A soft chuckle rumbled from his lips. “That’s tragic indeed. But it’s not what I meant. A woman as . . .” He studied my face for several seconds. “As accomplished as you are, has surely broken a few hearts.”
“Not really.”
“No?”
“No,” I repeated. “I was in love with someone in grad school, but his career took him to Chicago and I didn’t want to follow him. My dream has always been to teach in Wyoming and to live here as much as possible. Right now, I’m as free as a bird. I like it that way, though my father is probably turning in his grave.”
“Why?”
“I’m the last of the true Prescott line. He wanted a houseful of grandkids—little cowboys and cowgirls who would love the ranch like he did.”
“And like you do.”
“Yes.” Closing my eyes, I tilted back my head and inhaled the night air, savoring the smell of the grass, even the livestock. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else, especially after being away at school.”
“Where did you go?”
“Smith College for undergrad, and Cornell for my Ph.D. Those were good times, and I’m grateful. Women haven’t always had the freedom to choose a career.”
Trey raised his coffee cup in a toast. “To freedom.”
“Yes.” I lifted mine in return. “To freedom.”
Neither of us sipped. The coffee was either cold or gone, but I didn’t want the night to end. Trey hesitated, but then he set the mug down with a soft thud. “It’s late. I’m afraid I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Far from it.”
We both stood, and if not for that almost final divorce, I might have kissed him good night—just a peck on the cheek, or even a brush on the lips. Something to say I am woman, hear me roar like the new Helen Reddy song. Instead I walked with him to the entry hall, handed him the sport jacket Graciela had hung up when he arrived, and tried not to stare as he shrugged into it, rolling his shoulders for a perfect fit.
Trey’s voice came out in a drawl. “You’re a wonder, Joan. Do you know that?”
I decided to lighten the mood. “You’re a wonder, too. And I think you do know it.”
He laughed but didn’t say anything else. Turning, he trotted down the steps. Twenty steps down the path to the bunkhouse, he turned and raised one arm high in the air, as if he’d just hung on for eight seconds and won the round.
I did the same. Trey Cochran was the start of something good in my life—something big and meaningful. I felt it in my bones. As things turned out, I was right, though the good part turned out to be debatable.
Chapter 7
The phone on Daisy’s desk gave two short rings—the signal that Miss Joan wanted to speak with her. She’d been on the job a week now. Some of her nerves had subsided, but she still snapped to attention as she pressed the speaker button.
“Yes?” she answered, sounding professional.
Miss Joan’s gruffest voice came over the line. “What shoes are you wearing?”
Daisy glanced down at the Jimmy Choos she’d bought for a song at Mary’s Closet. “Heels. But I keep a pair of walking shoes in my car.”
“Good. You’re going to need them.”
“I am?”
“You and I are going for a ride. Change your shoes and meet me on the deck in fifteen minutes.”
“Will do.”
“And bring your camera.”
Miss Joan hung up, leaving no room for questions. That was just like her, but the gruffness no longer made Daisy quake in her shoes. Somehow while working together on the book, and especially during yesterday’s drive to Refuge for Miss Joan’s hair appointment, the two of them had become friends. Miss Joan loved to teach, and Daisy was a sponge when it came to knowledge of any kind. While they culled through historic photographs of the Prescott family, Miss Joan had told stories that ranged from funny to ribald to heartbreaking.
Her candor put Daisy at ease, so Daisy shared her own stories about growing up with her mom and Shane. For part of each year, they had lived like nomads, traveling the craft fair circuit where her mom sold the metal sculptures she fashioned during the winter. Daisy didn’t remember her father; and Shane didn’t even know his father’s name. But their free-spirited mom had loved them well, until her sudden death shattered Daisy’s world.
During yesterday’s drive, Daisy had told Miss Joan everything about her teen years, Eric, the assault, her sobriety, and her Christian faith. As she was leaving that afternoon, Miss Joan stopped her at the front door. With her usual brusqueness, she told Daisy to stand tall and be proud of herself for surviving—and thriving.
“I am,” Daisy replied. “But I wouldn’t be here without my family, good friends, and God.”
