Miss Joan broke the silence. “Welcome to Cottonwood Acres. This ranch has been in my family for a long time. Our roots go deep—to 1873 to be precise.”
Daisy could hardly imagine. Her own family tree was more like a tumbleweed. “I used to watch Thunder Valley when I came home from school. I loved it. I never dreamed I’d be sitting here, or even living in Wyoming.”
Was she rambling? Being too informal? Or maybe she was being confident and assured. Unsure of herself, she smiled nervously.
Miss Joan tapped one manicured finger on the armrest. “Change is inevitable, and that’s why we’re here today.”
“Yes. I’m very interested in the job.”
“And I’m eager to find the right person.” A note of frustration leaked into her voice. “Tell me about yourself.”
“I moved from Los Angeles three months ago.” I’m not proud of how I used to live, but I did my best to survive. “My brother and his fiancée are here, so I had a soft place to land.” Lord knows, I needed one after Eric assaulted me. I almost died. In fact, I did die. But that’s a story for another time. “Now I’m looking for a job that will use the skills I learned in a training program in LA.”
Miss Joan nodded gently, encouraging her. “Tell me about those skills and how you obtained them.”
Ah, the tricky part. I lived in a shelter for women escaping violent situations. I’m an alcoholic—a sober one for eight months now. By the grace of God, I have a brand-new life. Daisy had made peace with the past, so she ordered herself to sit tall. “I took classes for both Mac- and Windows-based programs. Macs are easier to use, in my opinion, but I’m comfortable on either platform. As for photography, I picked it up for fun and love it.”
A used camera from Mary’s Closet had given her new eyes to match her new heart.
Miss Joan glanced at the photographs above the sofa, then refocused on Daisy. “I looked at your Instagram. You’re an excellent photographer.”
“Thank you.”
“What specific office experience do you have?”
“Very little.” Daisy softened the confession with a smile. “But I’m reliable, willing to learn, and plan to stay in Refuge permanently. This is my home now.”
Miss Joan’s eyes stayed fixed on Daisy’s face, her expression almost stern.
Was she waiting for more? Should Daisy ask one of the questions she had rehearsed? It was important to show interest, so she met Miss Joan’s gaze with a direct one of her own. “I’d like to know more about the position. What would an average day look like?”
“Taking phone calls. Driving me into town for appointments—both hair and doctor visits. The cattle operation is handled by my foreman, so you don’t need to know anything about the livestock business. Your day would be spent working on the layout and design of a history book I’m writing about Cottonwood Acres.”
“That sounds like an exciting project.” Daisy wished she could say more. I designed a book like that for Maggie’s House. It’s called The Attic Letters, and it’s for women like me. And MJ. And Lyn. She wanted to share the details, but that part of her story didn’t belong in a job interview. Instead she focused on her skills. “Will the book have photographs?”
“Yes, including several historic ones.”
“They’ll need to be scanned and edited.” Daisy pictured tintypes like the one in The Attic Letters. “I’ve done that kind of work before.”
Miss Joan’s eyes flared with approval and she smiled. “That’s good to know. I’m also interested in your organizational skills. The book is part of a larger project that will require travel arrangements, small event planning, and information management.”
“I can do it.” She felt confident in this area thanks to helping with Shane and MJ’s wedding—a big bash set for the middle of June. “The trick is to use reliable sources, keep a calendar, and send reminders. I’m a firm believer in checking everything twice.”
“So am I.”
They chatted about planning in general, software preferences, and finally about the driving requirements. Miss Joan explained that she’d let her license lapse because she disliked driving in Refuge during the crowded tourist season.
Daisy’s hopes rose with every word. “It all sounds great. I’d really like the job.”
Miss Joan locked eyes with her. “I have one more question and it’s important.”
Daisy couldn’t imagine what they hadn’t already covered. “Yes?”
“In the past month, I’ve hired and fired three people for this position. The first young lady couldn’t put down her phone, even when mine was ringing. The second turned out to be allergic to dogs—and possibly hard work.”
