A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Scripture

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Books by Victoria Bylin

  A Word from Victoria . . .

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © 2020 by Vicki Bylin Scheibel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. www.victoriabylin.com

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, a Division of Tyndale House Ministries, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Jenny Zemanek, Seedlings Design Studio

  PRINT ISBN-13: 9781704371474

  To Sara Mitchell

  Writing Partner and Friend Forever

  Daisy belongs to both of us.

  Play the tape!

  I also want to thank the gifted women who made this book possible.

  (Miss Joan would be proud of us.)

  Charlene Patterson

  Editor Extraordinaire

  Jenny Zemanek

  Cover Artist

  Virginia Smith

  Book Design Guru

  Judy DeVries

  Proofreading Ace

  (Any errors are mine)

  Deborah Raad

  Insightful Beta Reader and Friend

  You must each decide in your heart how much to give.

  And don’t give reluctantly or in response to pressure. “For God loves a person who gives

  cheerfully.”

  2 Corinthians 9:7 (NLT)

  Chapter 1

  A woman’s scream cut through the night. Sharp. Penetrating. It pierced Rafe Donovan’s eardrums and sent him running down the dark alley toward the shrieks. Three stories above, laughter tumbled out of a tenement window backlit by a dull pink bulb. The old brick walls stank of urine and grease. Dumpsters overflowed onto cracked asphalt, and rotting garbage clogged the gutters.

  The woman screamed again, louder this time.

  No. No. No. He couldn’t let Kara die. He ran harder, faster. The soles of his black work boots slapped the pavement, each stride a hammer blow. His Glock rode tight on his hip, his badge heavy and bright on his chest.

  She screamed again—a heaving plea for him to save her.

  He ran toward the scream, his arms pumping and lungs straining. But instead of growing louder, the scream faded, as if Kara were being dragged away from him.

  He imagined her bare heels scraping against the concrete. He blinked and saw her pale arms flailing, her skin mottled with track marks from the addiction she couldn’t shake. She had tried. Rafe knew that better than anyone. But the pills and later the needles had a grip so tight that no one—not even wannabe superhero Rafe Donovan—could drag her from those demons of addiction.

  Another scream cut through the night. Vile laughter poured out of the windows above him.

  “Kara!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Kara! I’m coming for you!” His legs bicycled despite his exhaustion. Sweat poured off his body and he smelled his own stench. A cry ripped out of his throat, and then—

  “Rafe!” A deep voice sliced through the fog. “Rafe! Wake up!”

  “No!”

  “Come on, bro.”

  The voice belonged to Jesse, Rafe’s big brother. Somehow it called to him as if they were kids again, and the monster in the house was their dad.

  “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  A bright light popped on but dimmed to a tolerable glow. With the shift in contrast, Rafe’s head cleared. He was in Jesse’s house in Refuge, Wyoming, a log cabin with dimmer switches on every wall, hardwood floors that didn’t squeak, and almost no furniture because his brother was too busy building houses to furnish them.

  Rafe swung his feet over the side of the bed, scrubbed his face with his sweaty hands, then raked his fingers through his hair. His head didn’t feel like his own. He’d been on leave from the Cincinnati Police Department for a week now and hadn’t bothered to get a haircut or shave. When he was in uniform, he kept his hair short and used a razor at least once a day, sometimes twice.

  Jesse stayed in the doorway. “That sounded like a bad one.”

  “Yeah. Stupid, too.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Rafe snatched up his phone. “What time is it anyway?” The white numbers showed 3:42 a.m. “Crud.” Too early to get up. Not enough time to calm down and go back to sleep. It was Sunday morning, so he didn’t need to think about getting to work. It was an easy job, just pounding nails for Jesse’s construction business, but Rafe took it seriously.

  Jesse didn’t budge. “Coffee?”

  Rafe waved off the offer with a flick of his hand. “Go back to bed. I’m fine.”

  Except they both knew he wasn’t. A few days ago, Rafe had pulled his red Camaro into his brother’s driveway, hauled his duffel out of the trunk, and rapped on the door like the cop he’d been until a week ago—the cop he wanted to be again, but first he had to shake the nightmares.

  The dreams tormented him, but they weren’t new. He’d dreamed of Kara, his high school sweetheart, on and off since her death eight years ago. What had sent him to Dr. Tobani, the department shrink, was two-fold: a drug bust where a teenage girl died seconds before Rafe could administer Narcan, followed the next week by a weird panicky moment in an alley like the one in his dream.

  If he couldn’t trust himself to be solid, he couldn’t be on the street. It was that simple—and that complicated.