Miss Joan nodded in agreement. “Yes . . . God. He and I go back quite a few years, though I didn’t always believe like I do now.”
She waited for more, but Miss Joan told her to have a nice evening and went back inside.
Daisy had no more secrets, but Miss Joan still did—namely the mysterious project she mentioned during the job interview. Daisy knew only that Miss Joan spoke daily to her attorney, Thomas Garrett, and that she had just ended a particularly lengthy call with him. Now she was telling Daisy to change her shoes without revealing why.
Surprises from Miss Joan were usually good, so Daisy was full of happy anticipation when she arrived at her car. She couldn’t help but remember finding the balloons from Rafe. She knew he worked at Heritage House. Would she run into him today? Should she thank him again for the balloons? Hannah and Cody had both played with them for hours, taking aim with Nerf guns until the foam darts were all over the room.
When Chelsea asked again where the balloons came from, Daisy told her about Rafe asking her out. Chelsea’s words rang in Daisy’s ears now. “You turned him down? Are you nuts?”
“No,” Daisy said out loud now. She just wasn’t ready to date again—not even a toe in the water.
Putting thoughts of Rafe aside, she changed her shoes, returned to her office for her camera bag, and walked out the front door. At the bottom of the steps stood a type of vehicle she had never seen before. A cross between an army jeep and a pickup truck, it had two bench seats, wide tires with tooth-like tread, and a plastic top to keep off the sun. Black side panels with gold scrolls gave the vehicle a regal look that didn’t match the ruggedness of the rest of it.
Boots tapped on the deck to her right. She turned and saw Cliff carrying a reusable grocery bag and a large plastic cooler. The front door opened, and Miss Joan breezed past her. Dressed in Wranglers, walking shoes, and a red plaid shirt, she waved at Daisy to follow her.
“Hurry up!” Miss Joan called out with a grin. “We’re burning daylight.”
Following her, Daisy eyed the vehicle with trepidation. She’d never driven off-road in her life and didn’t feel prepared to start now. Miss Joan didn’t drive anymore, which left Cliff to play chauffeur. Confident in his abilities, Daisy breathed a little easier.
He stowed the grocery bag and cooler in the truck bed, stepped back, and made a sweeping motion with his arm. “Miss Joan, your Mule awaits.”
“Some mule.” Daisy shared a smile with Cliff. “What exactly is it?”
“A utility task vehicle made by Kawasaki. ‘Mule’ is the model name. It’s also known as a UTV or side-by-side. We have others, but this one belongs to Joanie.”
Miss Joan rested her hand on the hood. “The name fits. She’s hard-working and can go anywhere. But driving her—that’s different. She’s more like a wild mustang, fast and full of spirit.”
Cliff propped his hands on his hips. “Joanie’s the one full of spirit. Don’t let her go too fast.”
Daisy swiveled her gaze back to Cliff. “I thought you were driving.”
“Me?” He shook his head. “No. I have work to do.”
“Then—oh.” If Cliff wasn’t going and Miss Joan didn’t drive, that left Daisy to take the reins, or, more correctly, the steering wheel. Did Mis
s Joan expect her to drive off-road in the middle of nowhere? What if she crashed the Mule into a tree? Or drove into a ditch? Her stomach dropped to her toes. “Uh—”
“Relax, dear.” Miss Joan graced her with a smile. “You’re not driving. I am.”
Daisy gaped at her. “But you don’t drive anymore. You let your license expire.”
“My ranch. My rules.” She put on a haughty look. “I don’t need a license to drive on my own land. It’s private property.”
Relieved, Daisy played along. “In that case, let’s go. We’re burning daylight,” she quoted back to Miss Joan.
Laughing, the older woman slipped behind the wheel. Daisy set the camera bag at her feet, strapped herself in, and off they went down the asphalt road that connected the ranch’s outbuildings. It was a beautiful spring day, just breezy enough to stir the cottonwoods. Daisy inhaled deeply, savoring the loamy smells that were nothing like city grime, car exhaust, and hot asphalt.
