A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2)

by Victoria Bylin

  With a little luck, maybe Jesse would spill the beans about Daisy Riley. Rafe hoped so, because he liked her a lot.

  He parked a few spaces from Jesse’s truck, a steel gray Dodge 3500 with a crew cab. When it came to power, the truck beat Rafe’s Camaro hands-down. But for speed and tight turns, the Camaro took the prize.

  Not that Rafe was competitive or anything.

  Smiling at his own internal joke, he turned off the engine, reached for his phone, and saw a missed call from Dr. Susan Patowski’s office. No surprise there. He had a FaceTime appointment tomorrow at nine Eastern time. A text message confirmed it.

  He didn’t enjoy baring his soul, but when it came to treating trauma, severe PTSD, and milder situations like his, Dr. Susan—she preferred her first name—had serious street cred. An army nurse for over twenty years, with stints in both Iraq and Afghanistan, she had retired, returned to school, and earned her doctorate in psychology.

  Rafe didn’t want to admit he was suffering from PTSD or anything like it, but he wanted without question to be a solid police officer. In the meantime, he’d give Jesse his best effort. Rafe enjoyed working with his hands, and an assignment at Cottonwood Acres, where he’d run into Daisy Riley, counted as a bonus.

  He strode into the building and down a short hall, passing the kitchen and a conference room fit for a Manhattan high-rise. In the lobby, he snagged a couple of mini Snickers bars from the candy dish on the reception desk, then veered to Jesse’s office.

  Before he reached the open door, his brother called someone a blockhead, and Ben Waters, Jesse’s foreman and close friend, broke into his famous baritone laugh.

  Rafe tapped on the doorjamb. “Blockhead? Really? You can’t do better than that?” Jesse’s language used to be far more colorful.

  He just shook his head. “Believe me, blockhead fits. Come on in. We were just talking about you.”

  “So I’m the blockhead?” Rafe hurled one of the Snickers minis to Jesse, and the other one to Ben, a mountain of a man with dark skin, a bald head, and wide-set eyes that didn’t miss a thing. A tattoo on his forearm read For Rebecca. No one knew who Rebecca was, but everyone knew not to ask.

  Ben slid the candy across the desk and back to Rafe. “Keep it. And for the record, you’re not the blockhead.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Rafe sat and ate the candy in one bite. “So what’s up?”

  Jesse tossed his own candy wrapper into the trashcan under his desk. “You must have impressed Miss Joan, because she wants you back.”

  Rafe still didn’t understand why. “That’s what Cliff said, but the cleanup is done.”

  “She wants you working on Heritage House.” Jesse leaned back in his big chair and gave a shrug. “What Miss Joan wants, Miss Joan gets. That’s why Ben’s here. He’s the boss on that project.”

  Ben draped a creased work boot over his knee, steepled his fingers over his chest, and studied Rafe, his lips pursed into a frown. “We have a problem, because you’re Jesse’s snot-nosed little brother and a cop. Most of my men are ex-cons. They don’t like you, don’t trust you, and don’t want to know you.”

  Rafe didn’t reply. The truth spoke for itself—except the part about being snot-nosed.

  “What I say goes out there.” Ben’s voice boomed and picked up speed. “We work as a team. Respect—God bless Aretha—has to be earned. If I put you on the crew, you’ll need to hold your own and hold up your brothers—whoever they are. You’ll need to take it on the chin, keep your mouth shut, and do the work. How are you with being on the bad end of a bad joke? The guy who gets stuck with the worst jobs?”

  Ben had a little “preach” in him, much like the old desk sergeant in Cincy. Rafe considered blustering back, but he kept his tone mild. “I get it. I’m the rookie out there. Believe me, I’ve been called names before.”

  Ben and Jesse traded a look. When Ben nodded, Jesse spoke directly to Rafe. “You start tomorrow morning. Breakfast is at seven. Cottonwood Acres is on the back side of nowhere, so we drive out together in company trucks.”

  Rafe started to say he’d be there, but then he remembered the appointment with Dr. Susan. “I can’t make breakfast.”

  “Why not?” Jesse asked the question, but Ben was staring at him—hard.

