Shelter Mountain (19 page)

A couple of fishermen were seated at the bar where Jack served when Paige took a tray of dirty dishes back to the kitchen. “This place gets better-looking all the time,” one of them commented to Jack. “Business is bound to pick up on account of the new help. Where’d Preacher find this young beauty?”

“I think she found him,” Jack said, lifting his coffee cup.

“Shouldn’t he be smiling a lot more?”

“You know Preach—he doesn’t like to show too much emotion.”

As for Paige, she thought John was responding to her, in small ways. He certainly wasn’t pushing her away, and she took that as encouragement. Lips touched cheeks and brows more often; there was the occasional embrace. The best part of her day, her life, was that time after the last patron left the bar and John flipped off the Open sign. Christopher was bathed, dishes were done, bedtime story was read, then she and John would spend their private time together. Talking in soft tones in front of a late-night fire. He had begun giving her a very brief kiss on the lips as she headed toward the stairs and he to his room in the back of the grill.

He was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Soon, she hoped, he would realize that what she felt for him was not just gratitude.

Jack had been watching Rick closely. He hadn’t expected him to be carefree, but the boy’s troubled frown seemed to grow deeper and Jack was determined he wasn’t going to let Rick be swallowed up by this, his one mistake.

“You look like a man who needs to go fishing,” Jack said.

“I need to work,” Rick returned.

“I’m a really good boss,” Jack said, grinning. “I’m willing to keep you on the clock if you’re willing to talk about it.”

“You’ll be sorry,” he said. “I’m such a mess, a world-class psychiatrist couldn’t straighten me out.”

“Good thing you have me, then,” Jack said. “Get your gear.”

It was their way that they didn’t broach the subject right off. They drove out to the river, got into their waders and began casting. There were a lot of fishermen this time of year, but that wasn’t a problem; they simply
staked out their own little piece of river where they could quietly talk without being overheard above the rushing water. After a little while, a little casting, Jack said, “Lay it on me, pal. What’s eating you?”

“I don’t think I can do it, Jack. I can’t give up my son.”

“Whoa,” Jack said. He hadn’t prepared himself for that, but probably he should have. Where was Mel when he needed her? “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t have a freaking clue,” Rick said. “I saw him on the ultrasound, kicking around in there. I saw his
penis.
My
son.
I can’t have someone else raising him. Not when I made him. I’d worry all the time. You know?”

It was not as though Jack had a hard time understanding those feelings. “I’ve heard of adoptions where you can stay in touch, stay involved.”

“I don’t know if that’ll do it for me,” Rick said. “I know this is crazy…”

“What does Liz say?”

He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “She wants to quit school right now. Run away and get married. You have any idea how awful school is for her?”

Jack suddenly felt pretty stupid—of all the things he could focus on, be aware of, it had never occurred to him how terrible it might be for a fifteen-year-old pregnant girl to attend school every day. And since she’d only been in that school a couple of months the spring before, it was practically a new school for her at that. She might as well have a tattoo on her forehead. “Aw, Rick,” he said. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“I try to be there for her after every class, get her to the next class. I’m late a lot. I’m getting in trouble a lot. It sucks so much.” He sighed deeply. “Lizzie is so young. She didn’t seem that young before. Before we got into this mess. She was…I couldn’t keep my freaking hands off her, she was so hot. She was that way with me, too. She
seemed so…experienced. But she wasn’t, you know? There wasn’t anyone before me and there hasn’t been anyone after. And now she’s just this scared little girl who would give anything not to have these problems.” He took a breath. “She needs me so much.”

“Jeez,” Jack said. “I’m sorry, Rick. My mind has been on so many other things, I never thought—”

“Hey, it’s not your problem, okay? It’s my problem. If I’d listened to you in the first place…”

“Don’t kick yourself. You’re not the first guy to have one occasion of unprotected sex. But guaranteed you’re among a very select number to get a girl pregnant on that first and only shot. We’re a small fraternity, for sure.”

“This happened to you?” Rick said, amazed.

“Yeah. Sure did.”

“How old were you?”

Jack turned and met Rick’s eyes. “Forty.”

“Mel?” he said, astonished.

“Between you and me, right?” Jack said. “I don’t know how Mel feels about me talking about it. But yeah, near as we can figure out—first strike. Difference is, I’m an old man, and not sorry. I wouldn’t have it any other way. In my case, I really did get lucky.”

“Shew. I guess if a midwife can screw up, I shouldn’t be so embarrassed.”

“My screwup, bud. All my adult life, that condom’s been automatic,” Jack said. “Not just because of the pregnancy issue, but because you don’t want to expose a woman to anything. If a woman’s willing to share her body with you, you don’t want to take a chance of giving her some STD you don’t even know you have. And you don’t want to be exposed. I lost my head. I didn’t protect her. If I weren’t so grateful for the baby, I’d feel bad about that. But hell, that stuff happens to people, pal. At least we’re old enough to take it on—
and want to take it on. But you? Damn, buddy—you kids sure got hit hard. I can’t imagine how rough this is for you. Both of you.”

