“That’s rough.”
He offered Daisy the bag of chips. She took a handful and so did he. “Kara is why I became a cop.”
“A cop?” No wonder he looked comfortable with his shirt tucked in. “I should have guessed. That haircut—” It looks good on you. She settled for giving him a little smirk. “Today you look like a cop.”
Rafe ran a hand over his jaw. “Mr. Clean-Cut shows up every now and then.”
“So what brought you to Refuge?”
He ate the last chip in his hand, chewed a long time, then answered without looking at her. “I needed a break. I guess you could call it burnout. I hadn’t seen Jesse in a while, so I took personal leave. I’m here for three months, then I’ll go back.”
She thought of his license plates. “To Ohio?”
“Cincinnati. We’re in the thick of the opioid crisis.”
“Good for you. We need people to fight that war. Addiction is so . . .” She searched for a word. “Insidious.” Thank you, vocab app. It made her sound smart, even if she wasn’t.
“Yeah. It sucks.”
Daisy laughed. “Sucks? Really? So much for impressing you with my big word of the day!”
Rafe shrugged. “You don’t need to use big words to impress me, Daisy. You already did.”
“Really?” She found it hard to believe she could impress anyone, especially a squared-away guy like Rafe.
“Yes, really.” He smiled at her. “You were smart about that flat tire. One false move, and you would have hosed me down with that pepper spray.”
“You bet.” The words came out with the vengeance born of her vulnerability. Eric had nearly killed her. The blood . . . the pain. And worst of all, the helplessness of being overpowered against her will. Emotions shuddered through her, all of them dark and throbbing.
Rafe laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, are you all right?”
She tried to nod, but her neck muscles tensed against the lie. Rafe kept his hand in place—strong, steady, and nothing but protective. The touch calmed her, and she managed to take a breath. “I’m fine. A memory came back—a bad one. It’s not something I talk about.”
He squeezed her shoulder, then lifted his hand. Daisy breathed a sigh of relief. It felt good to be comforted, but the weight of his arm could have pinned her in place, trapping her, though only in her mind. With space between them, she felt safer, even respected. For a woman who fought to respect herself, that feeling counted for a lot.
She thanked him with a smile. “I bet you’re a good cop.”
“I try.”
“You are. I can tell.”
“How?” The question reeked of doubt, as if he really needed to know.
Daisy thought a moment. “For one thing, you care. It wasn’t convenient to change my tire, but you did it anyway. And you respected my need for space. You’re perceptive. Nothing gets by you, does it?”
Instead of answering, he took a long swig of water. Daisy was about to nudge him with her elbow when Ben whistled to announce that lunch was over. Rafe hopped down from the tailgate and offered Daisy his hand. She gripped his fingers, hopped down, then let go. He gathered their trash, and she put the camera strap around her neck.
They walked toward a trash can, each silent, until Rafe spoke. “Thanks for having lunch with me. I hate eating alone.”
“So do I.” Her gaze drifted to the picnic table with the rest of the crew. “They ditched you, didn’t they?”
He gave her a roguish grin. “Definitely, and I owe them for it. I’d much rather have lunch with you than a bunch of sweaty guys.”
“Ewww.” She wrinkled her nose. “Thanks for the compliment—I think.”
Several feet ahead of them, Miss Joan climbed into the Mule and beeped the horn, a signal for Daisy to hurry up.
“I better go,” she said to Rafe.
He waved her off. “Thanks again for having lunch with me.”
She hesitated. “I enjoyed it.”
Before he could speak again, she hurried to the Mule and climbed in. Miss Joan didn’t say a word about Rafe, but a smile flirted with the corners of her mouth as she punched the gas and they continued the tour of the ranch.
Chapter 8
For the next half hour, Daisy and Miss Joan toured the part of the ranch dedicated to the horse rescue program. They walked around the barn where the last three horses were stabled, and Daisy fed them carrots at the paddock fence. Juggernaut was a big gray known to bite; Comet an elderly Palomino mare with a sweet disposition; and Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, or Zippy for short, a pinto pony with a passion for peppermints.