“And the third?” Daisy tried not to cringe.
“I overheard her sharing my personal business with her friends. I value my privacy. And I especially need discretion for the second part of the project you’ll be working on. And that, Daisy, is my last question. Can you keep a secret?”
Chapter 3
Alarm bells went off in Daisy’s head. Should she say, I’m good at keeping secrets because I have one or two or ten of my own? But that would raise questions. Instead she pretended to be Lyn. “There’s a difference between secrecy and privacy. If you expect me to keep secrets that hurt people, I won’t do it. But I can and will respect your privacy, like I expect people to respect mine.”
Miss Joan gave a hearty laugh. “Touché, my dear. That’s a very wise response.”
Daisy blushed. “It’s not original. I have a friend who taught me the difference.”
“I had to learn that difference myself.” Miss Joan’s gaze drifted to the array of photographs on the wall—a mix of Hollywood stars and action shots of rodeo riders, plus the one of herself with the man in the black cowboy hat. “A lot of famous people have come and gone from this place. Most of them had secrets.”
“I suppose we all have a few.”
“Yes.”
That’s all she said, leaving Daisy to wonder about the secrets in Miss Joan’s life. Sadie, still lying on her side in the sun, began running in her sleep, her tail thumping the floor to the beat of an unheard drummer.
Miss Joan smiled at the dog. “She’s chasing a rabbit.”
Sadie ran harder, going nowhere in real life but everywhere in her dreams. Daisy could relate.
Finally Miss Joan turned to her. “I assure you there’s nothing illegal or hurtful about what I expect you to keep private. The project will eventually go public, but until the decision is final, I want to avoid as much fuss as possible.”
“Yes.” Daisy didn’t like fusses, either. “As long as there’s nothing illegal, my lips are sealed.”
Miss Joan’s face relaxed into a playful grin. “Illegal? No. Unethical or immoral? Not in the least. A little crazy? Perhaps.”
“I admit to being curious, but I won’t ask.”
“Good, because I’d like to offer you the job.” Miss Joan crossed the room to her desk, lifted a manila folder, and placed it in front of Daisy. “The position pays twenty dollars an hour with a guaranteed thirty-five hours a week, maybe more, with a flexible schedule. It includes a basic health insurance plan effective in thirty days, plus holiday and vacation pay.”
Health insurance? Paid time off? A generous salary? All for the job of her dreams? Daisy’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I am.” A mischievous twinkle danced in Miss Joan’s eyes. “I believe in sharing what I’ve been given, and to say I’ve been blessed—yes, blessed—is a roaring understatement. Now”—she pointed at the folder—“read the employment agreement carefully. If you’re still interested, sign both copies. Sadie and I will be back in a few minutes.”
Miss Joan called to Sadie, and the two of them left Daisy alone with the four-page contract. She read every word, paying particular attention to the section she mentally dubbed the keep-your-mouth-shut clause. The language was more legalese than the rest of the document, but she understood it and confidently s
igned her name.
A few minutes later, Miss Joan and Sadie returned to the office.
Smiling, Daisy indicated the closed folder. “I signed—and I can hardly believe it! This is a wonderful opportunity for me—I can’t thank you enough. It’s just—just—” She winced. “I’m babbling. Mostly I want to say thank you.”
A gentle smile graced Miss Joan’s face. “I like your enthusiasm. When can you start?”
“I need to give notice at the restaurant, but they can easily fill my shifts. Would this Thursday be okay?”
“Perfect. Will nine o’clock work for you?”
“Nine is perfect.”
Miss Joan stayed on her feet, so Daisy picked up her purse and stood. She schooled her face into a calm smile, but her heart did a Snoopy dance. A job! She had a real job! She could move out of MJ’s house before the wedding, go all out on MJ’s bridal shower, and even make a donation to Maggie’s House. She didn’t deserve a job this wonderful—not at all. It was a gift, pure and simple.