At a fork in the road, Miss Joan veered to the right. “Before we start the tour, I want to check the progress on Heritage House.”
Daisy nodded as if they were talking business, but her mind slipped back to Rafe’s car in the parking lot. Would she see him? More to the point, did she want to see him?
Her stomach pulled into a knot, but her eyes shot ahead to the spot where Heritage House was beginning to take shape. She had seen the architect’s drawing of the two-story building, but the foundation was even bigger than she’d expected. Eight men were pounding nails into lumber to make the first wall. She knew Ben Waters because he occasionally stopped by the house. The other men were strangers to her, but she recognized Rafe even with his back turned.
Miss Joan stopped on the crest of a hill. “Let’s get a few pictures.”
“For the book?”
“Maybe. I’ll decide when I see the photographs.”
Daisy picked up her camera, stepped away from the Mule, and took a wide shot of the foundation. Next she photographed the men working, including one of Rafe just as he turned his head to the side. She caught him in profile—not smiling, maybe listening to someone, but he seemed alone compared to the others. It struck her as a peculiar moment, as if he were a little bit lost.
She didn’t want to think about Rafe feeling lost, so she focused back on Ben looking stern, then on a Willie Nelson lookalike with wrinkles as deep as the tread on the off-road tires. The other men worked in teams, leaving Rafe to stand alone. She took several shots of him driving a nail with an old-fashioned hammer instead of a nail gun.
After three powerful swings, he reached down into a bucket at his feet. Something must have caught his eye, because when he stood, he stared straight at her. Every detail of his face filled the viewfinder—his straight nose, clean-shaven jaw, the knowing glint in his eyes as he matched her gaze.
Her breath hitched at the sight of his widening smile, and she knew he’d caught her looking—and wondering about him. He was too close for comfort, so she snapped a final picture and lowered the camera.
“I’m finished,” she said to Miss Joan.
“Did you get some good shots?”
“I think so.” She peeked at the last one of Rafe, saw photographic gold, and tried not to smile.
Miss Joan drove down the middle of the road until they reached the sawhorses and yellow tape marking off the worksite. As she and Daisy climbed out of the Mule, Ben approached with long strides. “Miss Joan, good afternoon.”
“Benjamin,” she said, extending her hand. “You’ve met Daisy, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave Daisy a gracious nod, and they traded smiles. She’d spoken to Ben when he dropped off flooring samples at the house.
Miss Joan asked Ben a few questions, then indicated the cooler in the back of the Mule. “We brought lunch for your crew. I’d like to meet them, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Ben let out an ear-piercing whistle. The men stopped working immediately and headed over.
In Daisy’s experience as a server, construction crews were often a rowdy, ragtag bunch. She felt a little intimidated, but these men wore their Donovan t-shirts tucked in and their hair neat. Even Willie Nelson’s little brother looked squared-away. So did Rafe, though unlike the others, he had no visible scars or tattoos. The professional look seemed natural to him.
As Ben made introductions, Miss Joan shook each man’s hand, called him by name, and thanked him for his hard work. When she finished shaking hands, she spoke to the group. “I brought lunch today to say thank you. Ben? Would it be okay if we all took a lunch break?”
“More than fine.” Ben raised his voice to the crew. “It’s lunchtime, men. Take thirty and dig in.”
Miss Joan led the way back to the Mule, where she opened the lunch bag and the cooler. Daisy didn’t know whether to speak to Rafe or not. She didn’t want to call attention to herself, or to him, so she stuck close to Miss Joan and helped unpack the thick sandwiches, big bags of chips, chocolate chip cookies, and an assortment of fresh fruit. Bottled water, apple juice, and soda finished off the selection.
When the food was set up, Miss Joan pulled Ben aside for a chat, leaving Daisy to fend for herself. The men helped themselves to the food, then walked over to a picnic table set up under a tree to make a break area. No one said a word to Rafe, and since he went last, there was no room left at the table.
Daisy felt bad for him. She hated eating alone. When their eyes met, she wondered if he felt the same way.
