“I suppose.”
“You do know what birds are made to do?”
“Fly?” Daisy winced at the word.
“Yes. Just how far and how high is up to God. Sometimes we have to make hard decisions, even sacrifices, and trust that God won’t nudge us out of the nest before our wings are strong enough to sustain us. Whom the Lord calls, he prepares.”
Daisy frowned. “You sound like Lyn. And Shane and MJ. Not to mention the pastor at church.”
“We all love you, Daisy.” Miss Joan’s eyes misted again. “And we all want you to be happy and safe. Whether you want my advice or not, I’m about to give it to you—”
“Yes, I want it.”
“Go to Cincinnati. See the sights. But most of all, see Rafe’s life. You haven’t known each other very long, but I see something special between you two. Give that something a chance to grow.”
“Maybe I should.” Money wasn’t a problem. The Maggie’s House organization would pay expenses if she did some legwork for them, and she was sure Rafe would help her check out locations for a residence. A visit would be a baby step—something small she could handle with God’s help.
“I’ll do it,” she told Miss Joan. “I’ll tell Rafe tonight.”
Chapter 28
Old age is no place for sissies.
Bette Davis
Trey . . . dead. It didn’t seem possible. In Joan’s mind, he was forever thirty-something, handsome with a flat stomach, his hair jet-black and his face as solid as the day she first saw him on the Thunder Valley set. He hadn’t changed a bit in her memory. Neither had the mountains silhouetted against the starry night sky, pointing upward as she waited on the deck for Sadie to do her business.
Instead of circling the house as usual, Joan stood at the rail facing the barn and bunkhouse. Her arthritic knee appreciated her lack of will to walk, but it was the ache in her chest that kept her anchored to this particular spot.
She hadn’t spoken to Trey even once since the end of their affair, but over the years she heard bits of news. He and Kathy had reconciled, and he walked away from his rodeo legacy for the quiet life of a rancher. At Joan’s request, her attorney handled the paperwork dissolving their business association, and she changed the name of the horse rescue to something innocuous.
Emotions roiled through her now, much like the ones she’d endured the night of Kathy’s phone call. But tonight, with the news of Trey’s passing fresh, she didn’t want to relive the anger and guilt. She wanted to remember the man who loved horses, took time for others, and tried to be decent despite his flaws.
When Sadie ambled up the steps, Joan headed for the front door. “Come on, old girl. Let’s watch some television.”
In the living room, Joan picked up the remote, started part two of the episode starring Trey, and settled on the couch with Sadie at her feet.
The show opened where part one left off—with Josiah Bent bleeding in the dirt. Becky and her son, Edward, managed to get him into the house, then Edward raced off to fetch the doctor. The kindly old man removed two bullets, cautioned Becky about infection, and promised to check in.
All three of Becky’s children asked hard questions, especially Edward. When she told him Josiah was being pursued by an old enemy, the boy picked up the .22 rifle he used to hunt rabbits, went out to the porch, and sat with the weapon over his knees.
When Becky approached him, he spoke to her like the man he wanted to be.
“I’ll protect you, Mama. My sisters too. And Mr. Bent. I know he did bad things. But he’s not a bad man. Not anymore.”
Becky held in a sob. So did Joan when the actress returned to Josiah’s bedside, fell to her knees, and pleaded with God to spare his life. In true Hollywood fashion, she stumbled to her feet and laid her trembling hand on his forehead to check for fever.
The camera zoomed in on his makeup-reddened face, the beads of artificial sweat, and the hair styled to cling to his temples.
For three long days, Becky pressed cold cloths to his fevered skin, spooned broth into his cracked lips, and held him down when he thrashed with delirium. She repeatedly begged God to spare his life, but what would they do if he lived? Alone at his bedside, by the light of a single dying candle, she cried out to God once again. Utterly exhausted, she rested her head on her arms on the side of his bed and wept.
Joan admired the actress who played Becky Monroe. The woman possessed a rare talent. Even so, Trey stole the scene right out from under her. With Becky sobbing, Josiah heaved a deep, shuddering breath and didn’t inhale again for five impossibly long seconds. Becky thought he was gone, but instead he opened his eyes, caressed her cheek with a shaky hand, and asked for a sip of water.