While feeding the horses, Miss Joan gave Daisy some history. The program started in 1972 and originally included only rodeo horses. Later Miss Joan opened the stable doors to retired thoroughbreds, some of the most neglected horses around. In its heyday, the ranch cared for up to fifty horses at a time, including used-up champions like Jug. A few years ago, Miss Joan had made the hard decision to phase out the program. Other than Jug, Comet, and Zippy, the remaining horses had died of old age or been adopted out.
Next Miss Joan drove Daisy to the 1950s-era bungalow that had housed the cast and crew of Thunder Valley. No one stayed there anymore, but the log building gleamed with a fresh coat of linseed oil and the shrubbery was neatly trimmed.
Miss Joan unlocked the door to the corner suite and motioned for Daisy to enter. What she encountered was a 1970s time capsule with a floral couch, burnt orange armchairs, and a wagon wheel lamp hanging from the knotty pine ceiling. An acrylic painting of wild mustangs hung on the wall next to a brick fireplace.
Miss Joan lingered in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest as she peered into the musty room. “This place already feels like a museum, doesn’t it?”
“A little. Yes.” Daisy imagined the old television stars who had relaxed on the couch and used the avocado green princess-style phone on the end table, disconnected and reduced to being an artifact.
A sigh whispered from Miss Joan’s lips. “Let’s move on.”
She closed the door behind Daisy, locked it, and they sped away in the Mule without further explanation. Considering the brevity of the visit, Daisy wondered why Miss Joan had bothered to stop.
They rode in silence until the road reached the crest of a gentle hill. In the distance, Daisy glimpsed a stone foundation weathered by time, then a small gray boulder with a bronze plaque displaying the words Prescott Family Cabin, built 1873. The vintage photographs she’d seen last week shimmered to life in her mind, along with a series of pen-and-ink drawings done with a delicate hand.
Sweeping her gaze over the tall grass, she imagined grazing cattle, a vegetable garden, and children romping in the sun. “So this is where it all started.”
“It is.” Miss Joan tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “What do you think? Should I ask Jesse to build a replica of the original cabin? It could be a living history exhibit.”
Daisy took in the old foundation, the silence, and the row of grave markers a hundred feet away. She tried to imagine museum-style actors in buckskins and bonnets but couldn’t. “There’s a purity to this spot just the way it is. I’d leave it alone.”
“We really are kindred spirits, dear. I feel the same way.” A bittersweet note, like the minor tones of birdsong, colored Miss Joan’s voice. “Would you mind if I visited my parents’ graves?”
“No. Of course not.”
Miss Joan drove up the hill to a cluster of stone markers encircled by a low rock wall. She parked and climbed out of the Mule. So did Daisy, but she kept a respectful distance until Miss Joan summoned her with a wave.
When Daisy reached her side, Miss Joan indicated the oldest stone and told her about the life of Major William Jameson Prescott. The fourth son of an English duke and an adventurer, he had come to America and started his own cattle empire.
As they walked from grave to grave, tales of triumph and tragedy rolled off Miss Joan’s tongue. Her ancestors came to life in Daisy’s
mind, but so did the knowledge that life was short. Compared to the mountains, sky, and stars, men and women walked the earth for little more than a blink. Yet the Bible said the hairs on a person’s head were numbered. Every human being had a name—and a purpose. She had a purpose. For whatever reason, God had brought her to Cottonwood Acres for this very moment.
Miss Joan dragged her wrinkled hand over the top of her mother’s gravestone, brushing away a thin coat of dust. Straightening, she bowed her head and stood in silence. So did Daisy, until Miss Joan stepped back, indicating it was time to go.
Instead of heading back to the house like Daisy expected, Miss Joan sped west toward the river. “There’s one more place I want to show you.”
“More history?”
“You’ll see soon enough. Tighten the harness, dear. We’re taking a shortcut.”
Daisy adjusted the shoulder straps just in time to feel the Mule leap from the smooth asphalt to a rutted dirt trail. Scrub oak and small pines cast lacy shadows on the path, while sagebrush scented the air as the Mule kicked up clouds of dust.
