A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2)

by Victoria Bylin

  “Are you ready to go?” Miss Joan asked. “I want to be home before dark.”

  So did Daisy. If she and Rafe had just four days together, she wanted to enjoy every minute, including tonight.

  Miss Joan picked up the bag and they got back in the Mule. She took off at full speed, the wind blowing their hair back in tangles. When they reached the Yee-Haw Dip, Miss Joan told Daisy to hang on, then she punched the gas and they flew through the water, shouting “Yee-Haw” at the top of their lungs.

  Chapter 33

  Rafe’s dream on Thursday night stopped short of being the nightmare about Kara, but on Friday morning he woke up nervous and alert in a way that worried him. He avoided the obvious and blamed the dream on the spicy burrito he’d pillaged late last night from Jesse’s fridge.

  But the dream rattled him enough to walk out on Jesse’s deck and pray in the dark.

  Lord, guide me. Put me where I belong. Put Daisy where she belongs.

  Until yesterday, when he told her about the new return date, he hadn’t been overly concerned about going back to work. But the dream had nudged the squirrels in his head. How would he react when he ran down that first dark alley?

  “You’ll be just fine,” he said out loud. Mentally, he played out a familiar scenario, planning for it the way Dr. Susan had coached him. Being mindful of his immediate surroundings and emotions kept him grounded in the here and now, and the squirrels in his head settled down. More comfortable, he got ready for work and drove to the coffee shop for his last breakfast with Jesse’s crew.

  When he walked inside, Jesse and the guys were already seated at their spot in the back. Rafe started to put his phone in the middle of the table, but a three-gallon plastic paint bucket caught his eye. Glancing inside, he saw an assortment of gas station snacks and a shiny new hammer with Post-it notes stuck to it.

  He snagged a Post-it and read scrawled names and wishes for good luck. “What’s all this?”

  Howie spoke up. “That’s yours, you idiot. We turned the Bad Luck Bucket into the Good Luck Bucket. Have a safe trip back and be careful when you get there.”

  A sloppy grin pushed its way to Rafe’s face. He glanced at Jesse, who shrugged as if to say, I didn’t know a thing about this. Rafe picked up the hammer, felt the weight of it in his hand and the weight of being a cop on his shoulders. He raised it up, a little like a sword. “Thanks. I’ll use it nail up wanted posters.”

  The guys all laughed and someone threw a napkin at him. These men had become friends to him. Rafe didn’t say it out loud, but he’d miss them—unless he changed his mind and stayed in Refuge.

  The day passed quickly. Heritage House was more than half finished and on schedule. As far as Rafe knew, Miss Joan was still deciding on the winner of the giveaway. That decision would impact Daisy, and though it was admittedly selfish of him, he had hoped the end of her job would make Lyn’s offer more appealing.

  Those were his thoughts when he knocked on her apartment door at seven that night. Instead of going out, Daisy had invited him for dinner with the caveat that she wasn’t much of a cook. Chelsea had a date with someone new, and Hannah was being watched by a neighbor until Chelsea picked her up later tonight.

  Rafe couldn’t top the two dozen red roses, so when he knocked on the apartment door, he held a pink bakery box instead. When Daisy opened the door, the aroma of something Italian hit his nose. She looked utterly adorable with her hair pushed back from her face and her cheeks red, maybe from slaving over the hot stove.

  He kissed her hello and offered the box. “I brought dessert. Death-by-Chocolate Brownies.”

  “Yum!” She led him past the small table set with plates and candles, then set the brownies on the kitchen counter. “You can’t burn spaghetti, right?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you can overcook it.” She gave the pasta a stir, then looked over her shoulder. “The sauce is from a jar, but I added all sorts of good stuff.”

  “It smells great.”

  “MJ makes really good spaghetti sauce. I borrowed her ideas. You can’t get any more domestic than spaghetti—except maybe for meatloaf. “

  While Daisy rattled on about MJ teaching her to cook, Rafe opened a bagged salad and mixed it. They bumped arms a few times, teased and laughed. It all felt so right. She dished from the stove, and he carried the plates to the table. She lit the candles, he dimmed the overhead lights, and they sat. In unison they bowed their heads. Daisy usually said grace over their meals, but tonight Rafe took the lead. He meant every word of thanks for the food, the caring woman who had prepared it, and the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with someone he loved. Everything about tonight felt natural and right, but so did returning to Cincy.

