A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2)

by Victoria Bylin

  No way could he leave without answers. “I thought we were friends—and a lot more. Why are you pushing me away?”

  She swung her head to the side, avoiding his gaze. It made no sense to him—and it hurt.

  The wind gusted sideways, stinging them both with needles of rain. He moved closer to the bunkhouse wall for shelter, but the wind still sucked at his wet shirt.

  “We’re getting soaked,” he muttered. “Let’s go inside.”

  “It’s locked.”

  “Not a problem.” Using a laminated card he kept in his wallet, he loided the lock on the first try. When the mechanism popped, he helped Daisy to her feet.

  Together they walked into a living room straight out of the 1970s. Orange and gold shag carpet covered the floor; a sofa with floral upholstery boasted the same bold colors; and a green princess-style phone sat on a spindly maple table. A brick fireplace formed a middle wall, and an open door led to a hallway. A tiny kitchen occupied the far corner.

  Daisy strode inside, whirled, and faced him, her jaw jutting in defiance. Before she could tell him again to get lost, he took control. “I’m not leaving. You’re hurting. I want to know why.”

  Her lips quivered, but she fought the press of fresh tears by crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s just not fair!”

  He’d take her defiance over despair anytime. “What isn’t fair?”

  “Everything!” She flung her arms out to the sides. “I had plans! I did everything right and now—” She sealed her lips again, holding in whatever secret had been about to spill. “I’m safe here. I belong here—in Refuge. It’s my home.”

  Rafe cared about her. Loved her. He wanted to help her, but her jack-knifing emotions left him impossibly confused. The Maggie’s House decision had been a big disappointment, a huge one, but losing out on that position didn’t explain her rejection of him.

  He closed the door behind them, cutting off the storm and most of the light. “Let’s start at the beginning. What exactly happened today?”

  Daisy grabbed two fistfuls of hair and pulled them up and hard to the side. A ragged sigh hissed from her lips, then her shoulders slumped and her head fell forward.

  He couldn’t stand her anguish—couldn’t bear feeling helpless in the presence of it. Two steps brought him within a breath of her, his arms ready and eager to pull her close. If she pushed him away, fine. He’d respect her choice and step back. But his gut told him she needed to be held—and held tight.

  The instant he hugged her, she softened against him—boneless, spineless. Her fingers knotted in his shirt and she clung to him with all her might. He rubbed her back to calm her, grazed her temple with his lips, and held her close despite the dampness of his shirt.

  “I’ve got you, Daize,” he murmured.

  Her fingers knotted against his back. Her breath came in rasps that tickled his neck. A bolt of desire shot through him, but he held back. Daisy didn’t need to be kissed senseless; she needed to be cared for, protected, and carried to safety—all the things he did best.

  A whimper spilled from her lips. He expected her to sob against his shoulder. Instead she pressed her mouth against his and dragged him down to the couch. Her hands moved to his chest, then to his torso and under his shirt. Skin to skin. Hers chilled, his burning hot. His brain fogged but instantly cleared.

  He didn’t know who was kissing him, but it wasn’t the woman Daisy wanted to be.

  Some people drank to escape. Some did drugs. Some took comfort in sexual pleasure. He knew enough about Daisy’s past to realize what she was doing—what he’d done himself a time or two. When she hurt, she wanted to feel loved. And nothing made a person feel loved more than the intimacy of sex. No matter how much he desired her, no way would he take advantage of a weak moment. Loving Daisy meant slamming on the brakes.

  After a final soft kiss, he shifted to the middle of the couch and grasped her hand, both to stop her from touching him and to show that he cared.

  As gently as he could, he told her the truth. “It won’t work, Daize.”

  “What?”

  “Hiding from what hurts.”

  Chapter 24

  Daisy gaped at Rafe, her cheeks flushed as the passion drained from her body, leaving her even more lost than when she’d pulled Rafe down to the couch.

  Oh, Lord! What have I done?

