Praise for the novels of
ROBYN CARR

“The Virgin River books are so compelling —I connected instantly with the characters and just wanted more and more and more.” —New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“ Virgin River is sexy, tense, emotional and satisfying. I can’t wait for more!” —New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers

“A thrilling debut of a series that promises

much to come.”

—New York Times bestselling author Clive Cussler

“Robyn Carr provides readers [with] a powerful,

thought-provoking work of contemporary fiction.”

—Midwest Book Review on Deep in the Valley

“A remarkable storyteller…”

—Library Journal

One

Mike Valenzuela was up and had his Jeep SUV packed long before sunrise. He had a long drive to Los Angeles and meant to get an early start. Depending on traffic around the Bay Area, the drive would be eight to ten hours from Virgin River. He locked up his RV, which was his home. It sat on the property at Jack’s bar and grill; Jack and Preacher would keep an eye on it for him, not that Mike expected any kind of trouble. That was one of several reasons he’d chosen to live here—it was quiet. Small, peaceful, beautiful and nothing to disturb one’s peace of mind. Mike had had enough of that in his former life.

Before coming to Virgin River permanently, Mike had made many trips to this Humboldt County mountain town for hunting and fishing, for gathering with an old marine squad that was still close. His full-time job had been with LAPD, a sergeant in the gangs division. That had all ended when he was shot on the job—he’d taken three bullets and had a lot of hard work getting his body back. He’d needed Preacher’s robust food and Jack’s wife, Mel’s, assistance with physical therapy on his shoulder. After six months, Mike was as close to completely recovered as he’d get.

Since moving to Virgin River, he’d been home only once to visit his parents, siblings and their families. He planned to take a week—one day driving each way and five days with that crowd of laughing, dancing Mexicans. Knowing the traditions of his family, it would be a nonstop celebration. His mother and sisters would cook from morning to night, his brothers would stock the refrigerator with cerveza, family friends and cop buddies from the department would drop by the house. It would be a good time—a good homecoming after his long recovery.

He was three hours into his drive when his cell phone rang. The noise startled him. There was no cell phone reception in Virgin River, so the last thing he expected was a phone call.

“Hello?” he answered.

“I need a favor,” Jack said without preamble. His voice sounded gravelly, as though he was barely awake. He must not have remembered Mike was heading south.

Mike looked at the dash clock. It wasn’t yet 7:00 a.m. He laughed. “Well, sure, but I’m nearly in Santa Rosa, so it might be inconvenient to run over to Garberville and get you ice for the bar, but hey—”

“Mike, it’s Brie,” Jack said. Brie was Jack’s youngest sister, his pet, his favorite. And she was really special to Mike. “She’s in the hospital.”

Mike actually swerved on the highway. “Hold on,” he said. “Stay there.” He pulled off the road onto a safe-looking shoulder. Then he took a deep breath. “Go ahead,” he said.

“She was assaulted sometime last night,” Jack said. “Beaten. Raped.”

“No!” Mike said. “What?”

Jack didn’t repeat himself. “My father just called a little while ago. Mel and I are packing—we’ll get on the road as soon as we can. Listen, I need someone who knows law enforcement, criminology, to walk me through what’s happening with her. They don’t have the guy who did this—there’s got to be an investigation. Right?”

“How bad is she?” Mike asked.

“My dad didn’t have a lot of details, but she’s out of emergency and in a room, sedated and semiconscious, no surgery. Can you write down a couple of numbers? Can you keep your cell phone turned on so I can call you? With questions? That kind of thing?”

“Of course. Yes,” Mike said. “Gimme numbers.”

Jack recited phone numbers for the hospital, Jack’s father, Sam, and Mel’s old cell phone that they’d charge on their way to Sacramento and then carry with them.

“Do they have a suspect? Did she know the guy?”

“I don’t know anything except her condition. After we get on the road, get the phone charged and we’re out of the mountains and through the redwoods, I’ll call my dad and see what he can tell me. Right now I gotta go. I gotta get down there.”

“Right,” Mike said. “Okay. My phone will be in my pocket twenty-four-seven. I’ll call the hospital, see what I can find out.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it,” Jack said, hanging up.

Mike sat on the shoulder, staring at the phone for a long minute, helpless. Not Brie, he thought. Oh God, not Brie!

His mind flashed on times they’d been together. A couple of months ago she’d been in Virgin River to see her new nephew, Jack and Mel’s baby. Mike had taken her on a picnic at the river—to a special place where the river was wide but shallow and fishermen didn’t bother with the place. They’d had lunch against a big boulder, close enough to hear the water whisper by as it passed over the rocks. It was a place frequented by young lovers, teenagers, and that big old rock had seen some wonderful things on the riverbank; it protected many secrets. Some of his own, in fact. He’d held Brie’s hand for a long time that day, and she hadn’t pulled it away. It was the first time he’d realized he was taken with her. A crush. At thirty-seven, he felt it was an old man’s crush, but damned if it didn’t feel awfully like a sixteen-year-old’s.

When Mike met Brie for the first time a few years back, he’d gone to see her brother while Jack was on leave, visiting his family in Sacramento right before his last assignment in Iraq. Mike was oblivious to the fact that his reserve unit would be activated and he’d end up meeting Jack over there, serving under him a second time. Brie was there, of course, recently married to a Sacramento cop. Nice guy, so Mike had thought. She was a prosecutor for the county in Sacramento, the state capital. She was small, about five-three, with long, soft brown hair that flowed almost to her waist, making her look like a mere girl. But she was no girl. She put away hardened criminals for a living; she had a reputation as one of the toughest prosecutors in the county. Mike had immediately admired her brains, her grit, not to mention her beauty. In his past life, before the shooting, he’d never been particularly discouraged by the mere presence of a husband, but they were newlyweds, and Brie was in love. No other man existed for her.

When Mike saw her in Virgin River right after Jack’s son was born, she was trying to recover from a painful divorce—her husband had left her for her best friend, and Brie was shattered. Lonely. So hurt. Mike immediately wanted to take her into his arms and console her, for he was hurting, too. But Brie, crushed by her husband’s infidelity, was determined not to put her heart on the line again, and she wanted nothing of a man, especially another player who’d had more than his share of women. A further complication—this was Jack’s baby sister, of whom he was so protective it verged on ridiculous. And Mike was no longer a driven, devil-may-care Latino lover. He was maimed. The body just didn’t work right anymore.

It had been only a couple of weeks since he’d last seen her. She came back to Virgin River with the rest of her family to help erect the frame of Jack’s new house. Preacher and his bride, Paige, were married in that framed structure the very next day. For a man who could barely walk six months ago, Mike had given Brie a fairly decent twirl around the dance floor at the wedding. It was a fantastic party—full of that good old country food, barbecques flaming, the chairs pushed back and the band set up on the foundation of Jack’s unfinished house, the frame strung with floral garlands. He grabbed her, laughing, into his arms and whirled her around with abandon, and whenever the tempo allowed, pressed his cheek close against hers, whispering in conspiratorial amusement, “Your brother is frowning at us.”

“I wonder why that is.” She laughed.

“I don’t think he wants you near a man so like himself,” Mike speculated.

That seemed to amuse her a great deal. She tipped her head back and laughed a little wildly. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “It has nothing to do with your great success with women. You’re a man, near his baby sister. That’s enough.”

“You’re no baby,” he said, pulling her closer. “And I think you’re having too much fun with this, getting him riled up. Don’t you realize he has a dangerous temper?”

Unmistakably, she held him tighter. “Not toward me,” she whispered.

“There’s a devil in you,” he said, and looked death in the face by kissing her neck.

“There’s a fool in you,” she said, tilting her head just slightly to give him more of her neck.

In years gone by he would have found a way to get her alone, seduced her, made love to her in ways she’d dream about later. But three bullets had decided a few things. Even if he could spirit her away from her brother’s protective stare, he wouldn’t be able to perform. So he said, “You’re trying to get me shot again.”

“Oh, I doubt he’d actually shoot you. But I haven’t been to a good old-fashioned wedding brawl in ages.”

When they’d said goodbye he had hugged her briefly, her sweet scent like a cinch around his mind, feeling her cheek against his, his arms around her waist, pulling her close. A bit more than just a friendly gesture—a suggestive one, which she returned. He assumed she was having fun with the flirtation, stirring things up a little bit, but it meant far more than that to him. Brie held his thoughts in a disturbing way that suggested if he were capable of giving her love, she would capture his heart and mind in that powerful way that wipes all other women out of the past. He really didn’t have that to offer anymore. Although that didn’t keep him from thinking about her, wanting her.

He could not bear to think about all that mischief and sass lying broken and violated in a hospital. His heart was in pieces, aching for her. Dying to know that she was going to be all right.

He put the SUV into Drive, looked over his shoulder and got back on the freeway. He gunned the engine and veered across two lanes of fast-moving traffic to make the exit to Sacramento.

Also available by Robyn Carr

VIRGIN RIVER

NEVER TOO LATE

RUNAWAY MISTRESS

BLUE SKIES

DOWN BY THE RIVER

JUST OVER THE MOUNTAIN

THE HOUSE ON OLIVE STREET

SHELTER

MOUNTAIN

ROBYN CARR

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Karen Garris, another precious daughter,

with love

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to Pamela SF Glenn, CNM, MS—without whose expertise in midwifery this story would not have been possible. My deepest gratitude to you for poring over manuscript after manuscript with sharp eyes and a ruthless pen, keeping me straight. And to Sharon Lampert, RN, WHNP, for sharing your expertise as a women’s health nurse practitioner, but mostly for picking up your cell phone no matter where you were and answering delicate questions about female anatomy and function with directness and honesty. I’m sure there are people out there still talking about what they overheard in the grocery store, beauty parlour and Department of Motor Vehicles. The passion and devotion with which you two professionals serve your women patients is inspiring, and was an enormous help in shaping the character of a dedicated nurse practitioner and certified nurse midwife.

Thanks to Paul Wojcik for sharing your experiences in the United States Marine Corps, and to Richard Gustavson, RN with twenty-three years in the Navy Reserves. I thank each of you for reading the manuscripts and for offering your invaluable technical input.

Kris Kitna, Chief of Police, Fortuna, California, thanks for valuable information on local law enforcement, not to mention help with details about hunting, fishing and firearms.

Kate Bandy, the best assistant a writer can possibly have, my dear friend of many years, thanks not only for reading copy and offering suggestions, but especially for accompanying me on an exciting research trip to Humboldt County. Without you there I would have floundered… or slipped off a mountain.

Denise and Jeff Nicholl—thanks for reading first drafts, taking exhaustive notes and answering a million questions. Your friendship and support during the whole process mean the world to me. Many thanks to Nellie Valdez-Hathorn for her help with my Spanish.

Other early readers whose input was critical included Jamie Carr, Laurie Fait, Karen Garris, Martha Gould, Pat Hagee, Goldiene Jones and Lori Stoveken—I’m deeply in debt to you for your comments and suggestions.

Huge thanks to Clive Cussler, Debbie Macomber and Carla Neggers for reading and commenting on Virgin River. For you to take the time, with your busy schedules, is a monumental compliment.

Huge thanks to Valerie Gray, my editor, and Liza Dawson, my agent, for your commitment to helping me craft the best series possible. Your hard work and dedication made all the difference—I’m so grateful.

To Trudy Casey, Tom Fay, Michelle Mazzanti, Kristy Price and the entire staff of Henderson Public Libraries, thank you for the monumental support and encouragement. I’ve never known a more hardworking and motivated group of public servants.

And, finally, thanks to Jim Carr for your loving support. And, my God, thank you for cooking! I wish I’d known years ago that you could!

One

A fierce and unseasonably cold September wind blew chilly rain against the windows. Preacher wiped down the bar, and while it was only seven-thirty, it was already dark. No one in Virgin River would be out on a night like this. After the dinner hour was past, people tended to stay in on cold, wet nights. The campers and fishermen in the area would be locked down tight against the storm. It was bear-and-deer hunting season, but it was unlikely any hunters would pass en route to or from lodges and blinds at this hour in such weather. Jack, his partner and the owner of the bar and grill, knowing there would be little if any business, was tucked away with his new wife at their cabin in the woods. Preacher had also sent home their seventeen-year-old helper, Rick. As soon as the fire burned down a little more, Preacher planned to switch off the Open sign and lock the door.

He poured himself a shot of whiskey and took it over to the table nearest the fire, then turned a chair toward the hearth and propped up his feet. Quiet nights like this were to his liking. He was a solitary kind of guy.

But the peace was not to be. Someone pulled on the door, causing him to frown. It opened a little bit. The wind caught the door and it flew open with a bang, bringing him instantly to his feet. Entering and then struggling to close the door was a young woman holding a child. The woman wore a ball cap and had a heavy quilted bag slung over her shoulder. Preacher went to get the door. She turned, looked up at him and they both jumped back in surprise. She was likely startled because Preacher looked intimidating—he was six foot four, bald with bushy black eyebrows, a diamond stud earring and shoulders about as broad as an ax handle was long.

Under the bill of the baseball cap, Preacher saw a pretty young woman’s face bearing a bruise on her cheek and a split lower lip.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I saw the sign….”

“Yeah, come on in. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out tonight.”

“Are you closing?” she asked, hoisting up her burden, a little boy, not more than three or four years old. He was asleep on her shoulder, his long legs dangling limply. “Because I… Are you closing?”

“Come on,” he said, stepping back for her to pass. “It’s okay. I don’t have anyplace better to go.” He extended an arm toward a table. “Sit by the fire there. Warm up. Dry off.”

“Thanks,” she said meekly. She went to the table by the fire, and when she saw the drink, said, “Is this where you’re sitting?”

“Go ahead. Take it,” he said. “I was having a shot before calling it a night. But there’s no hurry. We don’t usually close this early, anyway, but with the rain…”

“Did you want to get home?” she asked him.

He smiled at her. “I live here. Makes me real flexible on the hours.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” he said. “If the weather’s decent, we usually stay open till at least nine.”

She took the chair facing the fire, the boy’s gangly legs straddling her lap. She let her quilted shoulder bag drop to the floor and pulled the child closer, hugging him tight, stroking his back.

Preacher disappeared into the back, leaving her to warm herself for a minute. He came back with a couple of pillows from his bed and the throw from his couch. He put the pillows on the table next to her and said, “Here. Lay the kid down. He’s probably heavy.”

She looked up at him with eyes that seemed to want to cry. Oh, he hoped she wouldn’t do that. He hated when women cried. He had no idea what to do. Jack could handle it. He was chivalrous; he knew exactly what to do with a woman under any circumstance. Preacher was uncomfortable around women until he got to know them. When you got down to it, he was inexperienced. Although it wasn’t intentional, he tended to scare women and children simply because of how he looked. But they didn’t know that underneath his sometimes grim countenance he was shy.

“Thanks,” she said again. She transferred the child to the pillows on the table. He immediately curled into a ball and put a thumb in his mouth. Preacher stood there, lamely holding the throw. She didn’t take it from him so he put it over the boy and tucked it around him. He noticed the boy’s cheeks were rosy and his lips bright pink.

When she reclaimed her chair, she looked around. She saw the stag’s head over the front door and flinched. She turned full circle, noting the bear skin on the wall, the sturgeon over the bar. “Is this some kind of hunting place?” she asked.

“Not really, but a lot of hunters and fishermen pass this way,” he said. “My partner shot the bear in self-defense, but he caught the fish on purpose. One of the biggest sturgeons in the river. I got the buck, but I’d rather fish than hunt. I like the quiet.” He shrugged. “I’m the cook here. If I kill it, we eat it.”

“You can eat deer,” she said.

“And we did. We had a great winter of venison. Maybe you should have a drink,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft and nonthreatening.