“Hi,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Good.” He snagged a pastrami on rye, a bag of chips, and a bottle of water. “It looks like the new job’s going well for you.”
“Oh, it is!” She couldn’t help but smile. “I love everything about it.”
Miss Joan broke in from ten feet away. “Daisy? I’m going to be a while with Ben. Help yourself to some food, all right? We have a long afternoon ahead of us.”
Before Daisy could protest, Miss Joan turned her back and continued the conversation with Ben. There was no getting out of lunch, specifically lunch with Rafe Donovan, and Miss Joan seemed to have engineered it. Mentally, Daisy rolled her eyes over the not-so-subtle matchmaking, but she was glad to keep Rafe company.
He waited for her while she selected a turkey sandwich and a shiny red apple, then aimed his chin at the Donovan Construction pickup parked in the shade of a tree. “How do you feel about tailgating?”
“Just fine.”
They walked over to the truck, where Rafe set his food in the bed and lowered the gate. Daisy set down her camera and the food and hopped up. Rafe joined her, and they sat with their legs dangling and sandwiches in hand.
The conversation flowed easily—first about the food and the beautiful weather, then all the things Daisy liked about the job. Before she knew it, she was showing Rafe her phone and a cute picture of Hannah playing with the balloons. He slid a little closer for a better look, and she did the same.
When she set the phone down, he studied her as if considering something important. Was he about to ask her out again? Daisy hoped not. Or maybe she hoped he would. Uncertainty plagued her when it came to Rafe. She had vowed to be fully independent before investing herself in a romantic relationship, but she liked him. Chelsea’s urging to take a chance echoed in her ears. So did Lyn’s advice to be brave—brave and wise, Daisy reminded herself.
Rafe finally spoke. “You know Jesse, right?”
He already knew the answer, so that wasn’t the real question. How did she know Jesse was what he wanted to know, and that meant bringing up Alcoholics Anonymous. Daisy wasn’t shy about sharing her sobriety. That information wasn’t a secret, just private. “I know Jesse pretty well. We’ve been friends for a few months now—since my first AA meeting in Refuge.”
Admiration gleamed in his eyes. “I’m glad for you. Was it drugs, booze, or both?”
“Drinking. No drugs. I’ve been sober for eight months now.” But there was more—sleeping around; feeling
worthless and being abused; saying yes to Eric when she wanted to say no and never. That part of her story was far too personal to share, even if they were becoming friends, so she told herself to shut up—at least about that.
Instead she focused on the bigger picture—and the faith that now defined her. “I thank God every day for getting me out of that mess.”
“So does Jesse.”
“One day at a time, right?”
“He says that a lot.”
“So do I.” She didn’t tell her story lightly, or buttonhole people in an obnoxious way, but the story defined her now. If Rafe wanted to be her friend, he needed to know where she stood. “AA saved my life. You know the Twelve-Step saying, ‘God as I understand him’?”
He nodded. “I’ve heard it a lot.”
“Being open to the possibility of a loving God helped me get sober. Later I became a Christian. My faith is important to me.”
“Stay strong.” Rafe held up a hand to give her a high-five. “I haven’t fought those demons personally, but I had a front-row seat to addiction back home. My high school girlfriend got hooked on pain pills after back surgery. She went all the way down to buying heroin on the street. A lot of us tried to help her, but she OD’d.”
Daisy almost reached for his hand but stopped herself. Instead she pressed one hand to her chest, a pledge of sorts to help people recover whenever she could. “I am so sorry.”
“Me too. Kara was special. Smart. Upbeat.” His mouth hooked into a tender smile. “And a great kisser, not that you want to hear about that.”
Daisy smiled, too. “I get the picture. What happened?”
“She was in a horrible car accident. Her sister and her sister’s kid were okay, but Kara had taken off her seat belt to reach into the back seat for the kid’s pacifier. A delivery van ran a stop sign, and Kara ended up with a fractured neck vertebra. Surgery didn’t help. She was in pain all the time. Back when this happened, people thought meds like oxy were safe. No one realized how addictive they are, but now we know.”
A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2) Page 7