  Rafe didn’t want to share his personal business in front of Ben, so he kept his answer short. “I have a phone appointment at seven our time. Work-related.”

  “That’s fine,” Ben said. “It’s probably best I warn the guys that SuperCop is joining us.”

  Let the hazing begin. In some ways, Rafe welcomed it. He missed the brotherhood of the department, especially silly pranks and nicknames.

  Ben pushed to his feet. “I’m outta here, gentlemen. See you in the morning.”

  “One more thing.” Rafe was hungry enough to eat two steaks, and he enjoyed Ben’s company. “I was about to bribe Jesse into dinner with a steak at Cowboy’s Cantina. How about it?”

  Ben shook his head. “I’m taking Tamara to see the new Marvel movie. After the week she had, she deserves a break.”

  Tamara was Ben’s girlfriend. She worked as the director of nursing at an assisted living facility. As a cop, Rafe had been summoned to similar places on 911 calls. Between AWOL memory patients and families going Jerry Springer, those calls were among the saddest.

  When Ben left, Rafe turned to Jesse. “So how about dinner? I’m buying.”

  Jesse gave a somber shake of his head. “Man, I wish I could. But I have a date.”

  When it came to dating, Rafe had Jesse beat hands-down. Rafe dated easily and often. Jesse, on the other hand, dated often but not easily. He wanted to settle down but couldn’t find a woman who held his interest, maybe because of his complicated past.

  “So who is she?” Rafe’s mind shot back to Daisy. He’d mention her to Jesse in a minute.

  “Her name’s Emily Todd. She’s friendly. Pretty. Dark hair. She works in human resources at one of the resorts.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “A friend at church set us up. This is date number two, but I don’t think we’ll make it to three.”

  “Why not?” Rafe asked.

  “I wish I knew. I like her, but so far there’s just no chemistry.” Jesse shrugged, then rocked forward in his chair. “What’s up with you and that appointment tomorrow?”

  “It’s with Dr. Susan. But right now, I’m more interested in the woman I helped with the flat tire. I met her again at Cottonwood Acres. You know her—Daisy Riley.”

  “I wondered if it was Daisy.”

  Rafe waited for more, but Jesse didn’t spill. If he knew Daisy from AA, so much the better. Rafe enjoyed an occasional beer, but mostly he avoided alcohol. He strongly preferred to be clearheaded, and he’d seen what alcohol did to his father and Jesse. Rafe knew full well people could relapse into addiction, but he also knew men and women who had stayed straight for years, even decades.

  If he shared a bit of info about Daisy, maybe Jesse would, too. “She was at the ranch for a job interview. She got it, so I’ll see her again.”

  “Good, but be nice to her.”

  Big brother on duty—always. But Rafe didn’t mind. “I’m always nice to pretty women.”

  “In that case, don’t be too nice.”

  “Yeah, right.” Rafe grinned. “Like I need dating advice from my geek of a big brother.”

  “Brat.” Jesse threw a paper clip at him. “Get out of here. I’m running late thanks to you and Miss Joan. By the way, what did you do to impress her?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t even meet her.”

  “Weird. But I’m not complaining. We’re under contract to complete the building by October 15, and we’re already a few days behind on the framing. Ben could use another hand out there, and I know you have the skills.”

  Rafe thought back to the house where he and Jesse had grown up. A single story made of bricks, it had provided a roof to the Donovan brothers and not much else. Their father had k
icked Jesse out of the house the day he turned eighteen. Two years later, their mother found the courage to kick him out of the house after he put her in the hospital.

  Rafe would never forget that awful night, but mostly he remembered calling 911, the police breaking down the door, and a female police officer comforting his mom. With their father out of the picture and Jesse living in Florida, Rafe was twelve years old when he learned to fix whatever was broken.

  They walked out of the building together, with Jesse locking up behind them. They climbed in their separate vehicles, and Rafe followed the big truck out of the parking lot, considering food options as he drove. He didn’t want to sit alone at Cowboy’s Cantina. Taco Bell again? No. He’d eaten there three times this week. Maybe a coffee shop in Three Corners? The drive would kill time in what promised to be a long, empty evening.