“I have to find a place to stay. Where am I, anyway?”

“Virgin River. Kind of out of the way. How’d you find us?”

“I…” She shook her head and a small laugh escaped. “I got off the highway, looking for a town with a hotel…”

“You got off the highway a while ago.”

“There aren’t many places wide enough to turn around,” she said. “Then I saw this place, your sign. My son… I think he has a fever. We shouldn’t drive anymore.”

Preacher knew there wasn’t anyplace to get a room nearby. This was a woman in trouble; it didn’t take a genius to figure that out. “I’ll fix you up with something,” he said. “But first—you want something to drink? Eat? I’ve got a good soup tonight. Bean and ham. And bread. I made the bread today. I like to do that when it’s cold and rainy. How about a brandy to warm you up first?”

“Brandy?”

“Or whatever you feel like…”

“That would be good. Soup would be good, too. I haven’t eaten in hours. Thanks.”

“Sit tight.”

He went to the bar and poured a Remy into a snifter—fancy stuff for this place. He hardly ever used the snifters on the usual crowd—but he wanted to do something special for the girl. For sure she was down on her luck. He took her the brandy and then went back to the kitchen.

The soup was put away for the night, but he took it out of the refrigerator, ladled out a scoop and put it in the microwave. While it warmed, he took her a napkin and some utensils. By the time he got back to the kitchen, the soup was ready and he got out the bread—some of his best: soft, sweet and hearty—and nuked it for a few seconds. He put that and some butter on a plate. When he came out of the kitchen he saw her struggling out of her jacket, like maybe she was stiff or sore. The sight of it stopped him briefly and made him frown. She threw a look over her shoulder, as if she was caught doing something bad.

Preacher put the food in front of her, his mind spinning. She was maybe five foot five and slight. She wore jeans and her curly brown hair was tucked through the back of the ball cap like a ponytail. She looked like a girl, but he guessed she was at least in her twenties. Maybe she’d been in a car accident, but it was more likely someone had smacked her around. The thought alone got him a little hot inside.

“That looks great,” she said, accepting the soup.

He went back behind the bar while she ate. She shoveled the soup in, smeared the bread with butter and ate it ravenously. Halfway through with her meal she gave him a sheepish, almost apologetic smile. It tore through him, that bruised face, split lip. Her hunger.

When she’d sopped up the last of her soup with the last of her bread, he returned to her table. “I’ll get you some more.”

“No. No, it’s okay. I think I’ll have some of this brandy now. I sure appreciate it. I’ll be on my way in a—”

“Relax,” he said, and hoped he didn’t sound harsh. It took a while for people to warm up to him. He transferred her dishes to the bar, clearing her place. “There isn’t anywhere around here to get a room,” he said when he returned to the table. He sat down across from her, leaned toward her. “The roads aren’t so good out this way, especially in the rain. Really, you don’t want to head back out there. You’re kinda stuck.”

“Oh, no! Listen, if you’ll just tell me the closest place… I have to find something….”

“Take it easy,” he said. “I got an extra room. No problem. It’s a bad night.” Predictably, her eyes widened. “It’s okay. It’s got a lock.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay. I’m kind of scary-looking. I know it.”

“No. It’s just—”

“Don’t worry about it. I know how I look. Works great on guys. They back right off.” He gave her a small smile, not showing any teeth.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said. “I have a car….”

“Jesus, I couldn’t stand to think of you sleeping in a car!” he said. “Sorry. Sometimes I sound as bad as I look. But no kidding—if the kid’s not feeling so good…”

“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know you….”

“Yeah, I know. Probably makes you wonder, huh? But I’m way safer than I look. You’d be okay here. Better here than at some hotel on the freeway, guaranteed. A whole lot more okay than out in that storm, trying to deal with those mountain roads.”

She looked at him hard for a minute. Then she said, “No. I’m just going to press on. If you’ll tell me how much—”

“Pretty rough-looking bruise you have there,” Preacher said. “Can I get you anything for that lip? I have a first aid kit in the kitchen.”

“I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head. “How about if we settle up and—”

“I don’t have anything for a kid’s fever. Except a room. With a lock on the door so you feel safe. You don’t want to pass up an offer like that in this weather, with a kid who might be coming down with something. I look big and mean, but I’m about as safe as you get. Unless you’re wildlife.” He grinned at her.

“You don’t look mean,” she said timidly.

“It can make women and little kids real nervous—and I hate that part. You on the run?” he asked her.

She lowered her eyes.

“What d’you think? I’m gonna call the cops? Who did that to you?”

She immediately started to cry.

“Aw. Hey. Don’t.”

She put her head down on folded arms on the tabletop and sobbed.

“Aw. Come on. Don’t do that. I never know what to do.” Hesitatingly, squeamishly, he touched her back and she jumped. He touched one of her hands, very lightly. “Come on, don’t cry. Maybe I can help.”

“No. You can’t.”

“Never know,” he said, lightly patting her hand.

She lifted her head. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m exhausted, I guess. It was an accident. It was really stupid, but I was struggling with Chris—” She stopped suddenly and looked around nervously, as though worried about being overheard. She licked her lower lip. “I was trying to get Christopher in the car, hanging on to stuff, and I opened the door right into my face. Hard. You shouldn’t be in a hurry, you know? It was just a little accident. It’s fine.” She lifted the napkin to her nose.

“Right,” Preacher said. “Sure. Too bad about that. Looks sore.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Sure it will. So—what’s your name?” When she didn’t answer for a long moment, he said, “It’s okay. I’m not going to repeat it. If anyone came looking for you, I’d never mention seeing you.” Her eyes grew round and her mouth stood open slightly. “Oh, damn, that was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?” he said. “All I mean is, if you’re hiding or running, it’s okay. You can hide or run here. I won’t give you up. What’s your name?”

She reached out and ran her fingers gently through the boy’s hair. Silent.

Preacher got up and flipped off the Open sign and threw the latch on the door. “There,” he said, sitting down with her again, the little boy taking up much of the table beside them. “Try to take it easy,” he said softly. “No one here’s gonna hurt you. I can be a friend. I’m sure not scared of the weak dick who’d do that to a woman. Sorry.”

She looked down to avoid eye contact. “It was the car door…”

“Not afraid of any mean old car door, either,” he said.

She gave a little huff of laughter, but had trouble looking him in the eye. She picked up her brandy with a slightly trembling hand and lifted it to her mouth.

“Yeah, there you go,” Preacher said. “If you think the boy needs a doctor tonight, there’s one right across the street. I could go get him. Or take you over.”

“I think he’s just coming down with a cold. I’m keeping a close eye on him.”

“If he needs medicine or something…”

“I think he’s okay….”

“My buddy, the guy who owns this place, his wife is a nurse. A special nurse—she can give medicine, see patients…. She takes real good care of the women around here. She’d come in ten minutes. If a woman makes a difference, under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” she asked, a panicked look floating across her features.

“Car door, and all that…”

“No. Really. It’s just been a long day. You know.”

“Yeah, must’ve been. And the last hour or so off the freeway, that must’ve been pretty awful. If you’re not used to those roads.”

“A little scary,” she admitted softly. “And not having any idea where I am…”

“You’re in Virgin River now, that’s what matters. It’s just a little crimp in the road, but the people are good. Help out where they can. You know?”

She gave him a small, shy smile, but her eyes were downcast again.

“What’s your name?” he asked again. She pursed her lips tight, shaking her head. Her eyes welled up again. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Really.”

“Paige,” she whispered, a tear running down her cheek. “Paige,” she repeated in a small voice.

“Yeah, that’s good. That’s a pretty name. You can say your name around here without being afraid.”

“Your name?”

“John,” he said, then wondered why he had done that. Something about her, he guessed. “John Middleton. No one calls me John, though. I’m known as Preacher.”

“You’re a preacher?”

“No,” he said with a short laugh. “Way far from it. The only one ever to call me John was my mother.”

“What did your father call you?” she asked him.

“Kid,” he said, and smiled. “Hey, kid,” he emphasized.

“Why do they call you Preacher?”

“Aw,” he said, ducking shyly. “I don’t know. I got the nickname way back, when I was just a kid in the Marine Corps. The boys said I was kinda straitlaced and uptight.”

“Really? Are you?”

“Nah, not really,” he said. “I never used to curse at all. I used to go to mass, when there was a mass. I grew up around priests and nuns—my mother was real devout. None of the boys ever went to mass, that I remember. And I kind of hung back when they went out to get drunk and look for women. I don’t know… I never felt like doing that. I’m not good with women.” He smiled suddenly. “That should be obvious right away, huh? And getting drunk never really appealed to me.”

“But you have a bar?” she asked.

“It’s Jack’s bar. He watches over people real good. We don’t let anybody out of here if they’re not safe, you know? I like a shot at the end of the day, but no reason to get a headache over it, right?” He grinned at her.

“Should I call you John?” she asked him. “Or Preacher?”

“Whatever you want.”

“John,” she said. “Okay?”

“If you want. Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I like that. Been a while since anyone called me that.”

She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them again. “I really appreciate this, John. You staying open and everything.”

“It’s not a big deal. Most nights we’re open later than this.” Preacher inclined his head toward the boy. “He going to wake up hungry?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I had some peanut butter and jelly in the car, and he went through that pretty fast.”

“Okay, there’s an extra room upstairs, right above the kitchen. You help yourself in the kitchen—I’ll leave a light on for you. Anything you want. There’s milk in the refrigerator. And orange juice. Cereal, bread, peanut butter, more of that soup in the fridge and a microwave. Okay?”

“That’s very nice of you, but—”

“Paige, you look like you could use some rest, and if the boy’s coming down with something, you don’t want to take him out in that cold, wet mess.”

She thought about it for a second and then said, “How much?”

He laughed in spite of himself, then sobered quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that—it’s my old room. It’s not a hotel room or anything. I lived up there for two years, but then Jack and Mel got married and I got his apartment out back. That room over the kitchen—smells a little like bacon and coffee in the morning, but it’s a good size, with a big bathroom. It would do for a night.” He shrugged. “Just being a good neighbor. Okay?”

“That’s generous,” she said.

“I’m not putting myself out any—it’s an empty room. Glad to help out.” He cleared his throat. “Got a suitcase I can get for you or anything?”

“Only one, on the backseat.”

“I’ll get it for you. You get your brandy there,” he said. “Give yourself another shot if you need it. If I were you, I’d need it, after driving through these hills in the rain.” He stood up. “Bring it with you and I’ll show you the room. Upstairs. Um—you want me to carry the kid up for you?”

She stood, as well. “Thanks.” She stretched her shoulders—as if stiff from a long drive. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not a problem,” he said. “Listen, so you don’t worry, your room and my apartment aren’t even connected—we’re separated by the kitchen and stairs. You just lock your door and rest easy.” He gently and clumsily lifted the little boy into his arms. His head went onto Preacher’s shoulder and it felt odd. Preacher didn’t have a lot of experience with carrying around children, but he liked the way it felt. He gave the boy’s back a few long, slow strokes. “This way.”

He led the way through the kitchen and up the back staircase. He opened the door and said, “Sorry. It’s kind of a mess. I left some things up here, like my weights. But the sheets are clean.”

“It looks fine,” she said. “I’ll get out first thing in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about it. If you need a couple of days, we can work it out. Like I said, it’s not exactly for rent or anything. Just sits empty. I mean, if the kid’s got a little bug or something…”

He laid the boy gently on the bed, strangely reluctant to put him down. The warmth of the child against his chest was comforting. He couldn’t resist touching his floppy blond hair. Beautiful little kid. “How about some car keys? Might as well go get that suitcase….”

She dug around in her quilted bag, which looked kind of like a diaper bag, although the boy was too big for diapers. She passed him the keys.

“Just be a minute,” he said.

Preacher went to her car, a little Honda, and got in. He had to put the seat all the way back and his knees still rubbed against the steering wheel. He pulled it around to the back of the building and parked it beside his truck where it couldn’t be seen from the main street in case someone was looking for her. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain that—he wouldn’t want her to be afraid.

He plucked the suitcase out of the back; it was way too small for someone who was taking a trip. It was the right size for someone getting out with the clothes on her back.

When he was back in the upstairs room, she was sitting tensely on the edge of the bed, her son behind her. He put down the suitcase, placed the keys on the bureau right inside the door and shuffled a little in the doorway. She stood up and faced him. “Look. Ah. I moved your car—put it right out back by my truck. Off the street. It’s out of sight from the road now. So if you get up or look out, you’re not confused about that—it’s right out back. I recommend you sit tight, wait out this rain, travel in dry daylight. But if you get—you know—nervous, the bar only locks on the inside and here are your keys. It’s no big deal if you. Like if you can’t relax and have to leave, it’s no big deal if the bar door’s left unlocked—this is a real quiet, safe place. Sometimes we forget to lock up, anyway. I’ll get it locked for sure tonight, you and the kid being here. Um… Paige… you don’t have to be worried or anything. I’m a pretty reliable guy. Or else Jack wouldn’t leave me with the bar. Okay? Just get some rest.”

“Thank you,” she said, and it was barely a sound.

He pulled the door closed. He heard her move the dead bolt, protecting herself. For the first time since coming to this little town, he wondered why that dead bolt had ever been installed.

He stood there a minute. It had taken him about five seconds to conclude someone—ninety-eight-percent chance a boyfriend or husband—had belted her in the face and she was on the run with her kid. It wasn’t like he didn’t know that stuff happened. It happened all the time. He just never understood what satisfaction a man could get out of hitting a woman. It made no sense to him. If you have a pretty young woman like that, you treat her right. Hold her safe against you and protect her.

He went to the bar, turned off the lights, checked the kitchen, leaving a light on in case she came downstairs, then went to his apartment behind the kitchen. He was only there a few minutes when it occurred to him that there were no longer clean towels up there—he’d emptied the bathroom and moved all his downstairs. He went to the bathroom, gathered up a stack of clean white towels and went back upstairs.

The door was open a crack, like maybe she’d already been down to the kitchen. He could see a glass of orange juice sitting on the bureau inside the door and it pleased him that she’d helped herself. Through that space of an inch, he saw her reflection in the bureau mirror. Her back faced the mirror and she had pulled her bulky sweatshirt up over her head and shoulders, trying to get a glimpse of her back and upper arms in the mirror. She was covered with bruises. Lots of big bruises on her back, one on her shoulder and upper arms.

Preacher was mesmerized. For a moment his eyes were locked on those purple splotches. “Aw, Jesus,” he whispered in a breath.

He quickly backed away from the slit in the door and got up against the wall outside, out of sight. It took him a moment to collect himself; he was stricken. Horrified. All he could think was, what kind of animal does something like that? His mouth hung open because he couldn’t imagine this. He was a warrior, a trained fighter, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t done that much damage to a man equal to him in size, in a fair fight.

Some instinct kicked in that told him he shouldn’t let on that he’d seen. She was already afraid of everything, including him. But there was also the reality that this wasn’t a woman who’d been smacked. She’d been pummeled. He didn’t even know the girl, yet all he wanted was to kill the son of a bitch who’d done that to her. After five or eleven months of beatings, then death for the sorry bastard.

She shouldn’t know he was feeling that; it would scare her to death. He took a few deep breaths, composed himself. Then he tapped lightly on the door.

“Huh?” he heard her say, sounding startled.

“Just some towels,” he said.

“One second, okay?”

“Take your time.”

Momentarily she opened the door a tiny bit farther, her sweatshirt back in place.

“I forgot, I took all the bathroom stuff out,” he said. “You’ll need some towels. I’ll leave you alone now. Won’t bother you again.”

“Thank you. John.”

“No problem. Paige. Get some good rest.”