A lump pushed into her throat. Swallowing it back, she followed Miss Joan and Sadie down the hall. At the door closest to the entry, Miss Joan stopped and flipped on a light. “This will be your office.”
Daisy poked her head into a room unlike any place she had ever worked. A cranberry red sofa sat against the wall to the left, with two matching chairs and a coffee table to make a square. The window matched the view from Miss Joan’s office, and the big desk with double monitors was state-of-the-art. Just as impressive to Daisy were the paintings on the wall, a set of four landscapes matching the view through the window, each a different season.
“This is amazing.” She told herself not to gush, but a little appreciation was called for. “Having two monitors is ideal for design.”
Miss Joan jabbed her finger toward the desk. “Try the chair. It’s a Tempur-Pedic. We don’t want you getting backaches.”
Daisy would have sat on a plastic crate for this job, but she set down her purse and did as Miss Joan asked. After adjusting the height for her long legs, she pulled out the keyboard tray, placed her fingers, and faced the monitors positioned exactly at her eye level. The workspace fit her like a glove.
She spun the chair back to Miss Joan. “It’s perfect. I can hardly wait to start.”
“Good, because I’m eager to finish the history book and start on the next project.”
Daisy took that as her cue to get moving, lifted her purse, and followed Miss Joan to the front door. Excitement bubbled through her entire body—until her evil twin whispered in her ear. Miss Joan doesn’t know who you really are, but I do. You don’t deserve any of this. You’re a failure, a loser—
Stop it! She wanted to shout the words out loud but didn’t. Miss Joan would think she was crazy if she started talking to herself. Instead Daisy channeled Lyn’s advice to replace a bad thought with a good one, then she spoke the truth out loud so she could hear it. “This is a wonderful opportunity for me.”
When Miss Joan opened the front door, she wore a distant smile. “Opportunities come at unexpected times, don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And with unexpected consequences.”
What did that mean? Most of the unexpected events in Daisy’s life had been horrific—her mother’s death, the sexual molestation by those boys in the garage, Eric’s vicious attack that put her at death’s door. But that was when she had surrendered fully to Christ. Yes, unexpected consequences. They weren’t all bad.
Miss Joan opened the front door, they exchanged good-byes, and Daisy walked down the steps to the path leading to the parking lot. Rounding the corner of the house, she saw her car and stopped, her jaw dropping in surprise. Tied to her windshield wiper was a balloon bouquet with a folded piece of paper pinned beneath the rubber blade.
The balloons had to be from her road warrior. He certainly knew how to get a woman’s attention, but under the circumstances, she couldn’t afford to respond. She wasn’t ready to date again—not even close. She needed time to heal and grow. To be truly independent. Until she could stand firmly—by faith—on her own two feet, she was in danger of repeating the biggest mistake of her life—leaning on a man who didn’t deserve her trust.
But her heart didn’t want to listen to her common sense, and she couldn’t help but smile at the pretty balloons.
Twenty minutes passed between the moment Rafe saw the woman’s car and the instant he snipped the ribbons on the last cluster of balloons. He wanted to meet her, so he hurried to the parking lot, tied the bouquet to her windshield wiper, and wrote a note. Hurrying, he drove the ranch pickup to the trash bin behind the garage a hundred feet from the house, tossed in the bulging plastic bags, and returned the truck to the garage.
Before leaving for the day, he needed to check in with Cliff Lopez, ranch foreman, so he strode across the yard to Cliff’s office. Lively Spanish music drifted through the screen door, and through the mesh Rafe saw Cliff at his desk, working on a laptop. The foreman was in his fifties, wiry, muscular, and slightly bow-legged from his rodeo days. Silver streaked his black hair, and his brown face testified to both his heritage and decades working in the sun.
Rafe tapped on the screen door. The music coming from the computer faded to nothing. In a single motion, Cliff removed a pair of reading glasses and motioned Rafe to enter. “Come in. Have a seat.”
Rafe entered the office but declined the chair. “Do you need me for anything else?”