Becky leapt to her feet. “I love you, Josiah Bent! Don’t you dare leave me again!”
“I won’t, darlin’.” His voice rasped over his dry lips. “The good Lord spared my life for a reason—and that reason is to love and care for you and the children. If danger comes knockin’, we’ll face it together.”
Whenever Joan felt nostalgic and watched this episode, she battled bitterness. In the light of her own experience, Josiah’s promise usually struck her as maudlin and even naïve. But tonight tears welled in her eyes as she watched the final minutes of the final episode of Thunder Valley.
With Becky’s love and care, Josiah recovered and they planned to marry on Sunday after church, daring to believe Enoch Grant would believe Josiah was dead.
On the day of the wedding, Josiah stood in the parlor, dressed in a black suit, waiting for his bride, and eager to take the family to the church. Becky and the girls were upstairs putting on their finery, while Edward hitched up the wagon in the barn.
Hoofbeats thudded in the yard. Josiah peeked through the curtained window, saw Enoch Grant, and knew what he had to do. Strapping on his guns, he prayed Becky would forgive him and stepped outside.
Grant leveled his rifle at Josiah’s chest. “You’re like a cat with nine lives, Bent. Get ready, because you’re on your last one.”
“Not here.” Josiah raised his hands over his head. “I don’t deserve even a shred of mercy from you, Mr. Grant. I killed your son and I deserve to die. You can hang me for it or shoot me dead. I’m not going to fight you again. But I’m asking for one small mercy. Let’s finish this away from the house. There’s a woman inside—and children. They don’t need to see me die.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I should let you live—and kill one of them instead—right in front of your eyes. Then you’d know how I feel.”
Josiah lowered his arms. He’d fake going for his gun to draw fire if that’s what it took to save Becky and children, but then Edward came out of the barn, leading the horses and wagon. The boy saw Grant, froze, then lifted his little .22 out of the wagon.
“No,” Josiah muttered.
The camera zoomed in on Edward taking aim at Grant, then on the boy’s finger on the trigger, tense and ready to pull until the camera cut back to Josiah. To his left, the cabin door burst open and Becky’s twin daughters chased each other into the yard, oblivious to Edward and Grant.
Josiah did what he had to do. He shot Grant in the leg, sparing his life but saving the girls.
Grant fell to the ground in a heap. Josiah took the man’s rifle and holstered his own gun as Becky, ashen-faced, ran through the door.
Grant looked up at Josiah. “You could have killed me, but you didn’t. Why?”
“I deserve to die for what I did,” Josiah said, his voice cracking. “But God was merciful. I’m a changed man, Grant. Killing you wasn’t right.”
Grant stared at Josiah, then Becky and the children. The hate drained out of him as he struggled to sit up. “Something in us both died today. I’m done.”
“So am I.” Josiah turned to Becky and reached for her trembling hand. The children gathered at her sides. Holding her fingers tight, he dropped to one knee. “I love you, Becky Monroe. If you can still see fit to marry me after today, I’ll be the ha
ppiest man in the world.”
Tears of joy flooded her eyes. “Of course, I’ll marry you!”
Josiah rose to his full height and drew her into his arms. “How about next Sunday? Right now we need to get Mr. Grant to a doctor.”
Grant gave a nod and Josiah helped him to his feet. As the men shook hands, the scene faded into empty blue sky.
The words A Week Later rolled on the screen, and the camera zoomed in on Becky and Josiah exchanging wedding vows on a hill dotted with wildflowers. Violin music turned into a jaunty tune full of joy, and as usual Joan didn’t know whether to roll her eyes at the sentimentality or to weep with joy for Becky and Josiah.
Tonight, she wept. That last episode of Thunder Valley had been filmed decades ago, but when Joan stopped the DVD, she was trembling with grief, angry at Trey, and back in 1972.
Kathy’s voice played in my head as the bathroom spun out of control. Nausea overwhelmed me, and I threw up. Then I collapsed to the floor and buried my face in my hands. The sourness in my mouth mirrored the sickness in my soul.