Paige pulled the bureau carefully, as quietly as possible, in front of the door. She really hoped John hadn’t heard that, but as close as she could figure out, the kitchen was right beneath this room. And—if the man meant her or Christopher any harm, he could have already delivered it, not to mention that a locked door and empty bedroom dresser couldn’t possibly keep him out.

As much as she’d have liked a hot soak in a tub, she felt too vulnerable to get naked. She couldn’t talk herself into the shower, either—she might not hear the doorknob rattle or Christopher call out to her—so she washed up in the sink and put on clean clothes. Then, leaving the bathroom light on, she lay carefully on the bed, on top of the covers. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but after a little while she calmed down. She stared at the ceiling, the wood slats forming a perfect V over her head. What came to mind was that this was the third time in her life she’d lain in bed looking at such a ceiling.

The first time was in the house she grew up in—the beams were bare, pink insulation puffing out between them. The house was small, only two bedrooms, and already old when her parents moved in, but the neighborhood had been clean and quiet then, twenty years ago. Her mother moved her into the attic when she was nine; she shared her space with boxes of stored household goods pushed back against one wall. But it was her space, and she escaped to it whenever she could. From her bed she could hear her mother and father arguing. After her father’s death when she was eleven, she could hear her older brother, Bud, argue with their mother.

From what she had learned about domestic battery in the last few years, she should have expected to end up with an abuser, even though her father never hit her or her mother, and the worst she ever got from Bud was a shove or slug in the arm. But man, could the men in her family yell. So loud, so mad, she wondered why the windows didn’t crack. Demand, belittle, insult, accuse, sulk, punish with the meanest words. It was just a matter of degrees; abuse is abuse.

The next time she had found herself staring at a ceiling like this one was after she left home. She’d gone to beauty school after high school and stayed home with her mother, paying rent, until she was twenty-one. Then she and two girlfriends—also beauticians—rented half an old house. Paige had happily taken the attic bedroom, though it wasn’t even as large as her childhood room and most of the time she had to crouch to keep from hitting her head on the slanted walls.

Tears came to her eyes because she remembered those two years with Pat and Jeannie as the happiest in her life. Sometimes she missed them so much it made her ache. Three hairdressers, mostly broke after rent, food and clothes—it had seemed like heaven. When they couldn’t afford to go out, they’d buy popcorn and cheap wine and make a party of it at home, gossiping about women whose hair they cut and frosted, about boyfriends and sex, laughing till they couldn’t sit up straight.

Then Wes came into her life, a successful businessman, six years older. It was shocking to realize he’d been the age she was now—twenty-nine. Yet he’d seemed so worldly, mature. She’d been styling his hair for only a couple of months when he asked her out and took her to a restaurant so fine the hostesses were better dressed than she was. He drove a brand-new Grand Prix with cushy leather seats, darkly tinted windows. And he drove too fast, which at twenty-three didn’t seem dangerous. It was thrilling. Even though he yelled at and flipped off other drivers, it seemed his right—he was powerful. By her standards, rich.

He had a house already, which he didn’t even have to share with roommates. His career was trading stocks and commodities; an exhausting job that required brilliance and high energy. He wanted to go out every night, bought her things, pulled his wallet out of his pocket and said, “I don’t know what you really want, what little thing would just make you cry it’s so perfect, so I want you to shop for yourself. Because you being happy is the only thing that matters to me in the world.” He’d peeled off a couple of bills and handed her two hundred dollars, a veritable fortune.

Pat and Jeannie didn’t like him, but there was hardly a mystery in that. He wasn’t all that nice to them. He treated them like wallpaper, furniture. Answered their questions with one word when he could. In fact, she couldn’t remember what they said about him when they tried to warn her off.

Then came the insanity of her life spiraling out of control that to this day seemed impossible: he’d hit her before they married, and she’d married him anyway. They’d been in his fancy car, parked, having an argument about where she was living—he thought she’d be better off at home with her mother rather than that old half a house in a questionable neighborhood with a couple of dykes. It got pretty nasty; she’d said her share of ugly things to him. He said something like, “I want you with your mother, not in some little whorehouse in the ghetto.”

Just who the fuck do you think you are, calling where I live a whorehouse?

How do you use that language with me?

You called my best friends dykes and whores and it’s my language you criticize?

I’m just thinking about your safety. You said you wanted to marry me someday, and I’d like you to still be around when that happens!

Well up yours, because I love living there and you can’t tell me what to do! And I’m not marrying anyone who can talk about my best friends like that!

There was more. More. She vaguely remembered calling him a bad name, like prick or asshole. He called her a bitch, a difficult bitch. In any case, they both contributed, she was sure of that.

He’d slapped her, open palm. Then he immediately broke down, collapsed, cried like a baby, said he wasn’t sure what had happened to him, but maybe it was because he’d never been in love like this before. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong to overreact that way, he was crazy, he was ashamed. But… he wanted to hold her in his arms every night, take care of her for the rest of her life, never lose her. He apologized for what he’d said about the roommates—maybe he was jealous of how loyal she was to them. In his mind he couldn’t see past her; there was no one in his life he valued like he valued her. He loved her so much it made him nuts, he said. She was the first person he’d ever felt that way about. Without her, he was nothing!

She believed him. But she never used profanity around him again.

She hadn’t told Pat and Jeannie because even though she was stupid about what was happening, she knew better than to risk their further disapproval. It only took her a couple of days to get over that slap. It wasn’t much of a slap. It didn’t take more than a month for her to almost forget it happened and trust him again; she thought him handsome, exciting, sexy. He was edgy and confident. Smart. Passive men couldn’t get the kind of success he had. She wasn’t attracted to passive men.

Then he said, “Paige, I don’t want to wait. I want us to get married as soon as you’re ready. A nice wedding—screw the cost, I can afford whatever you want. Ask Pat and Jeannie to stand up for us. And you can quit your job—you don’t have to work anymore.”

Her legs hurt; she was getting bunions. Fixing hair six days a week was no easy job, even though she had liked it. She’d often thought how much more she’d like it if she only had to do it about six hours a day, four days a week, but that seemed an impossible dream. She could barely make ends meet as it was, and her mother had been working two jobs since her father died. In her mother, she saw her future—alone, weak and worked to death. A picture of her surly roommates wearing pretty satin at her wedding, smiling, envious of her good fortune and the cushy life she’d have. And she’d said yes.

He hit her again on the honeymoon.

Over the next six years she’d tried everything—counseling, police, running away. He got out of jail right away, if they even bothered to take him in; he found her in hiding, and it just got worse. Even her pregnancy and Christopher’s arrival hadn’t stopped the abuse. She discovered by accident that there might be a little more to this equation—a certain chemistry that gave him such energy to work those long hours and wear himself out keeping track of her, the fits of euphoria, the skull-splitting temper—some white powder in a small vial. Cocaine? And he took something his personal trainer gave him, though he swore it wasn’t steroids. A lot of traders used amphetamines to keep up with the demands of the job. Cocaine users tended to be reed-thin, but Wes was proud of his body, his build, and worked hard on his muscles. A coke and steroid regimen, she realized, could make his temper hair-trigger short. She had no idea how much, how long. But she knew he was crazy.

This was her last chance. Through a shelter she’d met a woman who said she could help her get away, change her identity and flee. There was an underground for battered women and children in hopeless situations. If she and Christopher could just get to the first contact, they would be passed along from place to place, collecting new ID, names, histories and lives along the way. The upside was—it worked a lot. It was nearly foolproof when the woman followed instructions and the children were young enough. The downside was, it was illegal, and for life. Life like this, covered in bruises, afraid she’d be killed every day—or a life of being someone else, someone who isn’t hit?

She started squirreling away money from her grocery allowance and packed a bag that she hid with a contact from a shelter. She managed almost five hundred dollars and fully intended to get herself and Christopher out before another bad episode occurred. With the last beating, she knew she was nearly too late.

And here she was, looking at her third V-shaped ceiling. She knew she wouldn’t sleep; she’d hardly slept in six years. No worries about the drive—with so much adrenaline going on, she’d make it.

But then she woke up to sunlight and a regular thwacking noise outside. Someone was chopping wood. She sat up cautiously and smelled coffee. She had slept after all. And so had Christopher.

The dresser was still pushed against the door.

Two

Preacher barely slept. He spent half the night on the computer. It was like this little machine was invented for him, because he liked to look things up. He had been trying to get Jack to put the inventory and receipts on the computer, but Jack had a clipboard that was like an extension of his arm and wanted nothing to do with Preacher’s technology. It was slow, there being no cable hookup out here, but he was patient. And it got the job done.

The rest of the night was spent trying to catch some sleep, which eluded him completely. He got out of bed several times and looked out the back window to see if the little Honda was still there. He finally got up for the day at five, when it was still black as pitch outside. He went into the kitchen, started the coffee, laid a fresh fire. There was no sound from upstairs.

The rain had stopped, but it was overcast and chilly. He’d have liked to go ahead and split logs, work off some aggression, but Jack liked doing that, so he let it go. At six-thirty, Jack came into the bar, all smiles. This was the happiest man in Virgin River since he got married. It was as if he couldn’t stop grinning.

Preacher stood behind the bar with his coffee mug and lifted his chin in greeting to his best friend. “Hey,” Jack said. “Good rain.”

“Jack,” he said. “Listen. I did something…”

Jack shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the peg inside the door. “Pee in the soup again, Preacher?”

“I got a woman upstairs…”

Pure shock settled over Jack’s face. Preacher didn’t have women around. He didn’t prowl, didn’t flirt, didn’t do any of that. Of course, Jack didn’t really know how he lived like that, but this was Preacher. When the guys, the Marines they had served with, were all out looking for women to pass the night with, Preacher stayed behind. They jokingly called him the Big Eunuch. “Oh, yeah?” he asked.

Preacher took down a mug and filled it for Jack. “She came in last night, during the storm,” he said. “She’s got a kid with her—little,” he said, measuring with his huge hands. “Kid might be coming down with something. He’s got a fever, she said. I gave her my old room because there’s no place to stay around here….”

“Well,” Jack said, picking up his coffee. “That was nice of you. I guess. She steal the silver or anything?”

Preacher made a face. They didn’t have silver; the only thing worth stealing was the cash, locked up tight. Or liquor—way too much trouble for a woman with a kid. Not that any of that ever crossed his mind. “She’s probably in some trouble,” Preacher said. “She’s got… Looks like maybe she’s been in some trouble. Maybe she’s running or something.”

Again, Jack was shocked. “Huh?”

Preacher stared hard into Jack’s eyes. “I think she needs some help,” he said, when in fact he knew she needed help. “She’s got a bruise on her face.”

“Oh, boy,” Jack said.

“Mel coming in to Doc’s?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“She needs to have a look at the kid—make sure he’s not sick. You know. And the woman—Paige—she says she’s all right, but maybe… Maybe Mel can—I don’t know—be sure.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, taking a sip from his mug. “Then what?”

Preacher shrugged. “She’s gonna want to get out of here, I think. She’s all skittish. She seems scared. I want her to at least see Mel.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“Yeah. That’s what we’ll do. Ask her to let Mel have a look. But I can’t make her, you know. I think you should do it. Talk to her, suggest it to her….”

“Nah, Preach, you can handle this. It’s your deal—I haven’t seen her or anything. You just talk to her. Quiet and soft. Try not to scare her.”

“She’s already scared, which is how I figure she’s in some trouble. The kid hasn’t seen me yet, though—he was asleep. He’ll probably run screaming.”

At seven-thirty Preacher fixed up a tray with some cereal in bowls, toast, coffee, orange juice and milk. He went up the back stairs and gently tapped on the door. It opened immediately. Paige had showered and dressed. She wore the same jeans and a long-sleeved chambray shirt. A little black-and-blue spot peeked out from the opened collar and Preacher immediately felt steamed up, but he tried to keep it from showing on his face. Instead, he focused on her eyes, which were a deep emerald-green, and her damp hair, which fell in curly tendrils to her shoulders. “Morning,” he said, trying to keep his voice quiet and soft, like Jack would.

“Hey,” she said. “You’re up early.”

“I’ve been up forever,” he said.

“Mom?” came a voice from behind her. He looked past her and saw the little kid, Christopher, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.

She opened the door for Preacher and he came in, putting the tray on the bureau just inside the door. He stayed by the door and gave the kid a nod. He tried to relax his features into softness, but wasn’t sure how to do that. “Hey, little buddy. You want some breakfast?”

The kid shrugged, but his round eyes were wide and focused on Preacher.

“He’s not so good with men,” Paige whispered softly. “Shy.”

“Yeah?” Preacher asked. “Me, too. Don’t worry—I’ll stay back.”

He looked at the child and tried out a smile. Then the kid pointed at Preacher’s head and said, “You hafta shabe that?”

It made Preacher laugh. “Yeah. Wanna feel?” he asked. He approached the bed slowly, carefully, bending his bald head toward the kid. He felt a small hand rub over his dome and it made him laugh again. He raised his head and said, “Cool, huh?” And the kid nodded.

Preacher went back to Paige. “My buddy’s wife, Melinda, she’s coming to Doc’s this morning and I wanna take you over there. Let her have a look at the kid, make sure he’s okay, and if he needs medicine or anything, she’ll fix you right up.”

“She’s a nurse, you say?”

“Yeah. A special nurse. A midwife. She delivers babies and that.”

“Oh,” Paige said, a little more interested. “That’s probably a good idea. But I don’t have much money—”

He laughed. “We don’t worry about things like that around here, if someone could use a little help. It’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure…”

“It’s all good. Come on downstairs when you’re ready. Mel will be over there about eight, but take your time. Not too many people get sick around here and they’re not usually busy.”

“Okay. Then we’ll press on….”

“Um, if you need to, you can stay a couple of days. I mean, if he’s not feeling so well. Or, if you’re tired from driving.”

“I’ll probably just get back on the road.”

“Where you headed?” he asked. “You never mentioned.”

“Just a little farther. I have a friend… We’re going to visit a friend.”

“Ah,” he said, but if it had been just a little farther, she’d have kept going. “Well, you think about it. Open offer.”

While Christopher sat cross-legged on the bed to eat cereal, Paige leaned toward the mirror, dabbing makeup on her purple cheek, covering it as best she could. It had at least lightened somewhat. But there was nothing she could do about the split lip, which was scabbing over. Christopher would touch it and say, “Mommy’s owie.”

Her mind wandered back to that last beating. The part that still shook her was not being able to remember what had really started it. Something about Christopher’s toys being strewn all over the family room, and then Wes’s suit not back from the dry cleaners. He wasn’t happy about what she’d made for dinner. Or was it what she had said about the toys? “Jesus, Wes, he has toys—he plays with them. Just give me a minute.” Had he slapped her then? No, right after that, when she muttered, under her breath, “Don’t get excited, don’t get mean, just let me do it…”

How could she not know that he’d react like that? Because she never knew how he would react. They’d had months of no violence. But she had seen it in his eyes when he came home from the office. It was already there—eyes that said, I’m going to hit you and hit you and hit you some more and neither of us will know exactly why. As usual, by the time she zoned in on that dangerous gleam, it was too late.

She had started spotting then, in danger of losing the baby—the new baby that she’d recently told him about. Big surprise—since he had kicked her. So she dragged herself out of the bed and went to pick up Christopher at day care. The girl behind the desk, Debbie, had gasped when she saw Paige’s face. Then she stammered, “M-Mr. Lassiter asked us to call him if you came for Christopher.”

“Look at me, Debbie. Maybe you could forget to call him. Just this once. Maybe for a while.”

“I don’t know…”

“He’s not going to hit you,” she had said boldly.

“Mrs. Lassiter, maybe you should call the police or something?”