  The last hour was a blur of anger and tears. She hadn’t come to the bunkhouse looking for alcohol, but if she’d found a forgotten bottle of gin, she would have thrown away nine months of sobriety. Instead she’d thrown herself at Rafe like the skank she used to be. Shame clawed at her, shredding whatever good feelings about herself she had mustered since finding Jesus. Nausea churned in her belly, shaming her even more. She couldn’t even breathe a prayer.

  But somehow a guttural cry rose up in her soul and warred with the hateful voices in her head. The fog of lust and desperation cleared from her mind, and she saw the face of her accuser—Satan in the guise of her evil twin. A shocked gasp tore from her throat. Instinctively, she tried to pull herself into a ball, but Rafe tightened his grip on her hand, keeping her in the here and now.

  “I’m not letting go,” he said. “Stay with me, Daisy.”

  She could only shake her head. “I can’t believe what I just did.”

  “Forget it.”

  “You must think—”

  “I think you’re amazing.” He gave her hand another squeeze, then let go. “But I’m also worried about you. What just happened—”

  “Was a stupid reaction.” She relaxed her knees, swung them off the couch, and sat straight. “I was blindsided by Lyn’s decision and—and by something else. I don’t really know what exactly happened, except that I fell apart and did what I used to do. Thank you for putting on the brakes.”

  His mouth quirked into an unhurried grin. “Yeah, I slammed them pretty hard.”

  They locked eyes, the sparks still flying but no longer a danger.

  Outside, the storm had slowed to a drizzle. They could leave anytime, but Daisy owed Rafe an explanation. If they had any kind of future, she needed to be open and honest—no secrets. And no secrets meant telling him about Lyn’s offer.

  He shifted back on the couch, seemingly relaxed. “I know Lyn withdrew the proposal, but you said something else happened. That’s the part I don’t understand.”

  Daisy tried to soften the news with a nonchalant shrug. “Lyn said no to Cottonwood Acres, but she still offered me a job—just not here in Refuge.”

  “Oh, man.” His brows shot up into arches. “Where? Back in Los Angeles?”

  “Just for training.” She wanted to hug her knees again but forced herself to sound businesslike. “Maggie’s House is opening five new residences in different parts of the country. The locations are TBD, but they’re looking at”—she couldn’t bring herself to say Cincinnati—“what Lyn called the I-75 corridor.”

  “That’s . . .” His face lit up like Christmas. “Are you serious? I-75 goes straight through Cincy.”

  “Cincinnati is on the list.” She tried not to wince. “In fact, it’s high on the list.”

  His eyes lasered to hers. Her insides melted with that look, and she saw the good man who had rescued her from a flat tire, and now from her evil twin. How could she not want to be with him? But at what cost?

  The tender sincerity unique to Rafe burned bright in his eyes. “I know this is too soon. But Daisy—you have to know how I feel about you.”

  All she could do was chew her lip. If she told him she loved him, she’d feel pressured by the circumstances, and feeling pressured made her crazy. On the other hand, where was her faith? She needed to be open to wherever God led—even to a city with a name she couldn’t spell.

  “Have you ever been to Ohio?” His voice rang with hometown pride.

  She held in a cringe. “I think so. My mom traveled a lot when Shane and I were kids.” She didn’t remember specific details, only that she didn’t like being in new places,
even with Shane to hold her hand.

  Rafe’s voice perked up even more. “Cincinnati’s not a bad place to live. Before you make a decision, how about coming for a visit? I’ll be your personal tour guide. We’ll do the Riverwalk, eat food that’s not vegan—”

  She finally managed a smile, but her heart ached even more.

  Rafe’s grin turned mischievous. “If you come in September, we’ll go to a Reds game. You can send Shane a selfie of you in a Reds cap.”

  She laughed again, but her chest ached even more. September . . . “You’re definitely going back, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t speak for several seconds. “That’s always been the plan. But this—us—it’s pretty amazing. I’ve thought about staying, but I have to be honest. It’s not my first choice.”

  “Cincinnati is your home. You belong there.”

  “I do.”

  “You love it,” she murmured. “You love the way it feels, your work, knowing the streets, everything—”

  “Yes, but I love you, too.”

