There sat three of us around the kitchen island in a suburban home outside Nashville, swapping stories. As often happens, one story led to another.
Something that was said reminded me of an old friend.
“I have a friend of more than 35 years,” I began. “He was one of Hollywood’s top stuntmen. He doubled for Paul Newman because they looked like brothers, and they became best friends.”
That was my setup.
The other two at the island were twins Matthew and Gunnar Nelson, sons of rock legend Ricky Nelson and grandsons of Ozzie and Harriet.
Matthew, sitting beside me, glanced over and asked, “Are you talking about Stan Barrett?”
I did a double-take.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Do you know Stan?” I asked, astonished.
The brothers, who found enormous success in the 1990s and now live in Tennessee, have settled comfortably into a country-rock style reminiscent of the Eagles, Linda Ronstadt, and their father, whom they still adore decades after he died in a plane crash.
Matt shrugged.
“Yeah, we've known him since we were kids. He was always giving us Bibles.”
“Really?” I replied, unable to hide my surprise.
You should know this about Stan: he is one of the toughest, gruffest men you'll ever meet. Nearly every bone in his body has been broken. That's what you expect from a man who made a living jumping off cliffs, crashing cars, and taking hits for Hollywood's biggest stars. He has little patience for foolishness.
Our friendship has settled into long conversations three or four times a year. I love hearing his Hollywood stories because he tells them so matter-of-factly, never with arrogance.
After I left Gunnar's house that day, I remembered Stan once telling me he met Ricky Nelson on the set of Rio Bravo. John Wayne often requested Stan whenever he needed a stuntman.
“Ricky and his brother, David, were the nicest guys you'd ever meet,” Stan once told me. “We became friends.”
What he never mentioned was that he gave Bibles to Ricky's sons.
Gruff as he may be, Stan is a devoted Christian who counts Franklin Graham among his close friends.
Paul Newman, his longtime best friend, often heard Stan talk about the Lord's goodness.
A week or so later, another memory surfaced.
Years ago, I was in Charlotte on a book tour. After a long day of interviews and signings, my publishing representative and I sat outside a café in SouthPark, one of the city's nicest shopping districts, enjoying dinner.
A man stopped at the crosswalk.
At the same moment, we recognized each other.
“Ronda! What are you doing here?”
“Stan!”
I stood and hugged him.
“I’m on a book tour,” I said. “Why aren't you in Los Angeles?”
“I built a house up here in the mountains.”
I introduced him to my publishing rep, and we invited him to join us for coffee and dessert.
Not once did Stan bring up his remarkable career. In fact, whenever he has mentioned any of his accomplishments over the years, it has always been in an almost weary, offhand manner.
Before we left, he asked, “Where are you staying?”
“The Duke Mansion,” I answered, the beautiful estate once owned by tobacco magnate James Duke. If you ever have the opportunity, stay there.
“I've always wanted to see inside,” he said before turning to my companion. “Would you mind if I drove her back?”
A few minutes later, I climbed into his beautiful SUV.
“What a nice vehicle,” I said.
He shrugged.
“I’m going to sell it. I've been doing mission trips with Franklin, and I just don't feel right driving something this expensive when so many people are in need. I'll give the money to Samaritan's Purse.”
That is Stan Barrett.
A man with a rugged exterior. A man who spent a lifetime doing dangerous work.
And beneath it all, a remarkably tender heart.
Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of the Stella Bankwell series. Please visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her weekly newsletter.