“You’re finished with the balloons, right?”
“They’re in the trash—all nineteen thousand of them.”
A grin rippled across Cliff’s face. “Only nineteen thousand? I thought we put up a million.”
“It felt that way.” There had been exactly two thousand—one hundred clusters with twenty balloons each. Rafe had cut each bunch off the fence, popped the balloons, and stuffed the remnants into trash bags. One bouquet had made a break for the clouds, and another was tied to the Hyundai.
Cliff gave a nod. “Good work. We’d like you to come back tomorrow.”
Between the balloons, sweeping up the hay bale maze, and emptying countless trash cans, Rafe had put in a solid day. “I thought the clean-up was done.”
“It is. But Miss Joan wants you back.”
Rafe nodded as if the request made sense, but it struck him as odd. He hadn’t even met Miss Joan. Why would she ask for him? Not that he minded. He enjoyed working outdoors, and Cliff was a lot friendlier than Jesse’s crew. “Do you know what the job involves?”
“Not yet. Joanie called Jesse herself.” Only Cliff called Miss Joan by her nickname, a sign they had been friends for decades. He dismissed Rafe with an offhand wave. “Hasta la vista, my friend. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Rafe offered a wave of his own, then hurried down the concrete path leading to the house and parking lot. In the distance he saw the Hyundai with the balloons bouncing in the breeze.
He was about to cross the entrance road when the front door to the house opened and the woman stepped onto the deck. Dark dress pants showed off her long legs, and a tailored jacket shouted confidence. Her hair, liberated from the waitressy headband, bounced in the sunlight. When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she glanced back at the closed front door, did a little skip, and half danced down the walk to the parking lot.
She looked nothing like the frightened woman who had held him at bay on the side of the road, but appearances could be deceiving. Right now, Rafe looked nothing like a cop. He considered calling out to her, but he wanted to see her reaction to the balloons. If she seemed pleased, he’d ask her out. And if she didn’t, he hoped to at least make a friend.
He knew the instant she saw the bouquet because her feet froze in midstride. The sun reflected off the clip in her hair, a wide barrette as sparkly as the Mylar tied to her car. The balloons had stopped her dead in her tracks. A good sign? He hoped so.
He picked up his pace until he reached the parking lot. “Hello, there,” he called, slo
wing his steps.
The woman faced him, her blue eyes as stormy as an Ohio sky, her lips straight and sealed tight. Was she fighting a smile or restraining a frown? Rafe was good at reading people. He could spot a liar within two sentences, and he could hear the difference between bravado and real courage. He tried to get a read on her reaction but couldn’t.
Leaning forward, he extended his hand. “We didn’t exchange names the other night. I’m Rafe Donovan.”
She looked down at his fingers, hesitated, then offered her hand in return. Her skin felt cool against his, her fingers long and delicate, her grip tentative.
“I’m Daisy Riley. Thank you for putting on the spare.”
“Glad to do it.” He indicated the front end of her car. “It looks like you bought a new tire.”
“Two, actually. My brother thought it was a good idea.”
Brother came out a little louder than the rest, a declaration that someone cared about her—and would call the cops if she went missing. That was fine with Rafe. Nothing made him happier than knowing people were safe.
Digging his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his work boots. “What brings you to Cottonwood Acres?”
“I just interviewed for a job.”
“Great. I hope you get it.”
“I already did.”
A genuine smile lit up her face—the first one he’d seen, and he didn’t want it to be the last. “Congratulations. So no more midnight drives?”
“That’s right.”
“What’ll you be doing?”
“Office work. Some driving. Whatever Miss Joan needs.”
“So I’ll see you around?”
Her eyes went to the Donovan Construction logo on his shirt. “Do you work for Jesse?”
So she knew his brother. Not a surprise. Jesse’s business was well known. “Yes. At least temporarily. We’re brothers. I’m out here on a bit of a vacation.” Not exactly, but the description was close enough. “He needed an extra guy out here, so I’m filling in.”
A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2) Page 3