  Daisy offered him the basket of bread. “I haven’t told you the big news about the giveaway. Miss Joan made a decision.”

  “The rodeo clowns?”

  “They won hands-down.” Daisy took a slice of bread for herself. “As of January 1, Cottonwood Acres will belong to Coogan’s Clowns.”

  “That’s great.” He decided to take a chance. “So when does your job end?”

  She chewed the bite of bread quickly, as if she couldn’t wait to speak. Finally, she swallowed. “Miss Joan is moving to Arizona, but she wants me to help set up Heritage House. I told her I’d stay as long as she needs me.”

  “Of course. Do you think you’ll be finished with everything before the end of the year?” In his mind he pictured them together on New Year’s Eve, maybe at the party D’Andre usually put on.

  “Or . . .” She dragged out the word. “. . . it could be longer. Nothing is definite, but Patrick called me personally to ask if I’d consider staying on as an assistant to the new manager.”

  “I’m glad for you, Daize. I am.” He hoped he sounded convincing, but deep down, he’d been wondering if her need for a new job would nudge her to consider the Maggie’s House position in Cincinnati.

  “But?”

  “You know what I’m thinking.”

  “I think I do.” A candle flickered with her breath. “Right now, everything is on the table. I love Refuge, but I also love Maggie’s House and what it does.”

  “So it’s a win-win.” For Daisy’s sake, he put the best possible face on the choice, though it nearly killed him.

  “Yes.” She paused. “Just like it’s a win-win for you. You could be a cop here or in Cincinnati, right?”

  “Maybe. First, they’d have to hire me, and that isn’t guaranteed. When I visited the station, the sergeant told me they’re running lean right now because of budget cuts. That’s a problem with a small department. A big city has more opportunity for career growth. Of course, there’s more risk as well.”

  “Pros and cons, huh?” Daisy put her napkin on the table and pushed back. “I wish it were simpler.”

  “Me too.” He thought of his arrival two months ago, when he felt like a marble rolling around a box. If nothing else had come from his time in Refuge, at least he’d found his faith again. “Maybe it’s simpler than we think.”

  “How so?”

  “God has a plan, right? Maybe I’m better off here in Refuge.” A hint of uncertainty shaded his voice.

  “Better off?” Daisy tipped her head. “You sound worried. Is something wrong?”

  Two months ago, he would have shrugged off her concern, or even lied like he had to Jesse the night he went driving and found Daisy with the flat tire. But he never wanted to hide again. Especially from Daisy, who had a way of seeing into his soul.

  Rafe manned up. “I didn’t sleep well last night. The nightmare didn’t come back, but it tried.”

  She winced on his behalf. “Are you worried about going back to police work?”

  “Worried is too strong, but like I said before, it’ll be good to get that first night out of the way.”

  She pressed her foot against his under the table. “I believe in you, Rafe. You were born to help people. From the day we met, you’ve been ther
e for me, protected me. Plus you’re really good at reading people and situations.”

  “Thanks.” He nudged her foot back. “That means a lot to me.”

  Knowing she believed in him boosted him in ways nothing else did—not a good word from his sergeant or a clap on the back from a friend. Rafe knew a lot of men who felt the same way about wives and girlfriends. Moms, too. It humbled him to need her, but God had given Eve to Adam for a reason.

  They gazed at each other across the flickering candlelight, until a slow smile tugged on her lips. She surprised him by rising up enough to give him a quick kiss. “Let’s plan that trip to Cincinnati.”

  Pleasant anticipation replaced whatever tension remained, and he answered with a confident nod. “The sooner, the better.”

  They talked dates, checked airfares on their phones, and decided on the middle of September. Relaxed and content, they enjoyed the brownies until Daisy’s phone signaled a call.

  Daisy picked up her phone, saw the caller ID, and frowned. “It’s Chelsea. She almost never calls. We text.”