  Rather than be assigned to a desk, Rafe had asked to take the vacation time he’d stacked up. Dr. Tobani agreed that a change of scenery would be beneficial, added unpaid medical leave, and pulled strings to make it all happen. The plan called for Rafe to get counseling and return to work on August 1 after a twelve-week leave. He’d visited Dr. Susan Patowski before he left home and would continue to see her via FaceTime, a more common practice than he had realized.

  A few of his cop buddies asked about the personal leave, but no one thought less of him for taking it. The daily battle against crime, drugs, and ugliness took a toll on everyone.

  But leaving Cincinnati put Rafe in a catch-22. Police work gave him a purpose. He was protective by nature, which meant he needed
people to protect. People like Kara Howard, the beautiful girl next door who had loved the troubled boy whose father drank too much. Rafe had tried to save her when the pills told their lies. He’d done everything—

  “Rafe?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Standing abruptly, he snatched yesterday’s Levi’s off the back of a chair, the belt dangling in the loops. “Go back to bed. I’m all right.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “I am.” Now they were both lying. “Get out of here. I’m going for a drive.”

  “It’s three a.m.”

  Rafe scowled out the window. He would have preferred a long, hard run, but Jesse’s house sat low in a canyon. No sidewalks. No streetlights. If Rafe went running, he’d be running blind. No way would he risk tripping on a rock and busting his wrist again. Been there, done that. Took the pain pills for a day, then dumped them in a can of stale coffee, duct-taped it shut, and buried it in a Dumpster.

  He wished he’d done that for Kara. Icy fingers of sweat dripped down his spine. “I have to get out of here.”

  Jesse stepped back. “Go for it. Just—”

  “I know. Be careful. You sound like Mom.”

  “Sorry.” Jesse grimaced, maybe more at himself than Rafe. Shaking his head, he ambled back down the hall to the master bedroom, leaving Rafe to cinch his belt, punch into a shirt, and snag his key fob.

  Two minutes later he slid behind the steering wheel and backed out of the driveway, the headlights slashing through the dark as he drove down a road lined with homes set back in the trees. Only an occasional porchlight hinted at civilization.

  Rafe didn’t belong here. His heart beat to an urban rhythm—convenience stores open 24/7, the dull hum of cars at all hours, early morning delivery trucks.

  Jaw tight, he headed toward downtown Refuge, approximately ten square blocks of restaurants and tourist traps. Every fast food place was buttoned up for the night, so he decided to cruise to Three Corners, a spot twenty miles south where three highways came together, including the east-west link to the interstate system. Something was bound to be open even at this time of night. He’d grab a coffee somewhere and drink it in his car the way he did on patrol back home.

  He cruised along the two-lane highway until his gaze snagged on a car pulled over on the other side of the road. The passenger door hung open, and the dome light cast a dull glow inside a late-model Hyundai. The raised trunk lid signaled trouble. So did the slope of the car, listing thanks to a flat tire.

  Adrenaline chased away whatever gloom remained from the nightmare. Someone needed help, and he was in the right place at the right time.

  Using one hand, he pulled a U-turn just short of a fishtail and parked fifteen feet behind the Hyundai. If the driver was a woman alone, he didn’t want to scare her. And if this was some kind of weird setup, he didn’t want to be a victim.

  The Camaro headlights lit up a Hyundai Elantra with Wyoming plates. So the driver was a local, probably headed to Refuge. Whoever he or she was, they were staying out of sight. After another glance up the hill, Rafe opened the center console and retrieved a mini Maglite. It was the size of a felt-tip marker but could light up the night.

  Moving slowly, he climbed out of the car, pushed to his full height, and used the flashlight to scan the darkness on the periphery of the headlight beams.

  “Hello there,” he called out. “Looks like you need some help.”

  “Get back in your car! Now!”

  Whoa. No doubt he’d ridden to the rescue of a woman alone. She just didn’t know it yet and was wise not to trust him. He didn’t bother to say he was a cop back in Ohio. Ted Bundy had used that line, too.

  Still holding the flashlight, Rafe raised his arms to shoulder level. The beam of light shot skyward, leaving the woman in the dark until footsteps scraped on the sandy apron of the highway. She remained in the shadows but appeared to be Caucasian, in her early twenties, approximately five-foot-six and average weight. She wore a black and white waitress uniform, and a sparkly headband held her short blond hair away from her face. If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d assumed a combat stance and was holding a can of pepper spray.

  “Don’t move!” she said again. “Get in your car and leave.”

  “Miss—”

  “I said leave.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. It’s simple.”

  Of all the things in life Rafe couldn’t do, abandoning a woman in trouble was at the top of the list. He’d rather get pepper-sprayed, even shot, than read about a woman murdered on the side of the highway when he could have saved her. No way could he abandon this woman, which meant he needed to win her trust.

