she picked up a proposal from Give-A-Goat, a world hunger organization that provided goats, cattle, and other livestock to families in third-world countries. The livestock was raised locally in Africa and Asia, but the organization proposed using Cottonwood Acres for their headquarters, a research facility, and an educational center.
Daisy saw a problem. “I love what this organization does, but it doesn’t seem like a good fit. They need money, not buildings and land.”
“I agree.” Joan set the page aside. “I’ve donated to them before and will do it again. What’s next?”
Daisy lifted the next page, saw a row of clown faces, and almost snickered. How had Coogan’s Clowns made the top ten? Granted, the proposal combined the clowns with a nonprofit rodeo school for troubled teens, plus a horse rescue operation, but did anyone actually like clowns? Daisy didn’t. She knew that rodeo clowns were different from circus clowns, but clowns in general were scary and weird.
“Forget this one,” she said with confidence. “Clowns scare people.”
Miss Joan huffed through her nose. “Clowns do not scare people. Meanness scares people. I like this idea, quite a bit, in fact.”
Daisy didn’t know which startled her more—Miss Joan’s snippy tone or her defense of clowns. Either way, Daisy wasn’t about to argue. “In that case, it’s a keeper.”
Miss Joan nodded crisply. “One slot left and two proposals to go.”
The next one-sheet came from a well-known megachurch in Texas. The pastor hosted a popular blog and had written a powerful book on prayer. The plan proposed using Cottonwood Acres as a retreat center for families in crisis. The church currently ran a similar program locally and wanted to expand.
Daisy skimmed to the end. “I can see this one working.”
“So can I, but I want your thoughts on the final one before we decide.”
Daisy flipped to the last proposal and read out loud. “‘Annie’s Friends is a New York-based charity dedicated to rescuing women and children from human trafficking and the sex trade in our own American cities.’”
The words grabbed Daisy by the throat and refused to let go. In her teen years, she’d been needy and vulnerable. She easily could have been lured by a trafficker. With her heart stumbling, she read the story of a young woman who had endured terrible abuse—until she found Annie’s Friends. Now she lived in a safe place, attended counseling and Bible studies, and worked as a cosmetologist.
Annie’s Friends planned to use Cottonwood Acres as a long-term shelter—something akin to Maggie’s House—the ministry that had helped Daisy in Los Angeles. On the downside, they lacked history and experience. This was a big reach for a fledgling organization, but Daisy’s heart still thumped with the desperate longing to help women like herself.
Somehow she kept her voice level. “I love this one.”
“So do I.” A familiar spark burned in Miss Joan’s eyes. “You know I taught history for almost forty years.”
Daisy stifled a smile. “Yes. I do.” She knew what was coming—an impromptu history lesson peppered with opinions.
Miss Joan laced her hands on the table as if she were at a lectern. “Sadly, there’s a long history of women being exploited by the sex trade, including in our own American West. We tend to romanticize that period, at least that’s what Thunder Valley did, but outside of marriage, women had few options. Prostitution was a last resort with conditions that ranged from tolerable, at least in terms of food and shelter, to the appalling—like the ‘hog’ ranches that were even worse than that sounds.”
“Hog ranch?” Daisy felt sick to her stomach. “What an awful phrase. It’s so—so—”
“Demeaning.” Miss Joan bit off the word. “If I can use Cottonwood Acres to help even one suffering soul, I’ll do it gladly. But I’m concerned about this particular proposal.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Annie’s Friends is just over a year old. They haven’t been tested by time. I’m also concerned about the remote location. Is Wyoming really the best fit?”
“It’s a better fit than you might think.” Daisy thought of her own experience. “Getting away from the source of a problem is a plus. Plus the mountains and sky are beautiful. The quiet helps a person feel closer to God.”
Miss Joan nodded. “I can relate. But if Annie’s Friends folds in a year or two, what will happen to Cottonwood Acres?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t either, and I can’t take that chance. I’ve considered contacting similar organizations, but—”
“Wait!” Daisy bolted upright in her chair. “I have it!”
“Have what?”
“The perfect organization. Maggie’s House! It has a ten-year history, and it’s expanded from one house in the beginning to about a dozen throughout California. They help women in trouble—any kind of trouble.”
Miss Joan’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “So they have a proven track record.”
“Yes.” Daisy pointed at herself. “And that record includes me.”
“That fact alone would convince me, but we need to be practical. Tell me more.”
Daisy didn’t feel at all qualified to pitch the idea. She wanted to call Lyn, but an internal nudge urged her to be brave. Ideas flooded into her mind, each picture crisp and clear. She snatched up a pen, wrote Ideas at the top of the notepad, and underlined the word four times. “Let’s start with a name. We’ll call it Maggie’s Rescue Ranch. That’s perfect! So is the house. It’s big. Eight women could live here. Or we could turn the bunkhouse into apartments and use the house for a training center, workshops, Bible studies—”
Miss Joan broke in. “I like what I’m hearing.”