And Paige had laughed hollowly. Right. “I guess you think I haven’t.”

At least she’d gotten out of town. With her one suitcase, almost five hundred dollars and an address in Spokane.

And here she was, waking up under another V-shaped ceiling. Still scared to death, but at least in the moment, apparently safe.

While Christopher ate, she poked around a little, not touching anything. It wasn’t a real big room, but there was enough space for Preacher’s bench and weights. She looked at a couple of barbells on the floor—sixty pounds each. On the press he had stacked four hundred pounds; Wes had bragged incessantly about his two-fifty.

There was a medium-size bookcase against the wall, full, books stacked on the floor beside it and on top. She held her hands behind her back; force of habit—Wes didn’t like her touching his things, except his dirty laundry. Weird titles—the biography of Napoléon, World War Two warplanes, medieval armies. Hitler’s Occupation—that sent a chill through her. Most of them were pretty worn, old. Some new. She couldn’t spot a fiction title—all nonfiction, all military or political subjects. Maybe they had belonged to his father or an uncle. He didn’t exactly look like a big reader, though he sure looked like a weight-lifter.

When Chris was done with his breakfast, she put on his jacket, then her own, picking up the quilted bag to hang over her shoulder. She left the suitcase, packed, on the bed and carried the breakfast tray down the back stairs. John was in the kitchen wearing an apron, flipping sausage patties, an omelet pan steaming over a high flame. “Go ahead and set that down right on the counter and give me one minute,” he said. “I’ll walk you over.”

“I could wash these up,” she said meekly.

“Nah, I got it.” Paige watched as he pressed the patties with his big spatula and sprinkled cheese on the omelet, then deftly folded and flipped it. Toast popped up, was buttered and everything put on a large oval plate. He took off his apron and hung it on a hook. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that was stretched so tight across the broad expanse of his chest it looked like it should split. The biceps on the man were like melons. If he’d been wearing a white T-shirt, he’d look like Mr. Clean.

He plucked a denim jacket off the peg and shrugged into it. He picked up the plate and said, “Come on,” and walked into the bar. He put the plate down in front of a man who sat at the bar, quickly refilled the man’s coffee and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Here’s the pot. Jack’s out back if you need anything.”

Paige stole a look out the back door window where she saw a man in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt hefting an ax over his head and bringing it down to split a log. That had been what woke her. She took note of the muscular shoulders and broad back—not as pronounced as John’s, but still impressive.

Wes was not nearly as big as either of these men; he was about six feet and in good shape, but as for muscles, nothing by comparison, even with his chemical assistance. If John raised a fist to a woman the way Wes had done, she wouldn’t live to tell about it. She shuddered involuntarily.

“Look, Mommy,” Chris said, pointing to the mounted stag’s head over the door.

“I see. Wow.” The place did look like a hunting lodge.

John stuck his head out the back door and yelled, “Jack! I’m walking over to Doc’s. Be right back.”

Then he turned toward her and gave a nod. He opened the door for her to follow him outside. “How’s he feeling this morning?” he asked.

“He ate breakfast. That’s good.”

“That’s good,” John agreed. “The fever?” he whispered.

“I don’t have a thermometer with me, so I’m not sure. He feels a little warm.”

“Good to let Mel check, then,” he said, walking alongside her but careful not to get too close. She held her son’s hand, but Preacher put his in his pockets. He glanced at the boy; the boy glanced around his mother at him. They eyed each other warily. “It’ll be okay,” he said to her. “Mel’s the best. You’ll see.”

Paige looked up at him, smiled sweetly, and it made him feel all soupy inside. Her eyes were so sad, so scared. She couldn’t help it, he understood that. If it weren’t for the fear, he might actually take her hand to give her courage—but she wasn’t just afraid of whoever did that to her. She was afraid of everything, including him. “Don’t be nervous,” he said to her. “Mel’s very kind.”

“I’m not nervous,” she said.

“After I introduce you, I’ll go back over there. Unless you want me to stay? In case you need me for anything?”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

Melinda sat on Doc’s front steps with her morning coffee, listening to the loud crack of Jack’s ax as he split logs. He had called her when he got to the bar and said, “Put a wiggle in it, babe. Preacher’s got a patient for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asked.

“Some woman stumbled into the bar last night during the storm and he put her up for the night. Says she’s got a kid who might be feverish. And he also said he thinks she might be in trouble…”

“Oh? What kind of trouble?” Mel asked.

“No idea,” he said. “I haven’t even seen her yet. He gave her his old room, upstairs.”

“Okay, I’ll be along shortly.” Out of instinct, she put her digital camera in her bag. Now, watching the front of the bar, she saw something she had never expected to see. Preacher held the door for a woman and a child and walked them across the street. He seemed to be talking to her in soft tones, leaning close, a concerned look on his face. Amazing. Preacher was a man of so few words. Mel thought she remembered being in town for a month before he said ten words in a row to her. For him to take in a stranger like this was both very like him, yet so unprecedented.

As they neared, Mel stood up. The woman appeared to be in her twenties with a dark stain on her cheek that she’d tried to cover with makeup. She couldn’t cover the split lip, however. There’s the trouble Preacher had seen. It made Mel wince. But she smiled and said, “Hi. Mel Sheridan.”

She faltered. “Paige,” she finally said, then looked over her shoulder nervously.

“It’s okay, Paige,” Preacher said. “You’re safe with Mel. Everything with her is top secret. She’s ridiculous about it.”

Mel laughed as if amused. “No, I’m not ridiculous. This is a doctor’s office, a medical clinic. We’re confidential, that’s all. It’s very simple. Standard.” She reached out to shake Paige’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Paige.”

Paige took the offered hand and looked over her shoulder at Preacher. “Thank you, John.”

“John?” Mel asked. She laughed lightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call you John.” She tilted her head a bit. “Kind of nice. John.” Then she said, “Come with me, Paige.” And she led the way.

Inside the house they passed by Doc, who sat at the reception desk behind a computer. He looked up briefly, gave a nod, then went back to his work. “That’s Doc Mullins,” Mel said. “This way.” She opened an exam room door and let Paige precede her into the room. She closed the door and said, “I’m a nurse practitioner and midwife, Paige. I can have a look at your son if you’d like. Now, I understand you suspect a fever?”

“He’s kind of warm. Not too much energy…”

“Let’s have a look,” Mel said, briskly taking charge. She bent down and asked the little boy if he’d been to the doctor before. She hefted him up on the exam table, showed him the digital thermometer and asked him if he knew what to do with that. He pointed to his ear and Mel laughed happily. “You’re an expert at this,” she said. She picked up the stethoscope and asked, “Mind if I listen to your heart?” He shook his head. “I’ll try not to tickle, but it’s hard for me, because tickling is kind of fun—I just love hearing the giggles.” On cue, he laughed, though softly. Mel let him listen to his own heart, then hers. She palpated his lymph nodes while he listened to his chest, his leg, his hand. She looked in his ears and throat, and by the time she’d gotten that far he was already getting comfortable with her.

“I think he might have a little virus—doesn’t seem to be too serious. His temp is only a hundred. Have you given him anything?”

“Children’s Tylenol, last night.”

“Ah, then he’s in pretty good shape. His throat looks a little red. Keep up the Tylenol, lots of fluids. I don’t think you have to worry. If he gets worse, of course…”

“Then it’s safe to just keep driving…?”

Mel shrugged. “I don’t know, Paige. Want to talk about you? I’m here to help, if I can.”

Her gaze instantly dropped and that was really all it took. Mel knew where this was going. She’d spent years in a big-city emergency room, and had seen more than her share of battery victims. The bruise on the young woman’s face, the split lip, the fact that she wanted to keep driving… away…

Paige lifted her gaze. “I’m a little pregnant. And spotting.”

“And a couple of bruises?” Mel asked.

Paige averted her gaze and nodded.

“Okay. Would you like me to have a look?”

Paige looked down. “Please,” she said softly. “But what about Chris?”

“Oh, not to worry. I’ve got that covered.” She bent at the waist and smiled into Christopher’s handsome brown eyes. “You like to color, buddy? Because I have a ton of coloring books and crayons.” He nodded shyly. “Good. Come with me.” She helped the little guy down off the exam table and with the other hand, pulled a gown out of the cabinet and handed it to Paige. “Why don’t you put on this gown. I’ll give you a few minutes. And try not to be afraid. I’ll go slow, be gentle.”

“Um… Are you leaving him alone?” Paige asked.

“More or less.” Mel laughed. “I’m leaving him with Doc.”

“He seems a little… shy… around men.”

“It’ll be fine. Doc’s good with kids, especially the shy ones. He’ll just make sure this guy doesn’t do surgery or run away. Beyond that, it’s just coloring. At the kitchen table.”

“If you’re sure…”

“We do it all the time, Paige. It’ll be okay. Try not to worry.”

Mel took Christopher to the kitchen, and after setting him up with coloring books and crayons, she refilled her coffee. Decaf. She wasn’t enjoying coffee nearly as much these days. Then she went to the office and got out a new patient form. Given the situation she believed she faced, she would examine the patient first before frightening her with paperwork. Clipboard in hand, she asked Doc to keep an eye on the child in the kitchen while she performed a pelvic.

Being a few months pregnant herself, Mel had a sick feeling at the thought of anyone hitting a pregnant woman. It never ceased to amaze her that a man could live with himself after doing something like that. Forms on her clipboard, her small digital camera in her shirt pocket, stethoscope around her neck, coffee in hand, she tapped on the door and heard Paige softly say, “Come in.”

She put the clipboard and her coffee on the counter and said, “Okay, then… Let’s get your blood pressure first.” She picked up the blood pressure cuff and went to apply it to Paige’s arm and was frozen. There was a huge hematoma that covered much of her upper arm.

Mel put the cuff aside and gently pulled the gown away from Paige’s back; she had to concentrate not to gasp. She pulled the gown over Paige’s shoulder, down her arm, exposing the bruises on her back, arm, chest. She carefully lifted the gown at the bottom, exposing her thighs. More bruises. She looked at the girl’s face. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “Paige,” Mel said in a whisper. “My God…”

Paige put her hands over her face. Shame at having let it happen.

“Have you been raped?” Mel asked gently.

She shook her head, tears flowing. “No.”

“Who did this to you?” she asked. Paige just closed her eyes and shook her head. “It’s okay. You’re safe right now.”

“My husband,” she answered in a whisper.

“And you’re running away from him?”

She nodded.

“Here, let me help you lie down, slowly. Carefully… Are you all right?” Paige nodded, not making eye contact, and reclined on the exam table. Mel gently moved the gown around. Her chest, breasts, arms, legs—all covered in bruises. Mel palpated her abdomen and Paige winced. “Does it hurt here? Here?” When Paige nodded or shook her head, Mel moved on. “Here? Here?” Mel gently rolled her from one side to the other—her buttocks were bruised, as were her lower back and upper thighs. “Any blood in your urine?” she asked, and Paige shrugged. She didn’t know. “The only way I can get a clean urine specimen if you’re spotting is with a catheter, Paige. Would you like me to do that? Just to be sure?”

“Oh, God. Do you have to?”

“It’s okay. Let’s check what we can, first. Any chance you’ve had an ultrasound with this pregnancy?”

“I haven’t even been to the doctor yet,” she said.

Another symptom, Mel thought. Battered women didn’t take care of themselves, or their pregnancies, out of fear.

Paige sucked on her sore bottom lip, staring at the ceiling through glassy eyes while Mel examined her. “Okay, let me help you sit up. Easy does it.” Mel listened to Paige’s heart, looked in her ears, checked her head for lumps and lacerations. “Well, Paige, you don’t appear to have broken bones. At least none that I can detect. I wouldn’t mind getting an X ray of your ribs, just to be sure, since you have some tenderness there, but with you being pregnant and all. Frankly, if it were up to me, I’d admit you to the hospital.”

“No. No hospitals. I can’t have any records of any kind…”

“I understand, but realize, this looks very scary. How heavy is the bleeding?”

“Not too bad. Less than, say, a period.”

“Okay, lie back and slide down. I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

When she was in the position, Mel pulled on her gloves and took her stool. She touched the inside of Paige’s thigh before touching her external genitalia. “I’m not going to use a speculum for this exam, Paige. Just a pelvic to estimate the size of the uterus. If you have any discomfort at all, please tell me.” She inserted two fingers, gently pressing down on her lower abdomen with the other hand. “Do you know how far along you are?”

“Just over eight weeks.”

“Okay. When we’re done here I’ll have you take a pregnancy test. If the fetus was still viable—alive—as of a day or so ago, it should come out positive, but it won’t tell us much about the past twenty-four hours, I’m afraid. I don’t have an ultrasound, but there’s one a couple of towns over that we use when necessary. But. One thing at a time. Uterus is normal for an eight-week pregnancy.” Mel made a derisive sound. “Paige, you’ve been through such a lot.” She removed her gloves and offered her hand. “Can you sit up for me, please?”

Paige sat up and Mel took her stool, looking up into her eyes. “You’re how old?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“I understand how hard it is in situations like yours to get help, but I’m wondering if you tried to call the police.”

“I’ve done that,” she said very softly. “I’ve done everything. Police, restraining orders, shelters, moving out, counseling.” Then she laughed. “Counseling,” she said. “He had the counselor in love with him in five minutes.” She took a breath. “It didn’t go too well after that.”

“I understand completely.”

“He’s going to kill me one of these days. One of these days soon.”

“Has he threatened to kill you?”

“Oh, yes.” She looked down. “Oh, yes,” she said again, softly.

“How’d you find Virgin River?” Mel asked.

“I think… I got lost. I got off the highway looking for a place to stay, to eat. And I got lost. I was going to turn around when I saw the town, the bar.”

Mel took a breath. Time for a reality check. Not only was it hard for the battery victim to make charges stick if the police weren’t called to the scene right away, half the time the victim bailed the abuser out of jail in fear for her life. And it wasn’t an idle threat—abusers did kill their victims. All the time. “Paige, I worked in emergency medicine in Los Angeles before coming up here and, unfortunately, I have some experience with situations like yours. We have to get you some help.”

“I was trying to get away,” she said with a sniff of emotion she was trying desperately to contain. “Then I got lost, Chris wasn’t feeling good, I’m so sore I could hardly drive another minute…”

“Where are you headed?” Mel asked.

Paige hung her head, shaking it, and said, “To a friend he doesn’t know about.”

“Stay here a few days. Let’s see how you’re doing before—”

Her eyes shot to Mel’s. “I can’t! I’m in a hurry now! I’m already behind schedule! I have to—” She stopped suddenly. She seemed to gather herself up and try to speak with composure. “I have to get where I’m going before he can report me missing. Before my car is being—”

“No, you’re okay,” Mel said calmly. “It’s okay, Paige. Leave your car behind the bar, out of sight. When it’s time to go, take a butter knife out of the kitchen, to loosen the screws on the license plate holders. Switch plates with someone. If you don’t speed, drive erratically or get in an accident, no reason for a highway patrolman to run your plates.” She shrugged. “No one around here will notice switched plates for weeks. Months. I’d never even look.”

While Mel spoke, Paige stared into her eyes and her mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. “Did you just suggest I steal someone’s…?”

Mel smiled. “Oh! Did I use my outside voice? I should watch that…”

“You act like you know…”

“Let’s not talk about what you’re doing,” Mel said. “I did a little community service in a shelter once. It killed me,” she said. “It tore me up. But I learned a couple of things. Just let me say this—it’s worse if you rush. If you hurry. You might drive too fast, drive too sore or tired. Take a few days, heal a little, let the boy’s fever go down. Then do it smart. Wherever you’re going—it’ll be there in a few days or a couple of weeks. You’re hurt.”