  Daisy Walker Riley had been a victim in Los Angeles, and she had no intention whatsoever of letting it happen again.

  Even stranded by a flat tire in a dead zone without cell service, she was far from defenseless. Between the pepper spray and her faith, she was ready to stand her ground until her brother came looking for her. Except Shane wouldn’t miss her until the sun came up, and fear threatened to swallow her alive.

  As for changing the tire herself, she had tried, but the stupid lug nuts wouldn’t budge.

  The man in front of her kept his hands in the air. She couldn’t see more than his silhouette, but she judged him to be in his late twenties, six feet tall, lean but well muscled, and slightly bearded. If it came to fight or flight, she’d be no match for him either way. Her heart dropped with a sickening thud—until she mustered her faith and dug in to protect herself.

  “Move it,” she said again.

  “You’re in charge.” His voice rang with confidence, as if he were used to giving orders. “But I’m not leaving you here alone. It’s not safe, and we both know it.”

  Maybe he really was a good guy. Or maybe not. Unsure of herself, Daisy answered with a scowl, “I don’t trust strangers.”

  “That’s smart. I won’t take another step—at least not without your permission.” He indicated her slanted car with his chin. “On the other hand, I could change that tire for you right now.”

  The offer tempted her. But what would happen then? He could follow her, run her off the road, hurt her. She hated feeling so vulnerable, so paranoid, but being beaten half to death by her ex-boyfriend had left her both wise and wary.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “Is someone coming for you? A friend, maybe? Or the auto club?”

  No way would she tell him they were in a dead zone. “That’s none of your business.”

  The man had the nerve to laugh. “I give up.” He lowered his hands to his sides. “I really am a good guy. I’ll go wait in my car until someone comes for you.”

  Daisy sucked air between her teeth. At some point, he’d realize no one was coming.

  The man stayed next to his car. “I have another idea. How about if you call my brother? I’m staying with him in Refuge. He’ll vouch for me.”

  The offer struck her as reasonable—unless he and his brother worked together like the Hillside Strangler team. How many women had they murdered in LA in the 1970s? Then again, how paranoid could she be? This man hadn’t stalked her or followed her from her job. The flat tire couldn’t have been more random.

  Still on alert, she lowered the pepper spray. “Actually, I can’t call anyone. We’re in a dead zone.”

  “Man, that stinks.” He craned his neck to look at the side of the car. Both the flashlight and tire iron were in plain sight. “It looks like you tried to change it yourself.”

  “I know what to do, but the lug nuts won’t budge.” She hated to compromise, but he seemed genuine. “Maybe you could help me after all.”

  He gave a crisp nod, then held his hands to the side. “I’d be glad to, but you’re still in charge. Is it okay if I walk over to the car and take a closer look?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Being in control calmed her, but as he moved forward, she backed up. As long as she kept several feet between them, she felt som
ewhat safe.

  He reached the flat tire, crouched, and picked up the tire iron. Daisy heard metal on metal as he matched the pieces, then a deep breath as he sucked in air and held it. The lug nut didn’t budge. Muttering something, he tried again. When the nut gave way, he blew out a breath and stood. “Got it.”

  Curious, Daisy circled around for a better look at him. With the Camaro’s headlights at her back, she could see him plainly. Dark hair spiked up from a grown-out buzz cut, and stubble lined his square jaw. She couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but his nose was straight and his mouth formed a relaxed line. There wasn’t a tense muscle in his body. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  He bent down and picked up the flashlight she had abandoned. “I’m going to roll this to you, all right?”

  Why not just go and get it? But her nerves prickled under her skin. He held her gaze, waiting for her consent. Finally she nodded and he rolled the black metal flashlight in her direction. It stopped almost at her feet. Taking a step, she bent and picked it up.

  Just holding the heavy object made her feel better. If worst came to worst, she could wallop him with it.

  The man went back to loosening the next lug nut. “I’m almost ready for the spare. Is it still in the trunk?”

  “Yes.” She’d already checked it out. “It’s one of those little donut things.”

  “As long as it has air in it, you’ll be fine.” He spun the loose lug nut with his fingers. “I see where you picked up a nail, but the tire looks good. You might be able to get it patched.”

  He rambled about tire repair, maybe to distract her, or maybe to put her at ease. She answered back occasionally, but mostly she watched as he loosened the lug nuts but left them in place. When he finished, he faced her. “It’s time for the jack and the spare. If you want to step back, I’ll get them.”

  When she nodded permission, he strode to the trunk of her car, turned his back to her, and lifted the jack in one hand and the tire in the other. He hauled the two items to the side of her car.