“There’s more.” Daisy scribbled notes as she spoke. “The residents need meaningful work. I know, because I was one. If you open Heritage House to the public, it’ll need a staff. I don’t know exactly how we’d finance it, but we could restart the horse rescue program and make it even bigger. We could take in dogs like Sadie, or stray cats, even guinea pigs.”
“Guinea pigs?” Miss Joan laughed out loud—not at Daisy but with enthusiasm. “Did I hear you correctly, dear? You want to use the vast resources of Cottonwood Acres to rescue guinea pigs?”
Choked by emotions, she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Her next words came out in a hush. “I want to rescue everyone.”
Miss Joan laid her gnarled hand over Daisy’s slender one. She didn’t speak; neither did Daisy, until the lump sank back down to her chest and she mustered a smile.
Miss Joan’s eyes twinkled. “It’s a wonderful idea, dear. But there’s a problem.”
Daisy’s heart started to break. She wanted this. She did. She wanted to work at Cottonwood Acres forever. “What is it?”
“Unfortunately . . .” Miss Joan’s lips tipped into a smile. “I’m not fond of guinea pigs. Perhaps we could negotiate that point, because I love the rest of what you have in mind.”
Grinning, Daisy crossed guinea pigs off her list with a thick line. “Done! But broadening the animal rescue is a good idea. Maggie’s House had three cats. I liked it when Meathead jumped into my lap and purred.”
Miss Joan feigned fresh outrage. “What kind of name is Meathead for a cat?”
“Well, he wasn’t very smart.” Kind of like me. “But it was nice to have him around.”
Miss Joan smiled her approval. “How fast can the people at Maggie’s House send a proposal?”
Daisy reached for her phone. “I’ll call Lyn now.”
“Good. If they’re interested, I’ll put Maggie’s House in the top five based on your recommendation.”
Dai
sy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “My recommendation?”
“Yes. I trust your opinion.”
No one had ever trusted Daisy with anything this big. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I’m very sure. Call your friend.”
“The process has to be fair—”
“It will be. But this is a private venture, not a government grant. My ranch. My rules.”
“Like the driving.”
“Yes, exactly. I assure you, Daisy, I’m perfectly capable of saying no to Maggie’s House if it’s not a good fit. But if it is, I’d be thrilled to use Cottonwood Acres to ameliorate a problem that’s been around since the dawn of man.”
“Ameliorate?” Daisy needed her vocab app.
“To make better or more bearable—to improve.”
“That’s what Maggie’s House is all about.” Never in Daisy’s wildest dreams did she imagine having an impact like the one dawning on the horizon. “I’ll call Lyn right now.”
Lyn picked up in three rings, and five minutes later plans were in place for an emergency meeting of the Maggie’s House board of directors. She was confident the four other board members would jump at the chance to participate. “We’ve been looking for ways to help trafficking victims for the past year,” she told Daisy. “The remote location is just what we had in mind—a place to retreat and heal.”
Daisy couldn’t stop smiling. “You’ll need to visit the ranch in June. If we time it right, you can surprise MJ at her bridal shower.”
“That would be wonderful!”
Lyn was confirmed for the wedding, but she couldn’t attend the shower as well because it required too much time away from work. Now she could because the trip was for Maggie’s House. They ended the call with promises to firm up travel plans in the next few days.
Before Daisy could catch her breath, Miss Joan broke into her thoughts. “I heard you mention a bridal shower. Who’s getting married?”
The question startled her. “My brother. He and MJ Townsend are getting married June 19. I’m her maid of honor and giving the shower.”
Miss Joan’s eyes misted and she smiled. “I love weddings.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yes.”
Daisy hadn’t pegged Miss Joan as the wedding type, but the older woman often surprised her. “I’m happy for my brother—and for me. His fiancée has a little boy, so I get to be the cool aunt who buys noisy toys.”
She expected Miss Joan to laugh but she barely smiled.
Daisy started to ask what was wrong, but the question felt nosy and out of place. Instead she opened the calendar app on the iPad. Knowing Miss Joan, she’d want to focus on work instead of whatever had dulled her smile.
Daisy cleared her throat. “We have a lot to do.”
Miss Joan startled out of her mood. “Yes . . . yes, we do. You’ll need to book plane tickets, hotel rooms, and rental cars. Spare no expense. Our guests are all dedicated to good causes. I want to treat them like royalty.”
Together they set dates for the five organizations to visit Cottonwood Acres starting in two weeks. When they finished, Daisy considered the heavy workload as she gathered her things. “I’ll work extra hours to get everything done, but I have plans for Saturday.”
“Good for you.” Miss Joan sounded more like herself. “What are you up to?”
A faint blush crept up Daisy’s neck. She couldn’t hide it from Miss Joan, but she schooled her voice. “Rafe Donovan asked me out. I didn’t plan to start dating yet, but he’s nice.”
Miss Joan’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, the hottie.”
Daisy laughed. “I suppose.”
“You suppose? Dear, get your eyes checked!”
Daisy blushed again. Before she could graciously leave, Miss Joan gave her the kind of tender look Daisy remembered from her own mother.
The feistiness returned to Miss Joan’s eyes, along with an even brighter twinkle. “In my day, we would have called Rafe Donovan a hunk. There’s nothing wrong with physical attraction. God put it into us for a purpose. He also gave us a plan for enjoying it wisely.”