  It was the first time he’d said the words to her. They seared her soul, but the moment turned bittersweet. She loved Rafe with her whole heart—except the part that needed to stay in Refuge. As much as she wanted to say the words back, she couldn’t—not unless she could commit to him fully.

  Swallowing hard, she broke the silence. “I don’t know what to say. You deserve more from me—especially after today. But it’s all too much right now. I live a day at a time, because it’s all I can handle.”

  “That works for me.”

  “Does it?”

  “Very much.” He shifted his weight again, moving a few inches back to put space between them. “Jesse and I had a little chat the other night. I can’t say the earth moved, or that I felt much of anything, but when Jesse prayed for me, I decided to start over—as if I’d never believed in God before.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” He stretched his leg to touch her foot with his. “How could I not want to understand the God that made you the beautiful woman you are—and that’s inside and out.”

  His words lifted her out of the mire of doubt. Why not visit Ohio? Rafe would be there, so she wouldn’t be alone. But she knew better than to lean too much on him, or any other human being—which meant she couldn’t lean too heavily on Shane and MJ, either.

  Oh, Lord. Help me!

  Rafe reached again for her hand. “A day at a time, Daize. You set the pace, and I’ll follow.”

  She tried to nod, but her neck locked with uncertainty. When it came to building a healthy relationship, she didn’t know what to do. She’d been so focused on herself—staying safe, staying sober—that she hardly knew what loving a man meant. She only knew how Jesus loved her, and he’d sacrificed himself on the cross. But Daisy had sacrificed too much of herself for Eric and ended up in the ICU.

  But . . . But . . . She was driving herself crazy!

  Yet another big question popped into her mind. Could she live with Rafe’s career? Police officers faced danger every day. What if she married him and they had three beautiful children and he died in the line of duty? What if—

  Stop it! Mentally she slapped her evil twin upside the head. Enough of that nonsense!

  Glancing around the dimly lit room, Daisy settled back into reality. “The rain’s gone. We should go back to the house.”

  They both stood and headed to the door, but Daisy paused to glance around the room one more time. It held memories for Miss Joan, and now it held memories for Daisy, too. Rafe loved her. The words soaked into her all over again, but so did the stark fear of leaving the life she loved. Lifting her chin, she walked with him to the truck. Silent but at peace, they drove to the house, where Lyn and Miss Joan were no doubt worried and waiting.

  Chapter 25

  The glory of the young is their strength; the gray hair of experience is the splendor of the old.

  Proverbs 20:29 (NLT)

  Joan knew all about mentoring students, but mothering was a new experience for her. When Daisy walked into the house with Rafe at her side, Joan hurried to wrap her in a hug. Lyn followed suit, and the three of them spoke all at once in a mix of apologies, if-onlys, and declarations of love and loyalty. Rafe hung back, but Sadie wiggled her way into the group, poked Daisy with her nose, and woofed a greeting.

  Everyone laughed, and the tension broke enough for Joan’s practical side to take over. “Stay for dinner. All of you.”

  Daisy shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m exhausted.”

  “And wet and bedraggled, I might add.” Joan skimmed Daisy from head to foot. “Stay here tonight, dear. We’ll find dry clothes for you, then break out the toaster and have a nice long talk.”

  “It’s tempting, but Rafe missed his ride back to Refuge with the crew. We’re taking my car home.”

  “Yes, of course,” Joan replied.

  Next Daisy turned to Lyn. “We were supposed to have dinner tonight, but I’m not up for it. Could we do breakfast tomorrow before your flight?”

  Lyn nodded. “I was going to suggest it myself.”

  While Daisy and Lyn discussed when and where to meet, Joan watched with a lump in her throat. Disappointment about company for dinner aside, the day was ending well—except for the lonely ache in her own chest.

  Rafe came around to her side. “The truck’s out front. I left the key on the display case by the door.”

  “Thank you, Rafe.”

  Daisy fetched her purse from her office, handed Rafe her car key, and they left. Lyn gathered her things from the living room and returned to the entry. She hugged Joan good-bye, and they promised to keep in touch.