Miss Joan seemed distant, as if she were lost in the past. Daisy followed her own thoughts back to lunch with Rafe, that high-five for her sobriety, and how deeply he had loved Kara . . . who happened to be a great kisser. Not that Daisy was thinking about kissing Rafe. Well, she was. But not seriously. They’d become friends today. That’s all. And friends didn’t kiss. Except her evil twin whispered in her ear. Why not take a chance? Why not—
“Stop it!” she muttered.
Miss Joan tilted her head in Daisy’s direction. “Did you say something, dear?”
“No.” She changed the subject fast. “This has been an amazing day. How much farther to the next stop?”
“About a mile. We’re going to the river.”
The Mule bucked and bounced along the rutted road, but the harness held Daisy in place. After a while, she learned to anticipate the bumps and to sway with the vehicle. She was relaxed and enjoying the scenery when the Mule crested a hill and picked up speed.
Miss Joan laughed like a crazy person. “Yeehaw! I love this part!”
The Mule splashed into a stream running fast with winter melt-off. Icy water fanned out from the tires and splashed the hood and windshield. The vehicle tilted forward and Daisy shrieked, but the tires found traction and the Mule shot out on the opposite bank. Or maybe it crawled to the other side, and it just felt like they were going a hundred miles an hour. Miss Joan had probably splashed into the stream a thousand times, but Daisy’s heart remained wedged in her throat.
She tried to laugh it off, but her voice came out in a squeak. “I don’t know if that was fun or terrifying.”
“Or both!” Miss Joan grinned from ear to ear. “I used to come down here with a friend. We’d ride through the forest, then gallop our horses through the meadow to the river’s edge. The loser had to clean the fish we caught for dinner.”
“I bet you won every time.”
“Only because he let me.” A faint smile lifted her lips, and she craned her neck to see something in the distance. “There’s the spot.”
Daisy reached down for her camera, but Miss Joan shook her head. “Not yet. You can come back another time and take pictures. Today I have something to tell you.”
They drove in silence until Miss Joan stopped the Mule on a sandy apron at the river’s edge. The water was wide here, slow enough to reflect the blue sky but strong enough to ripple against the boulders scattered on the banks. A giant oak arched over the water so that its branches made a room of sorts, but what most caught Daisy’s eye was a concrete pad with a freshly painted wooden bench.
Miss Joan cut the engine but didn’t move. Instead she sat quietly, maybe listening to the gurgle of the river, or maybe to the voices of ghosts from the past. After a moment, she opened the door. “Let’s go.”
Daisy hopped out and circled the UTV while the older woman stretched a kink out of her back. When Miss Joan settled herself stiffly on the bench, Daisy sat next to her.
Only the soothing ripple of the river broke the silence until Miss Joan cleared her throat. “You must be curious about the secret project I mentioned.”
“I am,” Daisy admitted. “But I figured you’d tell me when the time was right.”
“This is the time.” Miss Joan took a short breath. “My attorney finished his part of the project, and I’m ready to move forward with a unique plan to protect the legacy and secure the future of Cottonwood Acres. You know I never married or had a child, so I have no direct heirs.”
She paused, stared downstream, then murmured, “There’s no one, Daisy. No one at all.”
A lonely ache throbbed in Daisy’s middle. A year ago, she had felt as alone as Miss Joan, but now she had Shane, MJ, and Cody. A family. Love for them welled in her chest. So did a deep caring for this woman who had blessed her so richly in such a short time. “That has to be hard. But you have a good life, right?”
“Oh, yes. Very.” The words came out strong. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Cottonwood Acres needs someone who will love it and, most importantly, use it to do good in the world. That’s why I’m giving it away.”
“You’re . . . what?”
“Giving it away.” Miss Joan smiled now. “I know it sounds eccentric, maybe even unhinged. But I have a good plan and Tom Garrett is overseeing everything.”
Daisy recognized the name of Miss Joan’s attorney, though she still couldn’t believe her ears. “What exactly is the plan?”