“You mean marriage.”
“I do.” Miss Joan’s words rang with her usual conviction. “Marriage gives us families. Family members take care of each other, young and old alike. At its best, marriage keeps people safe, though we all know human beings sometimes fail each other. Nonetheless, as imperfect as marriage can be, I still believe in it.”
Something indecipherable lurked behind Miss Joan’s comments—something personal. The breeze mussed her silver hair, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Daisy moved to stand, but Miss Joan had more to say. “I don’t mean to suggest that women weren’t—and aren’t—sometimes oppressed. We shouldn’t forget or ignore the sorry side of history. But there’s something to be said for protecting our daughters and sisters more than we currently do.”
Daisy thought of Chelsea obsessively checking her phone for FriendsFirst notifications. “Dating is complicated now. I have a friend who likes meeting guys online. She says it’s fun and gives her control, but I worry about her.”
“With good reason—at least in my opinion. Though I’m sure that seems quite old-fashioned.”
“Not to me. Women have always been vulnerable, but technology puts risk on an all new level.”
“If you were writing a paper, I’d give you an A-plus. Do you know when that change started?”
“Not really.”
“In the 1920s.” Miss Joan laced her hands on the table, resuming her at-a-lectern pose. “With the proliferation of the automobile, courtship left the relative safety of the front porch and turned into a much more private affair. Now teenagers drive off alone, with their phones as the only link to home. That strikes me as a rather fragile safety net.”
Daisy had lived that way in high school. “It’s just the way it is.”
“I used to advocate complete personal freedom for men and women alike. I still believe in that principle. I always will.” She got a misty look in her eyes. “But freedom comes with a cost.”
Daisy opened her mouth to ask what Miss Joan meant, but the old woman pushed up in her chair. “I’m tired now, and Sadie needs a walk. Let me know if you have any questions about the charity visits.”
Daisy had questions—a lot of them. But they were about Miss Joan, the sad look in her eyes, and that last remark about freedom coming at a cost.
Chapter 13
What makes old age hard to bear is not the failing of one’s faculties, mental and physical, but the burden of one’s memories.
W. Somerset Maugham
Leaving Daisy alone on the deck, Joan walked into the living room, saw Sadie asleep in a beam of sunlight, and continued alone to her bedroom. Between giving away her home and talking about marriage and family, she had tumbled down a rabbit hole into the past. She hadn’t been a Christian when Trey swaggered into her life. She’d been her own oracle—a proponent of feminist principles she still fervently believed in: equality under the law, the right to work, equal pay and equal opportunity.
But she had failed to understand the personal side of the equation—the cost of sexual freedom, the fact that her choices affected others in unexpected ways. Like layers of an onion, every choice she made regarding Trey had peeled away another layer of her soul—until everything fell apart.
She could have fought for him, married him, been a wife and a mother, had grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Instead of giving away her home to strangers, she might have basked in the shade of a family tree. Instead she was a single woman loved by God; a woman redeemed in the darkest moment of her life.
If only . . . The words echoed in her mind, but they were faint now, muffled by time, acceptance, and finally the blessing of forgiveness, both given and received. She didn’t want to remember that time in her life, but neither did she want to forget the humbling that came with it. History mattered. With her heart aching, she went into her bedroom, closed the door
, and drifted into the past.
Trey and I didn’t see each other for a month after his episode of Thunder Valley finished filming, but we spoke every day on the phone. The calls all started the same way—with businesslike reports on the formation of the TC Double R. I was responsible for legalities, accounting, and facility preparation. Trey handled the acquisition of the horses.
With rodeo season in full swing, he was busy promoting the truck he drove and the clothes he wore. In June, he filmed a commercial for his favorite boots. On the phone one day, I teased him. “Are they really your favorite?”
“They are now.”
We laughed, but now I see beyond the joke. Trey was a chameleon, the charming little creature that changes colors to match its environment, thus protecting itself by hiding in plain sight.
Our phone calls grew longer and drifted later into the day, until it became our habit to talk late at night. We were eager to see each other, and those calls all ended with Trey promising to bring the first trailer of horses himself.
I wanted an exact date so I could plan. Instead of taking my usual summer research trip, I was languishing at Cottonwood Acres, supposedly overseeing preparations for the rescue program. I say supposedly because there was very little for me to do. The legalities of the process entailed calling my attorney, and the barn was already in tip-top condition. The grass in the pasture certainly didn’t need my help to grow, which left me with nothing to do—except wonder if I had met someone truly special.
At night I grumbled to Trey over the phone. “I’m bored. What would you say if I flew to Dallas and we met for a weekend?” The big city was only two hours from where he lived.
The silence thickened, until a long breath gusted across hundreds of miles. “I wish I could, Joan. I really do.”
“But?”
“It’s just not a good time.”
We were friends and business partners, even confidantes. If he was in trouble, I needed to know. “Trey, what’s wrong?”
He harrumphed into the phone. “It’s Kathy. She wants to try counseling again.”
A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2) Page 12