Trey’s wife—his wife—was eight weeks pregnant. My mind counted off the weeks. There was no doubt about it. He had made love to Kathy in the middle of telling me it was over between them.
Renewed fury pulsed through me. If he’d walked into that bathroom, I would have slapped him. But even so, my heart longed to make excuses for him. Accidents happen. People get carried away. Sex is a powerful force, and he couldn’t help himself.
And yet—there was no way I could justify Trey’s behavior. He’d lied to me.
Still. Married.
He. Lied.
Black and white, right? But in the next breath, I was in the fetal position. Weeping. Grieving. Justifying my decisions. Trey loved me. I was sure of it. We belonged together. I could feel it as plainly as the cold tile against my burning cheek. Our love was a grand and living thing—something remarkable to be cherished. A soul connection that trumped every other connection in the human experience.
Maybe that’s true for a parent’s love of their child. Or for a husband and wife. But with the bathroom stinking of vomit, the cold tile pressing against my cheek, and the hardness of it bruising my hip, the sharp knife of reason cut through my sobs.
If my love for him trumped everything else, what did that say about Kathy’s feelings for her husband?
And what about Trey’s feelings for both of us? And the child she was carrying?
I cried for what felt like an eternity. I thought of my father wanting a houseful of grandchildren; my female ancestors breathing life and wisdom into future generations; of my mother fighting the cancer that destroyed her body but not her spirit. Be brave, Joan. Her final words to me.
I didn’t feel brave at that moment. I felt nothing but anger, hate, and betrayal. Worst of all, I had lied as badly as Trey—I had lied to myself, betrayed my own integrity. Maybe someday I could forgive Trey. But how could I ever forgive myself?
I lay there for over an hour. Eventually the tears eased, and I knew what I had to do. It was after midnight when I splashed cold water on my face, picked up the phone, and dialed Trey’s number without caring about the hour.
He answered in a sleepy voice, and I wondered if Kathy was next to him. I hoped so, because I wanted her to know my intention—that I respected her and was honoring her request.
“It’s over,” I said. “You lied to me. And I lied to myself.”
“Joanie—”
“You lied,” I repeated, my voice strong. But then something in me quaked and my voice cracked into pieces. “Oh, Trey—it hurts too much. It—”
“Darlin’—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“I hate myself right now.” Every word he spoke cut me even deeper. “I hate how I hurt you, and how I hurt Kathy. I hate how I lied to you and to myself.”
“And to her!”
“To everyone,” he murmured. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, Joan. I don’t deserve it. But I hope that someday—maybe—”
Forgive him? Was he crazy? I could barely keep from eviscerating him over the phone. Liar. Cheat. Fraud. Fake.
I knew my voice would quaver, but I choked out what needed to be said. “We’re done, Trey. Make your marriage work. Be a good husband to Kathy and a good father to your child. I want just one last thing from you.”
“Anything, Joanie. Anything.”
“Don’t ever call me again.”
“But, Joan—”
“Never. I mean it. Good-bye, Trey.”
I hung up. Then prayed that he wouldn’t show up on my doorstep in one breath, and hoped that he would in the next. That’s the problem with emotions. They can be fickle
Chapter 29
“Hey, SuperCop.” Howie flung a wad of used drywall tape into Rafe’s face. “Ben just called it a day and you’re standing there like a moron.”
Or like a man anticipating a week in his hometown with the most beautiful, most delightful woman in the universe—the woman he loved. Rafe was still looking into law enforcement opportunities in the general vicinity of Refuge, but Daisy’s willingness to visit Cincy put a super-sized grin on his face.
When she’d told him about checking out the city for Maggie’s House, he’d sent up a prayer of gratitude. He knew God wasn’t a genie in a bottle, but Rafe had been praying hard for God to work out the situation in a way that gave them both peace of mind.
He picked up the wad of tape and tossed it in the trash. “Thanks for the wake-up call. My mind wandered.”
“Yeah, I bet—right to Daisy, huh?”
“You guessed it.”