“To pick a charity that will respect the history, purpose, and integrity of Cottonwood Acres, and use its assets to make the world a better place. Tom’s office sent letters to a hundred charities of my choosing. The letter gave basic information without revealing the exact location and asked for a one-page letter of intent. The preliminary screening is done, and this morning Tom sent me the letters and his research notes. I’m going to study the letters, pick the final five, and invite them to submit a detailed proposal and visit the ranch.”
Daisy was still reeling from the news, but she held back her shock. Miss Joan needed her to be smart and logical, so she kept her voice even. “So the best charity wins?”
“Yes, but this isn’t a silly reality show. I want to keep the giveaway as quiet as possible. Once word gets out, I’m liable to be inundated with unwanted attention.”
How many people in this world would give away a fortune and keep the gift a secret? Daisy felt both humbled and awed—and privileged to be part of the process. “Do you know how amazing you are?”
Miss Joan huffed air through her nose. “I’m not the least bit amazing. Old, cranky, and rich? Yes. But this gift is small compared to what the Carnegies and Rockefellers gave in the nineteenth century, and to what Bill Gates and others have given in modern times. Compared to Mother Teresa’s life of service, it’s a pittance.”
“Even so—”
“A pittance,” Miss Joan repeated firmly. “I don’t need to tell you about the greatest Giver of all. You already know what Christ did for us on the cross. Believe me, dear. I don’t deserve any of the gifts I’ve been given—not a single one.”
The breeze stirred across the river, riffling through Daisy’s short hair. Before Eric’s assault, she’d worn it long and loose. But doctors had shaved her head for surgery in an attempt to save her life. The memory of nearly dying, and seeing Jesus in her mind, shot tears of gratitude to her eyes. “I feel the same way.”
Miss Joan sat straighter on the bench. “Don’t be impressed by what I’m doing. I’m giving from a place of wealth. The real heroes give in spite of their need.”
“Like the Bible story about the widow’s mite.” Daisy felt like that widow when she sent money to Lyn to help Maggie’s House. “But what about you? Where will you live?”
“I’m looking at a 55-and-over community in Scottsdale. An old friend from my college days lives there and loves it. We’re planning some travel too. An Alaskan cruise, to be precise.
I’ll be fine.”
“Even so, it’s a big move. You’ll have a friend, but you won’t know anyone—”
Miss Joan cut her off. “I can afford whatever help I need. What I can’t do is live forever.”
“Don’t say that—”
“It’s true.” Miss Joan put on her bossiest scowl. “So get a grip. There’s a lot of work to do, and I’m counting on you to help.”
Chapter 9
Rafe’s FaceTime sessions with Dr. Susan brought some relief, and he dared to believe the weird panicky feeling wouldn’t return. But then he dreamed about Kara again. Like before, Jesse woke him up and again Rafe went for a drive. After an hour or so, he returned home, collapsed, and slept hard.
Bright sunshine startled him awake. Bolting upright, he grabbed his phone and saw that he’d dismissed the alarm without waking up. He’d missed breakfast with the crew by well over an hour, so he’d have to drive himself to the jobsite instead of riding with the crew as usual. He’d be lucky to make it anywhere close to on time.
Skipping a shower and a shave, he jumped into yesterday’s clothes and sped to Heritage House. As he expected, the crew was already pounding nails when he parked next to the work truck. He leaped out of the Camaro, spotted Ben, and approached with an apology ready on his lips. “Man, I’m sorry—”
“You’re late,” Ben shouted loud enough for the whole crew to hear. “What did you do? Sleep in like a teenager?”
“I messed up.” Rafe strapped on his tool belt and cinched it tight. “It won’t happen again.”
When Ben grunted, the men turned away. Rafe thought he’d dodged a bullet, but Ben motioned him toward the picnic table.
Here comes the lecture. Being Jesse’s little brother didn’t entitle Rafe to special treatment; if anything, the Donovan name required him to meet higher standards. A sheen of sweat broke out on his neck. He’d failed today. Failed his brother. Failed Kara. Failed himself.
When they reached the table, Ben lifted one boot to the bench, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave Rafe the stink eye. But when he spoke, the words came out with kindness. “You look beat. What really happened?”
A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2) Page 8