  Joan closed the front door with a soft click. The silence depressed her, so she headed to the kitchen to visit with Ana. As she approached, she overheard Ana on the phone with Cliff, telling him she loved him and would be home soon.

  So much for a nice chat with her housekeeper. Holding back a sigh, Joan strode into the kitchen with a businesslike air. “It’s been a long day,” she said to her housekeeper. “Why don’t you go home early? I’ll make a sandwich for myself.”

  “Are you sure?” Ana couldn’t have sounded more hopeful.

  “I’m positive.”

  Ana took off her white baker’s apron but hesitated. “Before I leave, may I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “With the charity visits, Cliff and I—and the ranch hands—we’re all wondering what will happen to our jobs. We’re worried.”

  “Of course you are.” Joan paused before opening the refrigerator. “If the new owner doesn’t keep you on, I’ll help you and Cliff find other positions. Same for the ranch hands. I’m planning a severance package based on seniority. That should help quite a bit.”

  “You’ve always been generous.”

  “I’m only sharing what I’ve been given.” That responsibility weighed heavily on Joan’s shoulders. She had thought briefly about leaving the ranch to Daisy but quickly dismissed the idea. Great wealth was both a blessing and a burden. Joan was equipped for the burden; Daisy was not.

  When Ana left, Joan ate the sandwich more out of necessity than hunger, took ibuprofen for her aching knees, and decided to wait before she tackled the stairs to her bedroom.

  After eyeballing the shelf of old DVDs, she gave in to a fresh wave of loneliness, loaded the disc with the final season of Thunder Valley, and settled on the couch. With Sadie at her feet, Joan clicked to the two-part finale that starred Trey.

  Episode One opened with a close-up of outlaw Josiah Bent, Trey’s character, mounted on a chestnut stallion, his hat low, his duster loose over a pair of pearl-handled Colt revolvers. A week earlier, he had shot a man’s son in cold blood. Now the father, Enoch Grant, wanted revenge and rightfully so. Josiah needed a place to hide, and Becky Monroe’s ranch was perfect—as long as he lied to her.

  Trey played the part to perfection, reciting dialogue with his natural Texas twang. “I’m a drifter, ma�
��am . . . headin’ west to start over. Looks like you could use some help around here, and I need to earn some travel money.”

  Joan called him out from the couch. “Liar.” Josiah had gold in his saddlebag—a lot of it.

  The story unfolded with Becky’s children, particularly her fourteen-year-old son, being enthralled with Josiah. Then Becky became enthralled. Despite her grit, she fell for him.

  And he fell for her—enough to cry out to God for help. Could Josiah really start over? Could he somehow make amends to the man whose life he had destroyed? Alone on a mountaintop, with the sky blazing as orange as hellfire, Josiah—Trey—hit his knees and begged God to make him a man worthy of Becky’s love.

  Trey could act. Even now, Joan choked up as he begged God to make him worthy. She choked up again when he vowed to hang up his guns and live honestly from that day on. A changed man, he told Becky everything. He expected her to slap him and call him names.

  Instead she wept for him, then held out her hand. “I love you, Josiah. I do.”

  “I’m not worth the risk,” he told her. “My past sniffs me out like a rabid dog. One of these days, it’ll kill me. I don’t want it to kill you too, so I’m leaving.”

  Becky grabbed his hand. “No—”

  “Yes.” He managed a faint smile. “Let me go, darlin’. Think of your children. This may be the only truly heroic thing I ever do.”

  He kissed her good-bye—the kind of TV kiss that made women swoon—then he climbed onto his horse and rode off, only to be gut-shot a mile away. Somehow he made it back to Becky’s house. Near death, he collapsed in the yard.

  To Be Continued materialized on the screen in cursive lettering, and violins soared to a tragic crescendo. Joan heard every note, read every word as the credits rolled, then she closed her eyes and remembered.

  What does a woman do when the best night of her life results from a choice that shreds her integrity to ribbons? That was my dilemma when I woke up in Trey’s arms in a nylon tent down by the river.