“What if he finds me here…?”

“Oh, my Lord, if he finds you here, I seriously don’t like his chances.”

“He has a gun, too. Though he’s always kept it locked up.”

“Handgun?” Mel asked, and Paige nodded. Mel actually heard herself let out a breath of relief. Mel, who had been so afraid of guns before coming to Virgin River. There weren’t many handguns here, but there were a lot of guns that could kill a bear with one shot. Or blow a man in half. “There is so much you don’t know about our men. Okay, with your permission, I’d like to take some pictures.”

“No!”

Mel touched her forearm. “Just as a record, Paige. I promise you, what happens to them will be entirely up to you, but we should have a record for your use, in case you decide you need it. I’m not going to ask your last name or where you came from, all right? I’ll make up a chart without a last name but I’ll date it. I’ll take some pictures with a digital camera. And if you can be convinced to stay put for a day or two, I’d like to take you to Grace Valley for an ultrasound—see how that baby’s doing. Just stay long enough to be sure your injuries aren’t any more serious than I can tell from this exam. By now you know—while you’re under Preacher’s care, no one can hurt you.”

“He said… John said I could stay a couple of days. But he’s…”

“He’s what?” Mel asked, frowning.

“He’s a little scary.”

Mel chuckled. “No, he’s a lot scary. Looking. First time I saw him, I was afraid to move. But he’s been my husband’s best friend for something like fifteen years now, his partner in that bar for more than two. He’s gentle as a lamb. He takes a little getting used to…. But he’s so good,” she added softly. “His heart. It’s so big. As big as he is.”

“I don’t know…”

“You could come out to our place,” Mel offered. “We could find another bed. Or stay here in the clinic. We have two hospital beds upstairs for patients. But Preacher can protect you better than Doc or I can, I guarantee that. Whatever you decide—just so you’re comfortable. Now, I’m going to slip the gown off your shoulder a little bit,” Mel said, pulling the camera out of her shirt pocket. “We’ll make this as painless as possible.” She pulled the gown off her shoulder slightly. “There we go,” she said softly, snapping. She put the gown back up. Then she went to the other shoulder, slowly, gently, quickly getting the picture. One body part at a time; her back, her thighs, her arms, her chest above her breasts. Last, her face, and in that picture, Paige’s eyes were closed.

After the pictures were taken, Mel asked for a complete medical history. “But with no last name. It’s only for medical purposes, so you can be treated if it becomes necessary. After we’re done, you should lie down. Where would you like to go?”

“What about Christopher?”

“Maybe he’ll nap a little bit. Or we can keep an eye on him. Between us—my husband, me, Preacher, Doc—we can keep him occupied. Girl,” she said, “you have no idea what a piece of luck it was that you stumbled into Virgin River. This place doesn’t have so much by way of technology or shopping, but you won’t find a town with more heart.” She smiled. “Or better food.”

“I don’t want to burden my problems on this little town,” she said miserably.

“Well,” Mel said, gently touching her hand, “you would hardly be the first.”

Three

Jack was behind the bar having coffee while one of his breakfast regulars was eating when Paige and Christopher came in. Paige stopped inside the door, looking across the room tentatively. Jack gave a small smile and a nod. “Preacher’s in the kitchen,” he said.

She looked down as she walked past him into the kitchen. Jack gave her a few minutes, refilled Harv’s cup, then went to the kitchen. Preacher was alone; he’d just lifted a rack of glasses out of the dishwasher. “If you say it’s okay, she’s going to stay a couple of days. Till the kid feels better,” Preacher said.

“Is that all it is?” Jack asked. “She in some trouble?”

Preacher shrugged and put the rack on the counter.

“You don’t know her, Preacher. Don’t know who did that to her face.”

“I’m not worried about who,” he said. “Jesus. I’d love to see who.”

“If you want her to stay, she stays. I’m just saying…”

“This is your place,” Preacher said.

“Do I make you feel like that? That it’s my place? Because—”

“Nah,” Preacher said. “You’re good that way, even if it really is your place. I just don’t want you to make her… them… feel bad about it.”

“I won’t do that. Don’t screw with me. You know I consider us partners. This is your place, too. That’s your room.”

“Okay, then.” Preacher took the rack of glasses out to the bar.

Jack followed. “If you’re okay here, I’m going to step out.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be right back,” Jack said.

Jack walked across the street to Doc’s. There were no patients, but Doc and Mel were inside the front door where, behind the reception counter, Doc was sitting at the desk, eyes focused on the computer.

Mel stood behind Doc, her hand on his shoulder. She looked up when Jack entered and inclined her head slightly, indicating he should come behind the counter. Her eyes were so troubled and angry, he went toward them. Mel glanced back at the computer screen.

Jack had never done anything like this before; Mel had never pulled him into her medical business, even though confidentiality was as safe with Jack as with either of them. She didn’t confide medical issues with her husband because that was an ethic she was firm about.

There on the screen were the pictures from the digital. Paige’s battered body was on display in many different angles. The bruises were astonishingly bad. If he saw bruises like that on Mel, it would be impossible for him to keep from killing someone.

“Good God,” he said in a breath. He wondered if Preacher knew there was a lot more to his houseguest than a little bruise on her cheek.

Mel looked up at her husband and saw the grim set of his jaw, the pulsing of a vein in his temple. His narrow eyes. “This goes no further,” she said.

“Of course not.”

“Do you understand why you’re standing here, looking at this with us?”

“I think so. She’s at the bar. Preacher wants her to stay.”

“Well, you should know, I told her she could stay with us if she wanted to. I think she feels okay at your bar, especially since I vouched for Preacher. We have to get her some help or this beast will kill her.”

“Of course. You think Preach knows how bad this is?”

“I have no idea. I’m not sharing this with him, but you need to know what’s going on if she’s under your roof.”

“Our roof,” he said. Mel and the baby—they were his life. He couldn’t imagine laying anything but a loving hand on her. “You know anything about her? Because I don’t want Preacher getting used. Or hurt.”

Mel shrugged. “I don’t even know where she came from. But I don’t think Preacher’s the one you have to worry about at the moment.”

“He’s already caught up in this. Taking it on.”

“Well, good for him. She needs someone to take this on. And Preacher can take care of himself.”

“Yeah, we just went over that.”

Mel leaned against Jack and he put his arm around her. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen a lot,” she said in a breath. “This is one dangerous son of a bitch.”

“I don’t want you in over your head, either,” he said.

“Save it. I have a job to do.”

“This is really bad, Mel,” he said.

“Even more reason why I’d better do my job.”

Preacher was surprised that Paige came back from Mel deciding to stay a couple of days. She seemed so hell-bent to take off. She took Christopher upstairs in the morning and there hadn’t been a sound from up there. They missed lunch altogether. But, he reasoned, if the kid didn’t feel good, maybe he’d sleep extra long, which would give his banged-up mother a needed rest.

During the quiet of the afternoon was when he usually got dinner ready, but today he got out one of his older cookbooks. He had great admiration for Martha Stewart, even though most of her recipes were too fussy for a bar. But he liked the real old-fashioned ones—old Betty Crocker, Julia Child—before everyone started eating light and watching their cholesterol.

He looked up cookies.

Preacher didn’t know a lot about kids, and there wasn’t much call for cookies in a bar, but he had tender memories of his mother making cookies. She had been a little tiny thing. Tiny, high-principled, soft-spoken but stern, and real shy—he’d inherited the shy part, probably. His dad had died when he was young, but he hadn’t been a big guy, either—just average. And here came Preacher. More than nine pounds at birth, almost six feet by the seventh grade.

He didn’t have cookie stuff on hand. But he had flour, sugar, butter and peanut butter—a good thing. Those ingredients would make the soft, sweet kind of cookies, anyway. While he was mixing the dough and rolling little brown balls he found himself thinking about the sight of his mother and him sitting together in mass—her narrow shoulders, high-buttoned dress, graying hair pulled into a proper bun at the nape of her neck. And he, beside her, taking two spaces in the pew by the time he was fifteen. While he was gently pressing the little balls flat with a fork, he chuckled to himself, remembering when she taught him to drive. It was one of the only times he heard her raise her voice, get all flustered and upset. His feet were so big and his legs so long, he was rugged on the accelerator, the brakes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, John! You have to be gentler! Slower, more graceful! I should have sent you to ballet lessons instead of football! It was a surprise she didn’t die of a heart attack, riding with him.

She did die of a heart attack a little while later, the summer before Preacher’s senior year in high school. She didn’t look like the kind of woman with a weak heart, but how would anyone know? She never went to the doctor.

Preacher was working on his second tray when he glanced up and saw that little blond head, peeking at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Hi,” Preacher said. “You sleep?” Christopher nodded. “Good,” he said. “Feel better?” Chris nodded again.

Watching the boy’s face, Preacher slowly pushed a fresh-baked cookie across the counter with one finger until it was at the edge. It was a good minute before Chris took one step toward the cookie. Almost another full minute before his little hand touched it, but he didn’t take it. Just touched it, looking up at Preacher. “Go ahead. Tell me if it’s any good.”

Chris slowly pulled the cookie off the counter and to his mouth, taking a very small, careful bite.

“Good?” Preacher asked. And he nodded.

So Preacher set him up a glass of milk right where the cookie had been. The boy nibbled that cookie in tiny bites; it took him so long to finish it that Preacher was pulling out the second cookie sheet and taking off the cookies before he was done. There was a stool on the other side of the counter near the milk and eventually Chris started trying to get up. But he had some stuffed toy in his grip and couldn’t make the climb, so Preacher went around and lifted him up. Then he went back to his side of the counter and pushed another cookie toward him. “Don’t pick it up yet,” Preacher said. “It’s kind of hot. Try the milk.”

Preacher started rolling peanut butter dough into balls, placing them on the cookie sheet. “Who you got there?” he asked, nodding toward the stuffed toy.

“Bear,” Christopher said. He reached his hand toward the cookie.

Preacher said, “Make sure it’s not too hot for your mouth. So—his name’s just Bear?” Christopher nodded. “Seems like maybe he’s missing a leg, there.”

Again the boy nodded. “Doesn’t hurt him, though.”

“That’s a break. He ought to have one, anyway. I mean, it wouldn’t be the same as his own, but it would help him get by. When he has to go for a long walk.”

The kid laughed. “He don’t walk. I walk.”

“He doesn’t, huh? He should have one for looks, then.” He lifted one of his bushy black brows. “Think so?”

Christopher lifted the small, worn brown bear. “Hmm,” he replied thoughtfully. He bit the cookie and immediately opened his mouth wide and let the sloppy mouthful fall onto the counter. For a second his look was stricken. Maybe terrified.

“Hot, huh?” Preacher asked, not reacting. He reached behind him, ripped off a paper towel and whisked away the spit-out. “Might want to give it about one more minute. Have a drink of milk there. Cool down the mouth.”

They communed in silence for a while—Preacher, Chris, the three-legged bear. When Preacher had all his little balls rolled, he began mashing them with his fork, perfect lines left, then right.

“What’s that yer doing?” Christopher asked him.

“Making cookies. First you mix the dough, then you roll the balls, then you smash them with the fork, nice and easy. Then they go in the oven.” He peered at Chris from underneath the heavy brows. “I bet you could do this part. If you were careful and went nice and slow.”

“I could.”

“You’d have to come around here, let me lift you up.”

“’Kay,” he said, putting his bear on the counter, getting off his stool and coming to Preacher.

Preacher lifted him up to sit on the edge of the counter. He helped him hold the fork and showed him how to press down. His first solo attempt was a little messy, so Preacher helped him again. Then he did it pretty well. Preacher let him finish the tray, then put it in the oven.

“John?” the boy asked. “How many of them we gotta do?”

Preacher smiled. “Tell you what, pardner. We’ll do as many as you want,” he said.

Christopher smiled. “’Kay,” he said.

Paige came slowly awake, her first realization being that she’d slept so hard, she’d drooled on the pillow. She sleepily wiped her mouth and turned her head to look at Christopher, only to find his side of the bed empty. She sat up with a sudden start that jolted her bruised and sore body. She got up and looked around the bedroom quickly, but he wasn’t there. She went down the stairs in her stocking feet. When she got to the bottom, she stopped suddenly.

Chris was sitting up on the counter, John standing beside him. They were both rolling brown dough into small balls. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched. John had heard her come down and smiled at her. He gave Chris a nudge and inclined his head toward Paige, so Chris turned.

“Mom,” he said. “We’re makin’ cookies.”

“I see that,” she said.

“John said Bear needs a leg—”

“He’s been getting along fine—”

“For looks,” Christopher said.

Paige thought that Bear had been looking pretty awful for a long time now. But for the first time in too long, Christopher looked okay.

When Rick came to work after school, it was just Preacher in the kitchen, working on dinner. Rick, now seventeen, had been Jack’s shadow since Jack first came to town. Preacher came not long after and it was a threesome. Rick lived with his widowed grandmother, his parents long dead, and the guys took him on, let him help in the bar, taught him to hunt and fish, helped him buy his first rifle. Sometimes he was a pain—talked too much. But he’d only been a kid in puberty then—zits trying to beat out freckles—and a little hyper. He’d grown taller in the years since, filled out, quieted down. After about a year of building, the bar opened and they put him to work there.

“Rick. You need a briefing,” Preacher told him.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“There’s a woman and kid upstairs in my old room. I’m looking out for them. Kid doesn’t feel so hot right now—he might be coming down with something. They’re staying awhile. Looks like maybe. Well,” Preacher said, struggling with the words. “She’s got a bruised face, a cut lip. I think she ran into some trouble and she’s on the move. So… We’re not going to say their names around, just in case someone’s looking for her. Her name’s Paige, the kid’s name is Christopher—but we’re not going to say names for a while. And they’re going to stay until they feel better. You know?”

“Holy God, Preach,” Rick said. “What’re you doing?”

“I told you. I’m looking out for them.”

Preacher had no experience with children and wasn’t planning on having his own. He was thirty-two and hadn’t had a single serious relationship with a woman. He figured he and Jack would fish, run the bar, hunt a little, have regular reunions with the squad, but he couldn’t see life changing much. That Jack fell in love and got married hadn’t upset Preacher’s expectations because he thought Mel was the best. It just hadn’t changed his own life. One of the reasons he liked Virgin River—it was less obvious he’d always be alone.

Then his life began to change in days. Really, in hours.

Christopher would run down the stairs in his pajamas before his mother could grab him, stop him. He liked to eat his breakfast at the kitchen counter and watch while Preacher diced vegetables, shredded cheese and whipped eggs for omelets. Then there was sweeping to do, and Chris liked having his own broom. There was that bear skin and mounted buck’s head—which he needed to be lifted up to touch. They got some coloring books and crayons from Mel’s clinic so Chris had something to do while Preacher worked on lunch or dinner. And there were more cookies to bake than there were to eat—cookies were not exactly bar food. Then, amazingly, Paige helped with the washup in the kitchen—probably to be near Chris, who wanted to be with Preacher, and maybe a little to earn her keep. He found this not only helpful, but awful pleasant.

Paige needed to rest, though at first she was reluctant to leave her child in John’s care. She seemed to get beyond that nervousness, probably because she was usually near and Chris seemed to be relaxed. And on the fourth day of her stay, at Mel’s convincing, she actually left Chris with Preacher while she went somewhere with Mel. Preacher made no speculation of where they were going—he was just flattered that she had come to trust him enough to babysit without supervision.

But still, he used the time to his advantage.