They cleaned up what needed to be cleaned up, then piled into the crew cab truck with Ben behind the wheel.
No one said much during the ride back to Refuge. It had been a long day, but the project was going well. The instant Ben pulled into the Donovan Construction parking lot, the men were ready to climb out. As the truck doors opened, Rafe checked his phone. It was Wednesday, Daisy’s AA night. She wouldn’t be around, but he saw a cute message from her. He answered back like he usually did, then decided to go home and work up a sweat on Jesse’s exercise equipment. Key fob in hand, he headed to his car.
“Hey, Rafe.” Howie called to him from twenty feet away. “What are you up to right now?”
“Not much. Why?”
Howie walked over. “My car’s at the tire place on Pioneer. They just texted that it’s ready. Could you give me a lift?”
“Climb on in.”
Howie hesitated. “No plans with Daisy?”
“Not tonight.”
They climbed into the Camaro and took off for the tire store. Ten minutes later, Rafe steered into a parking spot facing a strip mall across the street.
Howie was about to climb out when something caught his eye. “Man, that stinks.”
“What?”
“Across the street—that black Honda Civic belongs to a guy named Jax Martin. He’s the local pharmacist, if you get my drift.”
“I get it just fine.”
Rafe followed Howie’s gaze to the sports sedan parked away from the other vehicles in a lot that served a popular café, a trendy secondhand store, the worst Chinese restaurant in Refuge, and a few other businesses. A man sat in the driver’s seat, his elbow jutting out of the open window. Maybe he was on his phone. Or maybe he was waiting for someone. Ugly things tended to happen when people lurked in parking lots for no apparent reason. Out of habit, Rafe wrote down the license plate.
Howie’s face hardened into steel. “That dude is trouble. You know the pitch. ‘First one’s free,’ and bam—someone falls off the wagon. Jesse caught him hanging around the new worksite. You know your brother. He walked right up to the guy, told him to get lost, and called the cops on him. Jax took off like a scared rabbit.”
That sounded like Jesse—bold, in control, and lethal. “I like how Jesse thinks.”
“I haven’t seen that Jax guy in a while.”
“Well, he’
s here now.” Rafe’s cop blood heated. Back in Cincy, drug dealers were like gnats with cell phones. A buyer called, and the dealer set up a meeting at a random location. Less than a minute later, everyone was gone.
Air gusted through Howie’s nose. “I just don’t want to see one of our guys here, you know?”
“Me neither.”
A minute later, the door to the thrift shop opened and Chelsea walked out, holding Hannah with one hand and toting a shopping bag with the other. Jax exited the Honda and headed for the coffee place, putting him on a collision course with Chelsea.
Rafe stared through the windshield, taking in Chelsea’s pace and direction. “That’s Daisy’s roommate. If she knows Jax, Daisy could be in trouble.”
Howie sat straighter in the seat and stared.
Instead of avoiding Jax, Chelsea greeted him with a big wave and a smile. Jax waved back and approached her.
Every hair on the back of Rafe’s neck prickled. Hannah squirmed but stayed by her mother’s side. Chelsea and Jax were chatting now. Was she buying narcotics? It seemed unlikely. He’d never once seen her high, and their paths crossed frequently at Daisy’s apartment.
Howie broke the silence with a cuss word. “She’s got her kid with her and she’s meeting up with that piece of trash? If she gets high and drives—”
“She won’t.” At this point, Rafe was duty-bound to approach her as a friend if there was even a hint of trouble.
Jax and Chelsea exchanged awkward nods, and he went into the café alone. Chelsea veered to her car and put the package in the trunk. Rafe expected her to leave, but she headed back to the café.
Rafe debated on tactics. He could speak to Chelsea later, or he could do it now. He decided to do it now in order to avoid involving Daisy and to be sure Chelsea had all the facts.
“I need to talk to her,” he told Howie. “I’m guessing she met Jax on a dating app and doesn’t know about his side business.”
“Well, she needs to know.”
Rafe opened the door locks. “Get out of here. But I’m going across the street for a cup of coffee.”
A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2) Page 24