  With rock music blasting, he hit the highway. Forty minutes later, he arrived at a restaurant much like one where he’d stopped on his drive to Wyoming. It had been a bad night. In the grips of a nightmare, he had shouted loud enough for security to pound on his door. Awake and miserable, he bought coffee and drove straight through to Refuge rather than stop again to sleep.

  A woman in a pink hostess uniform stepped out from behind the counter, plastic menu in hand. “Just one?”

  “Yes.”

  “This way.”

  She led him to a booth designed for two. As always, he sat facing the door. The waitress arrived, skipped the chitchat, and took his order—a double bacon cheeseburger with a double order of fries.

  He took out his phone for company until the door chimed and a Wyoming highway patrolman walked in. The man was in his thirties, average height, burly, and relaxed. The hostess greeted him like an old friend and seated him at a square middle table.

  The officer noticed Rafe in a casual way and nodded, but Rafe knew the nod wasn’t casual at all. The man was sizing him up and sizing up his surroundings.

  The restaurant door opened again, making way for a pair of sheriff’s deputies—one male, one female. They carried Glocks along with the other tools of the trade. Like the first officer, they noticed Rafe, nodded what could be a greeting or a warning, then sat with their friend.

  Rafe’s food arrived, and he dug in. The burger hit the spot, but it didn’t fill the silence that came with eating alone. His gaze drifted back to the officers, eating together and trading stories, laughing hard and often.

  “Crap,” Rafe muttered to himself. He wanted his old life back. He wanted to be on patrol.

  The officers finished their meals, bantered again with the waitress, and left without giving Rafe a second glance. Through the window, he watched them climb into their vehicles and drive away in opposite directions.

  Rafe left a handful of cold French fries on the plate, paid his bill, and drove back toward Refuge. When he reached the spot where he’d changed Daisy Riley’s tire, he slowed enough to take in the spit of gravel where she’d been stranded. He had done a good deed that night. If anything would help him sleep without dreams, it was the satisfaction of a job well done. Tomorrow he’d report to work at Heritage House. Despite the comments he expected to face from the crew, Rafe found himself smiling at the prospect of swinging a hammer, breaking a sweat, and making a difference.

  Chapter 6

  Forty is the old age of youth; fifty the youth of old age.

  Frances Bacon

  Joan Prescott didn’t mind living alone, though on nights like this, when a deathly quiet filled the house, she wished Sadie could talk.

  The dog might have enjoyed it, too. It had been quite a day between attorney calls, hiring Daisy Riley, and most fun of all, seeing Rafe Donovan tie the balloons to Daisy’s car. Catching him in the act had been a stroke of luck. After giving Daisy the contract, Joan had purposely gone to a window that faced the parking lot. A car revealed a lot about a person, and she wanted to see what Daisy drove.

  The car was unremarkable. The balloons, however, were not. When Joan saw a young man in a Donovan Construction t-shirt tie the balloons to the wiper blade, she called Cliff and learned the fellow was Rafe Donovan, Jesse’s brother. Charmed by the flirting, she called Jesse and asked him to assign Rafe to work on Heritage House. Being old had its privileges, and playing Cupid was one of them.

  So was staying up late, but when the grandfather clock chimed midnight, she set down the sweet romance novel she was reading, rose from her spot on the sofa, and put on a light sweater.

  “Come on, Sadie-girl.” She clapped her hands to wake up the dog. “It’s time to go outside.”

  Sadie pushed up on her long legs, and they walked out to the deck that wrapped around the house. Sadie never went far, so Joan didn’t worry when the dog trotted down the steps and wandered into the dark. Even if Sadie scented a rabbit, she wouldn’t chase it. Like Joan, she was a senior citizen and content to stick close to home.

  While the dog wandered, Joan began her customary lap around the deck. She walked slowly, listening to crickets and night sounds until she reached the side of the house facing the parking lot. Pulling her sweater close, she paused at the railing and gazed up at the stars twinkling unfettered and without apology. There seemed to be a million of them in the Wyoming sky, a place untouched by the light pollution that tainted other places she had lived. The cool air tickled her nose and she inhaled deeply, savoring the piney scent she’d cherished all her life.