Preacher had been on the Internet, learning about domestic abuse and California law regarding the same. He had done this late at night because there were things he needed to understand about her situation, her terrible bruises, her flight. First of all, it didn’t matter if it were a husband or boyfriend, either were equally dangerous. Then there was lots of stuff about how she could be cited with parental kidnapping if she’d taken a man’s child away, even after what had been done to her, and how whoever beat her up could be let off with misdemeanors the first couple of times, but the third time was a felony, which carried a prison sentence.

He also read about the psychology of this syndrome, how you could be sucked in, manipulated, terrified—and suddenly find yourself in a life-threatening situation. Battered women who were threatened with death if they told, if they fled, if they fought back—were often killed. It chilled Preacher to the bones.

So, while Chris was napping and Paige was off somewhere with Mel, Preacher called one of his best friends from the Corps, one of the guys who came up to Virgin River regularly when they gathered for fishing, hunting and poker. Mike Valenzuela was LAPD—a sergeant in the gangs division. Too bad he couldn’t be in the domestic violence division. Preacher called him, told him about Paige.

“She doesn’t know I happened to see,” Preacher said. “It was just a little crack in the door and I saw her in the mirror, and Jesus… She was so beat up, it’s amazing she’s not dead. She’s running for her life, man. She ran to get her three-year-old kid out of there. So how is it he can file kidnapping charges against her and get her back?”

“Parental kidnapping. But here’s the thing—if there’s evidence that he’s battered her in the past, if he has a record, she might have to return and face her kidnapping charges, but they’d probably be pleaded down or dismissed, given the situation. And she could probably gain at least temporary custody at that time, a divorce, a restraining order, what she needs to stay safe.”

“But she’d have to go back,” he said, a note of desperation in his voice.

“Preacher. She wouldn’t necessarily have to go back alone. Hey, how into this woman are you?”

“It’s not like that, man. I’m just trying to help out. That little kid—he’s a good little kid. If I could help with this, even a little, it would make me feel like I’d done something that mattered. For once.”

“Preach.” Mike laughed. “I was with you in Iraq! You mattered damn near every day, for God’s sake! Hey—where did you learn all this stuff about battery DV? Huh?”

“I got a computer,” Preacher answered. “Doesn’t everyone but Jack have a computer?”

“I guess.” Mike laughed.

“One thing I can’t get online—I wanna know who she is, how guilty he is, and what’s the best way to go here. All I know is her license plate…. California plate…”

“Aw, Preach. I’m not supposed to do that.”

“Couldn’t you be curious?” Preacher asked. “Because there could actually be a crime in here somewhere. All you have to do is look, Mike.”

“Hey, Preacher,” Mike said. “What if it’s not good news?”

“Would it be the truth?” Preacher asked. “Because I think that might be important here.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Might be.”

Preacher swallowed hard and hoped it would be okay. “Thanks,” he said. “Go ahead and hurry, huh?”

Paige had gone with Mel to Grace Valley where Dr. John Stone examined her and performed an ultrasound, showing her a small, beating heart in a little mass that didn’t look anything like a baby. But it gave her hope. She had gotten out in time. Barely in time.

The pregnancy was an accident, of course. Wes didn’t want children. He hadn’t wanted Christopher—it interfered with his focus, which was his job and his possessions, Paige being chief among them. Perhaps this new baby precipitated the beating; she’d only told him a couple of days before. In fact, she’d been terrified to tell him. But then, if he didn’t want it, why put her through so much? Why not just suggest termination?

The larger question was how could Paige be so relieved to learn the baby had survived when Wes’s merest touch repelled her? She was, that’s all. But then, she’d come to think of her son as the one good thing that could come out of the biggest mistake of her life. Have you been raped? Mel had asked. Oh, no—not rape. She wouldn’t dare tell Wes no…

When she got back to Virgin River, she found Chris making bread with John, kneading and punching the dough, laughing.

Such an uncomplicated scene, she thought. So many times when Wes was stressing out and getting himself all worked up about his job, the financial pressures of their lifestyle, she had told him that simplifying things would actually appeal to her. No, she didn’t want to be dirt poor and worked to death, but she could be so content in a smaller house with a happier husband. Not long before Chris had been born, Wes bought the big house in an exclusive, guarded, gated L.A. community—more house than they could ever need, and hanging on to it was killing him. Killing her.

So, here she was. The baby had made it. She had to get going, to that address in Spokane, to the first step in her underground escape. The dresser had not been pulled against the door since the first night and she thought she’d give herself another twenty-four hours to rest, then leave in the quiet of night. If there was no rain, the roads wouldn’t be so difficult and it would be easier to travel at night while Chris slept.

There was a soft tapping at the door. It was her instinct to ask who was there, but there was only one possibility. She pulled the door open and there stood John, looking nervous. Looking, in spite of his height and girth, like a teenager. He might’ve had a flush on his cheeks.

“I closed up the bar. I was thinking about a short drink before calling it a night. How about you? Wanna come down for a little while?”

“For a drink?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you want.” He peered past her. “He asleep?”

“Out like a light, despite an overdose of cookies.”

“Yeah, I probably gave him too many. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry—he loves making them. If he makes them, he has to eat them. It’s fun—sometimes that’s more important than nutrition.”

“I’ll do whatever you say,” Preacher said. “I could cut him back. He likes ‘em though. He especially likes burning his mouth on them. He doesn’t wait so good.”

“I know,” she said, smiling. “You have anything like… tea?”

“Sure. Aside from sportsmen, I serve mostly little old ladies.” He took on a shocked look. “I didn’t mean.”

“A cup of tea would be nice. Good.”

“Great,” he said, turning and preceding her down the stairs, looking almost grateful to get away.

He got busy brewing tea in the kitchen, so Paige went into the bar and sat at the table where she saw his drink by the fire. When he finally brought her that cup of tea, he said, “You have a good time with Mel today?”

“Yes. Was Christopher a lot of trouble?”

He shook his head with a chuckle. “Nah, he’s a kick. He wants to know everything. Every detail. ‘Why is it a quarter teaspoon of that?’ ‘What does the Crisco on the tray do?’ And man, yeast blows him away. I think he has a little scientist in him.”

Paige thought, he couldn’t ask his father questions. Wes didn’t have the patience to answer them. “John, do you have family?”

“Not anymore. I was an only child. And my folks were older, anyway—they didn’t think they were going to have kids. Then I surprised ‘em. Boy, did I surprise ‘em. My dad died when I was about six—a construction accident. And then my mom when I was seventeen, right before my senior year.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks. It’s okay. I’ve had a good life.”

“What did you do when you lost your mother? Go live with aunts or something?”

“No aunts,” he said, shaking his head. “My football coach took me in. It was good—he had a nice wife, good bunch of little kids. Might as well have lived with him. He acted like he owned me during football, anyway,” he said with a laugh. “Nah, kidding aside, that was a good thing he did. Good guy. We used to write—now we e-mail.”

“What happened to your mom?”

“Heart attack.” After a moment of respectful silence, looking into his lap, he laughed softly. “You won’t believe this—she died at confession. That really tore me up at first. I thought maybe she had some deep, dark secret that threw her into a heart attack—but I was tight with the priest—I was his altar boy. And it was hard for him, but finally he leveled with me. See, my mom was the parish secretary and real… how should I say this? Kind of a church lady. Father Damien finally told me, my mom’s confessions were so boring, he used to nod off. He thought they’d both just fallen asleep, but she was dead.” He lifted his eyebrows. “My mom, good woman, not a lot of excitement going on there. She lived for that job, loved the clergy, loved the church. She’d have made a great nun. But you know what? She was happy. I don’t think she had any idea she was boring and straitlaced.”

“You must miss her so much,” Paige said, sipping her tea in front of the fire, trying to remember when she last had a conversation like this. Unhurried, nonthreatening, warm in front of a friendly fire.

“I do. This is going to sound stupid, especially since I’m no kid—sometimes I pretend she’s back there, in that little house we lived in, and that I’m just getting my stuff together to go see her.”

“That doesn’t sound stupid….”

“There anybody you really miss?” he asked her.

The question caused her to suddenly go still, her cup frozen in midair. Not her dad, so scrappy and short-tempered. Not her mom who, without knowing or meaning to, had trained her to be a battered wife. Not Bud, her brother, a mean little bastard who had failed to help her in her darkest hour. “I had a couple of really close girlfriends. Roommates. We lost touch. I miss them sometimes.”

“You know where they are?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Both got married and moved,” she said. “I wrote a couple of times… Then my letters came back.” They didn’t want to be in touch with her; they knew things were bad. They hated Wes; Wes hated them. They had tried to help, briefly, but he ran them off and she rejected their help out of pure shame. What were they supposed to do? “How’d you get so close to Jack?” she asked him.

“Marines,” he said with a shrug.

“Did you go into the military together?”

“Nah.” He laughed. “Jack’s older than me—by about eight years. I’ve always looked older than I was—even when I was twelve. And Jack—I bet he’s always looked younger. He was my first sergeant in combat, back in Desert Storm.” And for a split second he was back there. Changing a tire on a truck when the tire exploded and the rim knocked him back six feet and he couldn’t get up. He remembered it like it was yesterday—he had always been so huge, so rock hard, so strong, and he couldn’t move. He might’ve been unconscious for a little while because he saw his mother leaning over him, looking right into his eyes and saying, “John, get up. Get up, John.” Right there in that paisley, high-collared dress, graying hair pulled back.

But he couldn’t move, so he started to cry. And cry. Mom! he’d cried out.

Yeah, you have a lot of pain, buddy? Jack asked, leaning over him.

And Preacher said, It’s my mom. I want my mom. I miss my mom.

We’re gonna get you back to her, pal. Take a few deep breaths.

She’s dead, Preacher said. She died.

She’s been dead a couple years at least, one of his squad members told Jack.

I’m sorry, Sarge, I couldn’t help it. I’ve never done this before. Cried like this. We ‘re not supposed to cry…. I never did before, I swear. But he cried helplessly even as he said that.

We cry over people we lose, buddy. It’s okay.

Father Damien said, remember she’s with God and she’s happy and don’t soil her memory with crying about it.

Priests are usually smarter than that, Jack had said with a disapproving snort. You don’t cry over something like that and the tears turn into snakes that eat you from the inside out. The crying part—it’s required.

I’m sorry….

You get it out, buddy, or you’ll be worse off. Call her, call out to your mom, get her attention, cry for her. It’s damn past time!

And he had. Sobbed like a baby, Jack’s arms under his shoulders, holding him up a little. Jack rocked him and said, Yeah, there you go. There you go…

Jack sat with him for a while, talking to him about his mother, and Preacher told him that he made it through that last year of school, tough and silent. Then, with no idea where to go or what to do, he joined up. So he could have brothers, which he had now, but it wasn’t enough to take away the need for his mother. And that goddamn tire rim almost cut him in half and it was like the pain of losing her came pouring out. It was humiliating, to be six four and two-fifty, sobbing for your five-foot, three-inch mommy. Jack said, Nah, it’s just what you need. Get it out.

After a little while, Jack pulled him up, hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him about a mile down the road to meet their convoy. And Jack had said, Let it out, buddy. After you get it all out, you stick to me like duct tape—I’m your mother now.

“It’s no good to lose touch with people who mean a lot,” Preacher said to Paige. “Ever think of trying to find those girlfriends again?”

“I haven’t thought about that in a while,” she told him.

“If you ever want to try, I could maybe help.”

“How could you do that?”

“On the computer. I like to look things up. It’s kind of slow, but it works. Think about it.”

She said she would. Then she said she was awful tired and had to get some sleep, so they said good-night. She went up the stairs and he went to his apartment out back.

That’s when she decided she’d better get moving. She couldn’t afford to get comfortable here. No more cozy little chats, no more late-night questions. Attachments were completely out of the question.

Four

Paige got the suitcase ready. She pulled the covers back from her sleeping son to search for Bear, but he wasn’t there. She nearly stripped the bed around him, looking. Then down on her knees to look under the bed, in the bathroom, in every empty drawer of the bureau—nowhere. She’d check in the kitchen before leaving, but if Bear was lost, he would have to be left behind.

She pulled two hundred dollars out of her billfold and put it on the bureau, then sat, still as stone, on the edge of the bed next to Christopher. Palms together, hands pressed between her knees, she waited. At midnight, she put on her jacket and crept quietly down the stairs. The cabin was so solid, not even a board squeaked.

He’d left a light on in the kitchen for her. This was the only time she’d come down after bedtime since that first night, but she suspected John left that light on for her every night. She tiptoed stealthily toward the door to his apartment and listened. No sound, no light under the door.

She’d located a flashlight in the kitchen when she’d been helping John clean up, a stroke of luck. Up to that point, the best idea she could come up with was a book of matches to light the night while she dealt with the license plates. Once the plates were switched, she’d fetch the suit-case, then Chris. She took a butter knife from the drawer and slipped quietly out the back kitchen door.

Once behind the bar, she was relieved to see no lights on in John’s little apartment. She crouched to the task of removing her plates, easily done even though her hands were shaking. Then she got to work on John’s, taking the license plate off his truck and replacing it with hers. Then back to the Honda, bending down to fix the new plate in place.

“Getting back on the road again, Paige?” Preacher asked.

She jumped, dropped the plate, flashlight and knife, straightening, her breath cut off and her heart hammering. The flashlight lit a path along the ground that illuminated his feet. Then he took a couple of steps toward her and came into complete view.

“That isn’t going to do the trick,” he said, nodding toward her car. “They’re truck plates, Paige. Anyone, like the sheriff or CHP sees your little car with truck plates—they’re gonna know right off.”

She felt her eyes well up with tears. Something like that would never have occurred to her. She shivered in the cold night, her hands shaking worse. Inside, her stomach was gripped in a tight, hard knot.

“Don’t panic,” he said. “I don’t think you need different plates, not yet, but we can get it done. Connie’s got a little car right across the street. She’d never miss ‘em.”

A tear rolled down her cheek and she stooped to pick up the flashlight. “I… Ah… I left some money. Upstairs. For the room. The food. Not much, but…”

“Aw, Paige. You do something like that, it makes me look so bad. You gotta know I never thought about money.”

She hiccuped tears back and said, “What did you think about?”

“Come on,” he said, reaching a hand out toward her. “It’s cold out here. Come back inside, I’ll make you some coffee so you don’t fall asleep on the road, then I’ll switch the plates for you. If that’ll make you feel safer on the drive, even if you don’t really need ‘em.”

She stayed out of his reach, but walked alongside. “Why do you say that? That I don’t need them?”

“No one’s looking for you,” he said. “At least not officially. You’re still okay.”

“How do you know that?” she asked, ready to fall apart and sink into helpless sobs.

“I’ll explain,” he said. “I’ll throw a log on the fire, get you warmed up and we’ll talk. Then I’ll switch the plates for you if you want. But after we talk about it, you’ll probably want to go back upstairs and sleep till morning, drive in daylight. Besides,” he said, holding open the back kitchen door for her, “I got the bear. I’ll get it for you—you can’t leave without the bear.”

She started to cry as she walked into the kitchen, pressing her fingers against her lips. She felt like a caught felon. It made her feel even worse that he was being so nice to her. “I looked everywhere for that damn bear,” she said softly with a whimper.

Preacher turned toward her. Hand pressed against her mouth, eyes overflowing, she seemed to jerk with the effort not to add sound to her crying. Then slowly and carefully, he pulled her by her shoulders toward him, against his big chest, gently circling her with his arms. And she collapsed from inside, sobbing against him. No holding back the sound now, she was racked with tears. “Aw, you been holding that in too long, haven’t you? I been there, all right. It’s okay, Paige. I know you’re scared and worried, but it’s going to be okay.”