  Chelsea also knew about Daisy’s home-cooked dinner for Rafe, the candlelight, and the ticking clock to his departure. She wouldn’t call without a good reason, though if she’d gotten drunk again, Daisy would need to have a serious talk with her.

  Rafe broke into her thoughts. “Maybe it’s a butt dial.”

  “I hope so.” Concerned, Daisy accepted the call with a quick swipe. “Hey, Chels. What’s up?”

  “Daaaize?”

  Chelsea didn’t sound like herself at all. On alert, Daisy put the call on speaker so Rafe could hear. “Are you all right?”

  She laughed at something but didn’t answer.

  “Chelsea! Talk to me! Where are you?”

  “At . . . at that place . . .” She giggled directly into the phone. “The horse . . . on the roof.”

  “Cowboy’s Cantina?” That had been the plan when Chelsea left to meet a guy named Adam White. She’d connected with him on an app called Let’s Meet! and they’d been texting. Tonight was their first face-to-face date. As usual, Chelsea showed Daisy the guy’s profile. Daisy thought he sounded too good to be true, but he had a warm smile and made fun of himself for being as bald as a smiley face.

  When Chelsea giggled without answering the question, every nerve in Daisy’s body went on alert. “You’re drunk. I’m coming to get you.”

  Rafe pushed to his feet, reaching for his keys as he stood.

  Daisy hurried to her bedroom to put on her shoes. “Talk to me. Are you in the ladies’ room?”

  “Yeah.” Chelsea slurred even more. “I . . . had just one . . . I think . . . oh no.”

  The sound of her being sick rasped over the phone. Daisy jammed her feet into flat sandals, grabbed her purse, and hurried to join Rafe. Together they raced down the hall with Daisy talking to Chelsea on speaker so Rafe could listen to the disjointed conversation.

  Daisy had never heard Chelsea so incoherent. Even during her binge at the wedding, she’d been able to put words together while she cried on Daisy’s shoulder. Chelsea drank socially, not habitually, and she was careful about her online dates. To Daisy, Chelsea didn’t sound just drunk. She sounded giddy, even euphoric, and bizarrely nonsensical.

  With every one of Chelsea’s slurred words, Rafe’s brow furrowed into deeper ruts. When they reached the parking lot, he motioned for Daisy to give him the phone.

  “Chelsea. It’s Rafe.”

  “Hi! I know you!”

  “Chelsea. Listen to me.” He barked the order as he and Daisy climbed into the Camaro. “I’m calling 911. I think you’ve been drugged.”

  The word hit Daisy square between the eyes. She didn’t know much about date rape drugs, except that the word “roofie” came from Rohypnol, the name of a drug that caused euphoria, nausea, and then extreme sleepiness and amnesia. One of Daisy’s housemates back at Maggie’s House had been a victim of it.

  Cowboy’s Cantina was close by, but Daisy knew full well violence struck fast and hard. Memories of her own assault roared in her head, but only in the form of a memory—nothing like a flashback. An unearthly calm settled into her bones, and she mentally prepared for whatever might unfold.

  “Chelsea.” Daisy spoke in a strong, clear voice. “Are you with the guy from Let’s Meet? His name is Adam.”

  Chelsea groaned without answering the question. “I . . . had just one drink . . . then a Coke.” She started to laugh again. “Not like before.”

  “Can you describe the guy you’re with?” Rafe cut diagonally across the half-empty parking lot and sped onto the street.

  Daisy started to say she’d seen Adam White’s photograph, but she didn’t trust that information. It was best to hear directly from Chelsea.

  Chelsea giggled again. “He’s . . . cute.”

  “Tall or short?”

  No answer.

  “What color is his hair?”

  “He’s . . . bald!” She laughed like it was the funniest joke in the world.

  “Chelsea, listen to me.” Authority hammered home Rafe’s words. “Do not leave the ladies’ room. We’re calling 911. Do not leave with anyone except a police officer.”

  Chelsea just laughed. “This is so weird!”

  He handed the phone back to Daisy. “Keep her talking if you can.”

  Still driving fast, he called 911 through his hands-free car connection. Words Daisy had hoped to never hear again vibrated through the car speakers.