  Who could worry under a black velvet sky with Polaris, the North Star, pointing the way—with constellations that mapped the galaxies, and a moon that controlled the ocean tides? Not Joan. She trusted God and believed the Bible. But sometimes, on empty nights like this one, memories of the darkest time of her life howled like distant coyotes. There was a beauty in the chorus, a painful one, like the sad songs she and Trey Cochran sang in his truck as if they were Sonny and Cher, both of them off-key and loving it—and loving each other.

  “Trey . . .” She didn’t say his name often. It was all so long ago, close to fifty years now. Yet tonight it seemed like just yesterday that he had swaggered into her life. Sighing, she wondered if playing Cupid for Daisy and Rafe Donovan had stirred up those old embers.

  Joan wasn’t overly sentimental. Months, even years, had passed when she didn’t think of Trey at all. Over the decades, she dated other men, some of them quite wonderful, but her heart refused to respond the way it did for Trey.

  Eventually, she settled for getting a dog. Sadie was her fourth Great Dane and the prettiest with black-and-white harlequin markings. The old gal was taking her sweet time tonight, so Joan continued alone around the deck, fighting memories of Trey. In her mind, she heard the last words he spoke to her.

  “I’m sorry, Joanie. So sorry.”

  “So am I,” she said to the stars. How could she have been so naïve?

  Memories howled through her. She didn’t need to close her eyes to see Trey’s face in her mind, or to recall the passion and the lies, the strong beliefs that had empowered her decisions—beliefs she no longer held as true. She had changed, yet love and its demands remained as timeless as the earth itself. Men still tied pretty balloons to cars, and women still fell in love, wise or not.

  The past came alive in Joan’s mind, and her heart ached for every human being who had walked, stumbled, and fallen in shoes like the ones she wore oh-so-proudly back in 1972 . . .

  The first time I saw Trey Cochran, he was covered in blood. Granted, it was fake, but the makeup people for Thunder Valley knew their stuff. He’d been gut-shot, left to die in a canyon, and had somehow ridden his horse into the yard of the big house where the widow Becky Monroe lived with her three precocious children. There he’d fallen off like the professional rodeo rider he was, and begged God to let him live.

  “Cut!” shouted the director.

  Trey jumped to his feet. The crew and guests, including me, broke into applause, and he took a sweeping bow. I almost never cried, but that scene moved me to tears. That’s how good an actor he was.


  An assistant brought him a towel to wipe away the dirt and fake blood. Rather than head to his dressing room in the bunkhouse, he ambled over to Walter Henning, the director and a man I knew well. Walter motioned me over to meet Trey, something he did with every guest star.

  At this point, Thunder Valley had been in production for twelve years and was in its final season. Hollywood stars had come and gone, some young and others not, all of them men and women with enough charisma to light up a city. After years of this exposure, I fancied myself immune to raw male charm. I was very much my own woman—thirty years old, an associate history professor at Esther Hobart Morris College for Women, and in control of my romantic choices. This was 1972, a new era of freedom for women a la Mary Tyler Moore tossing her hat in the air every Saturday night.

  And then it happened. Trey Cochran lasered me with those smoky brown eyes, and I wasn’t nearly as immune as I thought.

  “Joan.” Walter put a grandfatherly arm around my shoulders. “Meet Trey Cochran. You two have a lot in common.”

  “We do?” I couldn’t imagine what. The man got bucked off horses for a living, and I taught brilliant young women at an elite college.

  Trey thrust out his hand, now wiped clean of blood. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Prescott.”

  “Miss Prescott?” I laughed as we shook. Didn’t he know what decade it was? At the very least, he should have called me Ms. Prescott. “Please, call me Joan.”

  “My pleasure, Joan.” Those eyes . . . somehow they unmasked every lie I believed about not being susceptible to male charm. I blushed, and I never blush.

  No way would I give Trey Cochran—or any man—that kind of power over me. I stared back as hard as I could. I’m fairly tall, five-foot-seven and proud of it. Trey was a few inches taller, mostly because of his boots. We ended the handshake at the same time, both aware that it lasted a little too long to be businesslike.