She doubted it, but she was helpless in the moment. All she could do was cry and shake her head. She tried to remember when someone had pulled her sweetly into strong arms and tried to make her feel safe. Long ago. So long ago, she couldn’t remember the last time. Not even Wes in the early days, at his most manipulative. No, he would cry. He’d hit her, beat her, then he would cry and she’d comfort him.

Preacher rocked her back and forth in the dimly lit kitchen for a long time until she quieted down, then with a hand on her back, pushed her through the kitchen into the bar. He directed her to that same chair near the fire, stirred up the flame and threw on a new log, and went behind the bar to fix her a brandy. When he put it in front of her, she said, “I have to be ready to drive.”

“You won’t be any good to drive unless you calm down. Just a sip, then if you want coffee, we’ll make some.” He sat down in the chair next to hers and, with elbows on his knees, leaned toward her. “When you came in here, I had no idea what happened to you, but I knew it wasn’t good and I knew it wasn’t a car door. You have California plates. So, I called a good friend of mine—someone I knew I could trust. He checked out the plates, registered to your husband. He’s been booked for battery domestic before.” Preacher shrugged. “I didn’t need to know much more than that, did I?”

Paige’s eyes closed, then slowly opened again, focused on his face. She lifted the brandy to her lips and took a tiny sip, not confirming or denying anything.

Preacher went on, “He hasn’t reported you missing, so no law enforcement’s looking for you. I don’t know what your plan is, Paige, but if you take Christopher out of state, you’d be breaking the law—that could go hard on you trying to keep him. I figure you must be thinking that way, ‘cause you came all the way from L.A. and you’re almost out of state now. If you’re thinking of running off on your own and disappearing, whew, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You just don’t know what you’re doing—you’ll get tripped up. You don’t know the difference between truck and car plates. There isn’t much devious going on in that head of yours.”

A huff of rueful laughter escaped her. Maybe that had been her problem; she wasn’t sneaky enough.

“Maybe you have someplace to go where they’ll keep you hidden and safe—that’s a better idea. I just hope wherever that is, there’s a bunch of big, mean, angry guys like me and Jack around, ready, on the off chance the son of a bitch hunts you down and finds you.”

“I don’t have a lot of choices,” she whispered. “I have to get away.”

“’Course you do,” he said. “Do you know there’s one more way to go? You wouldn’t have any trouble getting custody of Chris, at least temporary custody, given the father’s record, even if they weren’t felony charges. You don’t need his okay to get a divorce. Not in this state. It’s no fault.” She was shaking her head, closing her eyes again, another tear spilling down her cheek. But Preacher went on. “There’s restraining orders, and even if he ignores ‘em, it keeps the law on your side. You ever think of these things, Paige?”

“How do you know all this? Did your friend tell you?”

“I wanna find out something, I look it up,” he said.

“Then do you know while I’m trying to do that, he’s going to kill me? He’s mean, and he’s crazy. He’s going to kill me.”

“Not if you stay here,” Preacher said.

She was stunned silent for a moment. Then she said, “I can’t stay here, John. I’m pregnant.”

Then it was Preacher’s turn to show shock. Silent and dark. It settled into his eyes and over his expression slowly as he sat back in the chair, then stood. He went behind the bar and poured himself a shot, throwing it back. When he returned to the chair by the fire, he asked, “Did he know? When he beat you, did he know you were pregnant?”

She nodded and looked away from him, pursing her lips tight. Intellectually, she knew none of this was her fault, but there was an emotional misfire in her brain that said, you married him, had a child with him, didn’t get out in time, let it happen, screwed up, got pregnant again, never ran in time, never saw it coming and it was plain as day.

“You ever been to a shelter?” he asked her. She nodded.

“Here are your choices,” Preacher said calmly. “You can stay here and try to get your ducks in a row so when you do leave, you’re not breaking the law or hiding for the rest of your life. It’s okay if you stay here—there are medical people across the street if you need them, you can help out in the kitchen if you want to, so you don’t feel like you’re taking advantage, and if you happen to run into that son of a bitch around here, we’re ready for him. You think of it as a shelter, like any other shelter—sometimes people just want to help out. Or you can go if you want—continue on with your plan. Whatever it is. You don’t have to run in the night, anyway. Safer in daylight. Huh?” He stood up. “You sit a minute, think, have a little brandy there—it won’t hurt that baby, a tiny sip of brandy, and I think maybe you need it. I’m going to take care of those plates for you, then I’m going to get you the bear. Whatever you decide to do, you can’t leave without the bear, you know that.”

He left her, going through his apartment. She could hear him go out his back door. He must have found the bear in the kitchen and put it in a safe place. A log in the fireplace dropped and she pulled her jacket tighter around her, taking another tiny sip of brandy that burned its way down her throat and did, miraculously, settle her stomach and her nerves, if slightly. Or maybe it was the news that Wes didn’t have the police after her that calmed her a little. A while later, John came back from his apartment, still wearing the jacket he’d obviously fetched, and holding the bear.

“Connie’ll never know the difference on those plates,” he said, holding the bear out to her. “Besides, if she knew what was going on here, she’d tell you to take ‘em.”

She frowned as she looked at the bear, changed. He had a new leg, sewn out of blue-and-gray plaid. It wasn’t exactly the same shape as the surviving leg; it was just a stuffed flannel tube stuck on the bear, but he was symmetrical now. “What did you do?” she asked, taking the bear.

Preacher shrugged. “I told him I’d give it a try. Looks pretty silly, I guess, but it was a good idea at the time.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Think you can get a little rest tonight? You still feel like you have to go right now? I could brew you up some coffee if you wanna just get out of here. I think I even have a thermos I could—”

She stood up, leaving the brandy on the table, holding Bear close against her. “I’m going back to bed,” she said. “I’ll leave in the morning, after Chris has a little breakfast.”

“If that’s what you want,” he said.

Paige awakened to the dim light of morning streaking through the dormer window and the sound of an ax striking wood. She rolled onto her side to see Christopher still sleeping peacefully, gripping the bear with the blue-and-gray flannel leg and she knew she should think about this for a while. It scared her to take a chance like this. But it didn’t scare her any more than driving on to some address in Spokane and a commitment to a life she knew nothing about, and might not be devious enough to pull off.

She’d like to think she had learned one or two things from her experiences. If anything, in any way, made her feel threatened, caused her radar to go up, she’d be gone in a flash. She wouldn’t bother with license plates or goodbyes.

Then there was that guilt—she didn’t want to put these people in Wes’s path, in danger. But her reality was that wherever she went, whether to family, a shelter, into hiding—the people who helped her were at risk. Sometimes it was unbearable to think about.

She dressed quietly, without waking Chris, and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. Preacher was standing at the counter, slicing and dicing for his morning omelets. When he saw her at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the knife froze and he waited.

“I’m going to need to borrow your washer and dryer,” she said. “We didn’t bring too much.”

“Sure.”

“I guess it makes more sense to stay here. A little while. I’ll be glad to help out. If you’re sure.”

He began to dice again, slowly. “We can do that easy. How about minimum wage plus the room and meals. Keep track of your own hours. Jack’ll pay you when you want him to—doesn’t matter. Daily, weekly, monthly. Doesn’t matter.”

“That’s too much, John. I should help for just the room and meals.”

“We open by six, stay open past nine, there are two of us plus Rick after school. Two days and you’re going to be complaining it’s slave labor.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m not ready for the rest—the restraining order, the custody thing. Court documents like that have to reveal where I am, and I’m not up to that.”

“Understandable,” he said.

“Eventually, he’s going to come after me. File charges, have police looking, maybe hire a detective. But he’s going to try to find me. He won’t let me walk away.”

“One thing at a time, Paige,” Preacher said.

“Just so you know…”

“I’m not worried about that. We’ll be ready.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. Where’s that washer?” she asked.

“In my apartment. The door’s never locked.” He stopped chopping again and, looking at her, asked, “What made you decide?”

“Bear’s new leg. That old blue plaid flannel…”

“Old?” Preacher asked, smiling slightly. “That was a perfectly good shirt.”

Preacher took breakfast to Ron and Harv in the bar, and on his way back to the kitchen, glanced out the window to see Jack at the stump with the ax. He heard the sound of the washing machine start up in his apartment.

He poured two cups of coffee and walked out back. When Jack saw him coming, he left the ax stuck in the stump. Preacher passed him a cup.

“Delivery service,” Jack said. “Guess you have something on your mind.” He took a sip, watching Preacher over the rim of the cup.

“I was just thinking, we could probably use a little help around the bar.”

“That so?”

“Paige mentioned she’s looking for something. The kid’s no trouble.”

“Hmm.”

“Seems like a good idea to me,” Preacher said. “Don’t have any use for that bedroom over the kitchen, anyway. You can pay her out of my check.”

“The bar makes money, Preach. It can take on an employee. She doesn’t want fifty grand and a 401(k) or anything, does she?”

Preacher made a face. Jack thought he was funny. “It’ll probably be temporary.”

“My responsibilities are changing,” Jack said. “Growing,” he added with a proud smile. “Be nice to have a little help in there, in case I have other things to do.”

“Good, then. I’ll let her know.” He turned as if to leave.

“Ah, Preacher,” Jack said, and the man turned back. Jack held out his cup for Preacher to take back into the kitchen. “You already let her know, didn’t you?”

“Might’ve let slip I thought we could use her.”

“Yeah. One question. She cover her tracks on her way into town?”

“No one knows she’s here, Jack. Not that it’s any of our business…”

“I’m not nosy, Preacher. I’m prepared.”

“Good,” Preacher said. “That’s good, I like that. Anything changes on that, I’ll let you know.”

There were things about being in Virgin River that gave Paige peace of mind. Small things, like her car sitting behind the bar between two big, extended-cab trucks, a car she had no reason to take out for a drive. The sound of logsplitting in the early dawn hours that coincided almost exactly with the smell of coffee. And the work—she liked the work. It started with bussing tables and doing dishes, but before even a couple of days had passed, John was showing her how he made his soup, bread, pies.

“The real challenge here is making use of what we have,” he told her. “One of the reasons this bar does well and we can get by like we do—we cook what we kill or catch, we make use of Doc and Mel’s patient fees that come in produce and meat and we concentrate on making sure our people are taken care of. Jack says, if we think first about making sure the town is taken care of, we’ll do just fine. And we do.”

“How do you take care of a town?” she asked, confused.

“Aw, it’s real easy,” he said. “We put out three good meals a day, on their budget, and the sharp folks know about the leftovers. When we shop, since we go all the way to the coastal towns and big stores and have our trucks, we check with people who don’t drive so far—old folks, infirm, maybe new mothers—see if we can get them anything. They appreciate that—take a meal or two at the bar. For special occasions we just open up the place, the women bring in the casseroles and the only thing we sell are mixed drinks. We put out a donation jar for the space, sodas, beer—and we make out better than you’d think. We lay in good liquors for the hunters and maybe fly fishermen out this way for contests, but we charge the same prices and they duke us up, real nice.” To her perplexed expression he said, “Tip us, Paige. They know what Johnny Walker Black costs. They like how we try to have what they’re gonna want—they have money. They leave it on the tables and bar.” He grinned.

“Brilliant,” she said.

“Nah. Jack and me—we’ve been hunters, we fish. It’s good to take care of the people that put up with us. Maybe the most important thing is remembering them when they come in—makes ‘em feel welcome. Jack’s good at that. But then there’s the food. We’re small and not very experienced, but the food’s getting a good reputation,” he said, sticking out his chest.

“Yeah,” she said. “Fattening, but good.”

Paige felt that staying in this dinky country bar was like a cocoon, sheltering her from the outside world. Rick and Jack were good about having her there, both of them giving her things to do. It didn’t seem that her minor contributions were so much, but they went on about her as if they didn’t know how they’d gotten by before. Then there were the customers who came in almost daily, sometimes twice a day. It took no time at all for them to regard Paige as someone who’d been there a long time.

“We’re sure getting lots more cookies around here these days,” Connie said. “It took a woman in the kitchen to get it right.”

Paige didn’t bother to explain that it was all John’s doing, for Christopher. It was not for the folks in the bar who’d come to like cookies with their coffee.

“What’d he cook tonight, Paige?” Doc asked.

“Bouillabaisse,” she said. “It’s wonderful.”

“Ach, I hate that crap.” Doc leaned close. “He hide any of yesterday’s stuffed trout back there?”

“I’ll look,” she said, grinning, already feeling a part of something.

Mel was in the bar at least twice a day, sometimes more often. When the place was quiet and she didn’t have patients, she’d sit and talk awhile. Mel knew more about Paige’s special circumstances than anyone, and it was Mel who asked about her recovery. “Better,” Paige said. “Everything’s better. No more spotting.”

“Looks like this was a good idea of yours,” Mel said, looking around and indicating the bar.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Paige said. “John said I could stay, help out around here a little. If I wanted to.”

“It looks like you might be enjoying it,” Mel said. “You’re smiling a lot.”

With a shock of surprise, Paige answered, “I am. Who would’ve guessed? This has been a good…” She paused. “Break,” she finally said. “I guess I can make this work for a while, at least. Until I start to…” Again she paused. “Show,” she said, looking down at her middle.

“Does John know?” Mel asked.

She nodded. “It was the only decent thing to do—to tell him, when he made the offer.”

“Well, even though hardly anyone knows the circumstances that brought you here, I think it’s fair to say everyone around here understands you must have had another life. Before Virgin River. I mean, you do have a son.”

“There’s that,” Paige agreed.

“Besides,” Mel said, sitting back, running two hands over her small tummy. “Lotsa people are starting to ‘show.’ Did you know I’m four months now?”

“That looks about right,” Paige said, smiling.

“Uh-huh. And I’ve been in this town seven months. Married to Jack less than one. I was married before Jack. I was widowed, and according to the experts, completely incapable of conceiving a child.” Paige’s eyes grew round, her mouth forming an O. Mel laughed. “Obviously, I need better experts. Oh, you think you’re the only one who came to this place by way of a wrong turn.”

“There’s more to this story,” Paige said, lifting one brow.

“Just the details, sister. We have plenty of time.” And then Mel laughed brightly.

Paige had been in the little room over the kitchen for ten days, the first four of which she’d been planning her departure. Preacher told her he thought it was working out pretty well. They had a nice little routine. Right after Chris had his breakfast and Paige was showered and primped, she plunged into kitchen work, cleaning up after breakfast. While Chris was with John, either coloring, playing War with a deck of cards, sweeping or doing other chores, Paige would take care of her room and their things. Because she didn’t have much with her, there was frequent laundry in John’s laundry room—so while the washer and dryer hummed along, Paige did a few things she hoped would help him out—cleaning his bathroom, dusting, making up his bed, running the sweeper around his room. “Can I throw in a load of clothes for you?” she asked.

“I’ll take care of that. Listen, you don’t have to clean up after me.”

She laughed at him. “John, I spend all day in the kitchen, collecting your pots, pans and dishes. It’s becoming a habit.” She laughed at his shocked expression. “You look after my child all day long—you’re pretty much helpless, since he won’t leave you alone. The least I can do is help out.”

“I’m not looking after him,” John said. “We’re buddies.”

“Yeah,” she said. And thought, yeah—buddies.

Lunch was usually busy, and Paige served and bussed. Dinner, from five to eight, was also busy, especially this time of year—fall, hunting season with fishing getting good. After eight there were occasionally lingerers, hanging out over beer or drinks, but the cooking was over for the night. That’s when Paige would take Chris upstairs for his bath and bed, and after that she’d only check in to see if anything needed to be done before she called it a night. Occasionally, she’d have a cup of tea with John.

Preacher liked that time of night, when there was no more dinner to be served, when the kitchen was cleaned, when he could hear Paige running water upstairs. Sometimes he could hear her singing play songs with Chris. Before pouring that last shot for the day, he’d look at his cookbooks, planning dinner for the next day or maybe the next week, making supply lists. The process made him feel he had everything managed efficiently. Preacher was very well organized.