  “Nine-one-one. Where’s your emergency?”

  Daisy spoke to Chelsea but listened to Rafe as he answered the dispatcher without fanfare. “I believe a woman’s been drugged at Cowboy’s Cantina. She’s in the restroom, and there’s reason to believe she’s in danger.”

  “Her description, sir?”

  “Approximately five feet, six inches. About one hundred thirty pounds. Age thirty-one. Long dark hair. Brown eyes. We believe her companion is a bald man. No other details available at this time.”

  “Are you aware of any weapons involved?”

  “Weapon status is unknown.”

  “Your relationship to the woman?”

  “A friend. I’m off-duty law enforcement. Cincinnati PD.”

  “Will you be on scene, sir?”

  “Yes. My ETA is five minutes.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll advise accordingly.”

  Rafe ended the call, sped through a yellow light, then glanced at Daisy. “We’ll beat the cops, so we need a plan. Which restroom is she in? Front or back?”

  Daisy nodded, then spoke into her phone. “Can you hear me, Chels?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Rafe and I are just a few minutes away. Are you in the bathroom in the back or near the front?”

  “I don’t remember . . . I’m . . . sick.”

  “Stay there, Chels,” Daisy repeated. “Do not leave the bathroom.”

  “Uh—oh, hi!”

  Daisy heard a woman’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. “Help us!” Daisy shouted. “Help! Chelsea—give her the phone!”

  The only answer was a mumble, then the silence of a dead call.

  Rafe pressed the accelerator as hard as he dared. The situation called for a siren and flashing lights, but the Camaro provided only speed. Cowboy’s Cantina sat in the middle of the block dubbed “Restaurant Row.” Popular with locals and tourists alike, the restaurant promised to be crowded.

  “We’re almost there,” he said to himself as much as to Daisy. But then a traffic light flashed to red. Cars spilled into the intersection, leaving him no choice but to come to a dead stop. “If the traffic clears, I’ll run the light.”

  “Yes.” Daisy stared hard toward the restaurant. “Every second counts. He could be leaving with her right now—”

  “It’s possible.” Very possible.

  A block away, the plastic horse on the roof of the restaurant pummeled the air. There were no plastic horses in Cincinnati, but the Friday night glow of restaurants and bar
s lighting up the night looked the same to him. Rafe wasn’t in uniform and his badge held no weight in Wyoming, but he was a police officer down to his marrow. His instincts flared to life.

  “We need a plan,” he reminded Daisy. “What do you know about Bald Guy?”

  “I saw his picture. His name is Adam White, and his profile says he’s an IT guy. That’s all I know, except he looked big.”

  “Do you know what he drives?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Precious seconds ticked by. He glanced in the rearview mirror for flashing lights, listened for a siren, but there was no sign of a backup. Not a surprise. Refuge was in the middle of tourist season, and a drugged woman wasn’t exactly an active-shooter situation. Cars continued to speed across the intersection, blocking him until the light finally turned green.

  Rafe punched the gas. “I’m going to park right out front. I hate to ask this of you—”

  Daisy cut him off. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “Go inside and look for Chelsea. If she’s still in the ladies’ room, stay with her and call me. If she’s with Bald Guy, call me and I’ll come in. Don’t approach him alone.”

  “I understand.”

  Rafe pulled into the packed parking lot. The entrance was in the center of the adobe-style building and set back from the four rows of parked vehicles. “Do you see Chelsea’s car?”

  Daisy craned her neck and scanned the lot. “It’s too crowded to tell.”

  “I’ll look while you go inside. It’s a silver Sentra, right? California plates?”

  “Exactly.”

  She reached across the car and squeezed his knee. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too. But I hate asking you to go inside alone.” Especially with her personal history. His gut tightened at the thought of Daisy being vulnerable, but Chelsea needed her now. Seconds counted. Had she been roofied, or was another drug like GHB involved?

  He broke the rules and backed into the handicapped space by the front entrance. As usual, Chelsea had sent Bald Guy’s profile picture to Daisy’s phone as a precaution. Daisy took five precious seconds to show Rafe the picture before she hurried inside.