It was about eight-thirty and there were a few hunters in the bar. Jack was handling the front. Buck Anderson had brought Mel a couple of nice-size lamb shanks, which came straight to Preacher. He was reading about lamb shanks hestia with cucumber raita when he heard a small shuffle. He looked over the counter to see Christopher standing at the bottom of the stairs, stark naked, book under one arm, Bear under the other.

Preacher lifted one bushy brow. “Forget something there, pardner?” he asked.

Chris picked at his left butt cheek while hanging on to the bear. “You read to me now?”

“Um… Have you had your bath?” Preacher asked. The boy shook his head. “You look like you’re ready for your bath.” He listened upward to the running water.

Chris nodded, then said again, “You read it?”

“C’mere,” Preacher said.

Chris ran around the counter, happy, raising his arms to be lifted up.

“Wait a second,” Preacher said. “I don’t want little boy butt on my clean counter. Just a sec.” He pulled a clean dish towel out of the drawer, spread it on the counter, then lifted him up, sitting him on it. He looked down at the little boy, frowned slightly, then pulled another dish towel out of the drawer. He shook it out and draped it across Chris’s naked lap. “There. Better. Now, what you got here?”

“Horton,” he said, presenting the book.

“There’s a good chance your mother isn’t going to go for this idea,” he said. But he opened the book and began to read. They hadn’t gotten far when he heard the water stop, heard heavy footfalls racing around the upstairs bedroom, heard Paige yell, “Christopher!”

“We better get our story straight,” Preacher said to him.

“Our story,” Chris said, pointing at the page in front of him.

Momentarily there were feet coming down the stairs, fast. When she got to the bottom, she stopped suddenly. “He got away from me while I was running the tub,” she said.

“Yeah. In fact, he’s dressed like he barely escaped.”

“I’m sorry, John. Christopher, get over here. We’ll read after your bath.”

He started to whine and wiggle. “I want John!”

Paige came impatiently around the counter and plucked him, squirming, into her arms.

“I want John,” he complained.

“John’s busy, Chris. Now, you behave.”

“Uh—Paige? I’m not all that busy. If you’ll tell Jack I’m not in the kitchen for a bit, I could do the bath. Tell Jack, so he knows to lock up if everyone leaves.”

She turned around at the foot of the stairs. “You know how to give a child a bath?” she asked.

“Well, no. But is it hard? Harder than scrubbing up a broiler?”

She chuckled in spite of herself. She put Chris down on his feet. “You might want to go a little easier than that. No Brillo pads, no scraping. No soap in the eyes, if you can help it.”

“I can do that,” Preacher said, coming around the counter. “How many times you dunk him?” She gasped and Preacher showed her a smile. “Kidding. I know you only dunk him twice.”

She smirked. “I’ll see if Jack needs anything, and then I’ll be up to supervise.”

Paige was peeling and slicing apples, Preacher rolling out pie dough, when Jack came into the kitchen. “Mel’s out front,” he told them. “She’s going over to the Eureka mall, Paige—she can’t get into her pants anymore. She said you can ride along, if you need anything.”

Paige looked at John, lifting her brows.

“Go on, Paige,” he said. “Chris won’t be up for another hour and I got the kitchen. You probably need all kinds of things.”

“Sure, thanks,” she said, putting her apple and knife in the bowl, taking off her apron.

“Listen,” Preacher said, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I don’t even know if you have credit cards, but you have to be real careful about that. You should shop with cash—huh?” He pulled out his wallet, took some bills out and began to unfold them, peeling off one, then another, then.

Paige went completely pale, her eyes round and clearly frightened. She started shaking her head and backing away. “Tell… Tell Mel I have to do… some things… Okay?”

Jack tilted his head, frowning. “Paige?” he asked.

Paige backed up until she was against the wall, her hands behind her back, her face as white as alabaster. Then a tear rolled down her cheek.

Preacher put his wallet on the counter and said, “Give us a minute, Jack.” Then he took off his own apron and walked toward her. As he neared, she slid down the wall to the floor and put her hands over her face.

Preacher got on his knees in front of her and gently tugged at her hands, pulling them away from her face and holding them. “Paige,” he said softly. “Paige, look at me. What just happened there?”

Her expression was panicked. Tears ran down her cheeks, but her voice was a whisper. “He did that,” she said. “Got his money out of his pocket and said, ‘Go buy yourself some nice things.’ He did that so much. Later, he’d throw the money at me and say he couldn’t afford to have a wife that looked like a vagrant.”

Preacher sat on the floor right next to her. “Did you hear what I said? I didn’t say anything like that, did I? I said, you have to be careful, don’t use your charge card.”

“I heard you,” she said in a whisper. “Did I tell you I married him because my legs hurt?”

“You haven’t said anything about him,” Preacher said. “Nothing at all. That’s okay—you don’t have to say anything unless you want to.”

“I was a beautician. Hair, I did hair. Sometimes twelve-hour days because the pay was so low. We really worked hard. I never had enough for the rent and my roommates and I lived in a real dump. I loved it, but I was tired, broke. Sore. My legs hurt,” she said again. “I knew he was bad for me, my friends hated him, and I married him because he said I didn’t have to work anymore.” She started to laugh and cry together. “Because I didn’t have anything. Because I had nothing…”

“Guys like that know just what to use for bait,” he said. “They have a sense for it.”

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “I read about it.” He wiped a tear from her cheek. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault. You got tricked.”

“I have nothing again,” she said. “A little suitcase, a car with stolen license plates on it, a child and one on the way…”

“You have everything,” he said. “A car with stolen license plates, a son, a baby on the way, friends…”

“I had friends before,” she whispered. “They were scared of him. He ran them off and I lost them forever.”

“Do I look like the kind of friend he can scare? Run off?” He pulled her gently onto his lap and she rested her head against his chest.

“I don’t know why I stay so crazy,” she said softly. “He’s not anywhere near. He’ll never guess this place. But I’m still scared.”

“Yeah, that happens.”

“You’re never scared,” she said.

He chuckled softly, stroked her back. He was scared of a bunch of things, number one being the day she got these problems managed and left with Christopher. “That’s what you think,” he said. “In the Marines, they used to say everyone’s afraid, so you have to learn to use fear to your advantage. Man, if you ever figure out how you do that, let me know. Okay?”

“What did you do when you were scared?” she asked.

“One of two things,” he said. “I’d either pee myself, or I’d get mad.”

She lifted her head off his chest, looked at him and laughed a little.

“That’s a girl,” he said, wiping off her cheeks. “I think you need to get out of Virgin River a little bit. But you’re probably in no shape to go shopping today.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I made a scene.”

“It’s a little country bar, Paige. We live for those.” He grinned. Then he sobered. “They also used to say, stare it in the face—fake brave. They taught us to look mean.”

She shuddered.

“Never mind all that. Tomorrow I’ll go for supplies instead of Jack. He can get lunch for once. I’ll take you and Chris, get you out of town for a break. You can pick up a few things, if you want to. I’m not buying you anything, though. I’ll use the bar charge card so we can get our annual perks, you save your receipts and catch me up later, after a payday or two.” He touched her nose. “Chris is running around naked. Suggests a wardrobe problem.”

Jack had backed out of the kitchen slowly when Preacher asked for a moment. As slowly as he could, because something major was happening and he was curious. When he got back to the bar, Mel was waiting, up on a stool. “What’s up?” she asked.

Jack put a finger to his lips, shushing her. “Something’s going on,” he whispered.

“Yeah?” she asked, none the wiser.

Jack stuck his head back close to the door. Eavesdropping.

“Jack!” she scolded in a furious whisper.

He put a finger to his lips again. Then with a frown on his face, he went behind the bar and glared down at his pretty young wife. “Paige is having a breakdown in there.…”

“Oh? Does Preacher need help?”

Jack shook his head. “He asked me to step out. I heard a couple of things, purely by accident.”

“I saw…”

“She has a car with stolen license plates?”

Mel sat suddenly straight, eyes wide. “No kidding?” she asked. “I guess I better check mine, see if they’re still mine.” Then she smiled cutely.

“And there’s a baby coming?”

“Really?” she asked.

“You’re not fooling me,” he said. “You know things.”

Mel made a face at him, as if to say, Duh. Of course I know things. Patient things. She might have shared Paige’s bruises with him, so he could be prepared for anything and help protect her, but she wasn’t a bigmouth. She got off the bar stool and went to the swinging door to the kitchen. She peeked; Preacher was sitting on the floor, gently rocking Paige on his lap. Ah, that was probably exactly what she needed at the moment. Better than a sedative.

Mel walked behind the bar and got up on her toes to kiss Jack. “I don’t think she wants to go shopping. Tell her I went ahead—I have to cover up the baby.”

“You do that.”

“Um, Jack? I don’t quite know how to explain this to you. You and I have such different life experiences with things like this….”

“Starting with, I would never hit a woman.”

“That’s lovely, Jack. That’s not what I mean. Hmm,” she said, looking skyward. “It might be easiest for you if you thought of Paige as a POW.”

“A POW?” he asked, looking startled and confused at once.

“That’s the closest thing I can think of that you can relate to. I’ll be back as soon as I have a bagful of elastic waistbands, okay?”

“Sure. Okay.”

A couple of hours later, with still plenty of time before the dinner hour, Jack was sitting on the porch, tying off flies for fishing. Paige came onto the porch holding a slice of fresh apple pie on a plate. He took it and said, “Oohh, still warm…”

“I’m sorry about before, Jack. I’m a little embarrassed.”

He looked up at her, saw a sweet, docile face—the face of a devoted young mother, a pregnant woman running to protect her unborn baby. And, as he had been instructed by Mel, he imagined an enforced barricade, deprivation, regular beatings, fear of death—for years. It was not only hard to imagine a young woman like Paige, so helpful and tender, going through something like that, it was impossible to imagine the kind of man who might subject her to it. “Don’t worry about that, okay? We all have our moments.”

“No, we don’t. Only I—”

He cut her off, laughing. “Oh, don’t go there. Don’t go the ‘only I have this baggage’ route. Ask Mel—not long before I married her, I had a fantastic meltdown. Come to think of it, so did she!” Then he frowned slightly. “On second thought—could you take my word for it?”

Paige tilted her head. “She wouldn’t want to be asked about that?”

“Nah, I don’t think she’d mind. It just pisses me off—the way she never tells me anything, and I just lay it all out there. I don’t know how she does it.”

“That’s okay, Jack.” She laughed. “I won’t ask. I apologize, however.”

“No need, Paige. I just hope you feel better.”

John took the supply list, Chris and Paige to Eureka. They went to Target first so the groceries wouldn’t go bad in the truck while they shopped. She bought a few things—underwear, jeans, shirts. John held Chris’s hand outside the dressing room while she tried things on. They stopped at the bookstore. John spent some time in the history section, picking up a couple of books—the same type she’d seen on his bookshelf. Then when he came to the children’s section to see if they were ready to go, Paige put up the books they’d been looking at and said, “Okay.”

“Maybe we should get a new book or two,” he said.

“We have his favorites,” she said.

“We could use two new ones,” he said. “Okay if I do this?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said.

Maybe the best part of the outing was the drive. She’d come into Virgin River at night, in the rain, and except for her quick trip to Grace Valley along the back mountain roads, hadn’t seen much of the countryside. John took them for a little drive along the high cliffs of the Pacific Coast—so different up here in the north than in L.A. He passed through a redwood grove, then up into the mountains toward Virgin River.

She looked over at him as he drove; he was grinning. “Why are you smiling?” she asked him.

He turned to look at her. “I’ve never been shopping with a woman before,” he said. “I didn’t hate it.”

Five

During her stay in Virgin River, Paige started out in the bedroom above the kitchen, reluctant to step outside. Next the kitchen, then the bar, then late evenings with John in front of the fire, talking. And then she’d begun working, getting to know the locals. Gradually her circle widened until she’d been to the corner store a few times, then she’d gone to the little library, open on Tuesdays, to get picture books for Chris and novels for herself.

In only three weeks, she no longer felt like a guest. A newcomer, certainly, but for the first time in years, at ease with her surroundings. The days were long, the work wasn’t light. Her legs hurt again, and this time she was grateful for the opportunity to spend this kind of physical energy rather than being locked up and emotionally drained from the constant tension and uncertainty of her life. She fixed her own breakfast and lunch, ate dinner in the kitchen with Rick and John between hustling meals and doing dishes, and it felt good.

After Chris was asleep, she read for a couple of hours, and actually fell into the story, something she hadn’t been able to do in years. She left her sleeping boy to go downstairs to get herself a glass of milk, smiling as she descended the stairs—there was always a night-light on in the kitchen, welcoming her. She noticed a glow from the bar and peeked in. John sat in the darkened bar at the table in front of the fire, his feet up on the open hearth. She walked into the room.

“Isn’t this awful late for you?” she asked.

He jumped in surprise, put his feet on the floor and sat up straight. “Paige! I didn’t hear you come down.”

“Just prowling around, getting a glass of milk. What’s the matter? Can’t sleep?”

“Having a little trouble, yeah. I’ll go in a minute.”

“Want some company?” He had a strange look on his face. “Oh, I guess you want a little time to yourself.”

“That’s okay…” he said.

“No, I understand. You’ve been here alone all this time and now you have people underfoot. I’ll just see you in the—”

“Sit down, Paige,” he said, somber. Unhappy.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, pulling out a chair.

He shook his head. “It’s not so good. I didn’t want to do this tonight. I wanted to save this for morning.”

“Did I do something?” she asked, frowning. “Is there something I need to—”

“You’re perfect,” he said. “It’s not you—you’re perfect. I got some bad news a little while ago. Wes did it—what you expected. He finally did it. Reported you and Chris missing. Almost two weeks ago.”

She was stunned speechless for a moment. She sank weakly into the chair. While she was settling in, growing more comfortable with her surroundings, her new friends, he had crossed her mind often. She’d look over her shoulder; she couldn’t help it. A shudder would pass through her now and then and often her heart would start to beat a little wildly and she’d have to focus her energy on breathing evenly, reminding herself he was nowhere near, and it would pass.

She closed her eyes briefly. “I’ll go up and pack,” she said softly. “I’d better get going. Get back to the plan…”

“Don’t pack yet, Paige,” he said. “Let’s talk about it.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about, John. He’s after me—I have to get us away. I can’t afford to take a chance.”

“If you run, you’re taking a bigger chance. If they pick you up, they’re going to take Chris to him and arrest you. You have to do it, Paige. Face him down,” Preacher said. “I’ll help. I’ll find a way to get you through this.”

“There’s only one way through this—I have to get out of here. You said it yourself, he’ll outsmart me.”

“I never said that,” he argued. “I said you’re not devious. But I think you can beat him. I know a couple of people—my buddy the cop, for one. There’s a judge in Grace Valley I’ve been fishing with—I know he’ll help if he can. Jack’s little sister, Brie, is a lawyer—a hotshot lawyer in the state capital—and she knows everyone. Brie—she’s so smart, it’s scary. We have to ask some of these people how you can get out of this mess and have a real life. I’ll see it through with you, till you’re free and safe.”

She sat forward in her chair. “Listen, why are you doing this? What do you think you’ll get out of it?”

“Me? Sleep, that’s what. When this is over, I’ll sleep at night knowing you’re not getting beat up, knowing Chris isn’t growing up mean, learning how to beat on women. Paige, I saw. That first night, when I brought you clean towels, the door was open a little and you had your shirt pulled…” He stopped and hung his head. Then he raised it and looked her dead in the eye and said, “That was no little slap. No little argument.”

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