“My life is so weird right now,” Rick said. “I’m in high school, and I’m sneaking around to be alone with the girl who’s got my baby in her. And it’s not like it’s a punishment, being alone with her, you know? But I’m not even doing it for me—she’s the one who needs attention. I can’t refuse to touch her when she needs to be touched, not when she’s going through this. Can I?”

“She’d think you didn’t care about her,” Jack said.

Rick’s voice grew quiet. “Sometimes she just cries. We do it…I want it to be nice for her, hold her, keep her safe, and when it’s over, she cries and cries. And I don’t know what more to do.”

I think I might cry, Jack thought. “I think it has to be up to her,” he said. “Not what you want—what she wants.”

“That’s what I think, too. Maybe I should just do it. Talk to my grandma about letting Liz move in with us, into my bedroom. Marry her or something.”

“I think you need somebody’s permission for that.”

He shook his head, laughing. “We’re having a freaking baby! In less than three months!”

“Well…”

“They want her to give him up. No discussion. It’s best for him, everyone is saying. Even if they can convince her, I don’t think they can convince me. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep my mouth shut right now?”

“Oh, man…” Jack was wishing about twenty things at that moment. Top on his list—he wished Rick was his son, so he could step in and help handle things. He understood they were too young to have a baby together, but it was going to happen anyway, and Rick shouldn’t be marrying anyone at seventeen. Still, that baby shouldn’t go away from its mother and father. And how could they
do otherwise, at their tender ages? “You’re the father. Aren’t there papers you have to sign to let him go?”

“I don’t know. What the hell do I know?”

“You should talk to Mel,” he said. “Seriously—this discussion is for you and Mel. She does babies, I do other things.”

“Jack,” he said, “there’s a part of me that is so sorry I crossed that line like I did and set this up for us, for me and Liz. What a disaster. But there’s another part that saw that little guy on the ultrasound and just wants to hold him. Show him how to catch a ball…” Then he shook his head. “No matter how much talking people do, there’s no way anyone can get you ready for what happens to your life when you don’t get that condom out of your pocket.”

“Yeah,” Jack said.

“Jack, I’m sorry. I let you down.”

“Nah. I don’t feel let down. I feel really bad for you, but not disappointed in you. You’ve done pretty good with this, all things considered. Now we have to figure out a way for you to get your life back, both of you, before it gets even worse.”

“No matter what you come up with, Jack, I’m never getting that life back. And neither is Liz.”

As Jack came out of the kitchen into the bar, there was a man seated at the end. He wore a western hat, a shady brady, and as Jack entered the bar he lifted his dark eyes. It took Jack less than five seconds to recognize him as a man who’d been in his bar a few months ago and tried to pay for his boiler-maker with a hundred-dollar bill peeled off a thick wad of bills, all of which carried the skunklike odor of green marijuana. Jack wouldn’t take his money.

If that alone wasn’t enough to give Jack a bad feeling about the man, he was also the one who had lain in wait for Mel at her cabin to take her out to some hidden grow
back in the hills where a woman was giving birth. For that, Jack felt an urge to go a few rounds with him to be sure he knew better than to ever try that again. Instead, he wiped down the bar in front of him. “Heineken and Beam, isn’t it?”

“Good memory,” the man said.

“I remember important things. I don’t want to get in the habit of comping you drinks.”

The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a thin leather wallet and withdrew a twenty, laying it on the bar. “Freshly laundered for my fussy friend,” he said.

Jack set him up his drinks. “How you getting around these days?” he asked. The man’s eyes lifted swiftly to Jack’s face. “I came across your Range Rover,” Jack said. “Off the road, down the side of the hill. Totaled. I told the deputy where.”

The man threw back his shot. “Yeah,” he said. “My bad. I didn’t make that turn. Must have been going too fast. Got a good deal on a used truck.” He lifted his beer, took a long pull. “That everything?” he asked, indicating he’d rather not have a conversation.

“Not quite,” Jack said. “There was a birth back in a trailer somewhere….”

The man put down his beer rather sharply, glaring at Jack. “So much for medical confidentiality.”

“The midwife is
my
wife. That can’t happen. We straight on that?”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise, his hand tightening around his cold beer.

“That’s right, cowboy. She’s my wife. So. Are we clear? I don’t want her taking those kinds of chances.”

He made a lopsided smile. He lifted his beer and took another pull. “I doubt I’ll ever find myself in that spot again.” Jack stared, hard, into the man’s eyes. “She wasn’t at risk, but you’re right. She probably shouldn’t do that.”

After a moment of quiet, Jack said, “Clear River might be a better place for a drink.”

The man pushed the shot glass across the bar. “Quieter, anyway.”

Jack served him up again, then took the twenty to change it, indicating the man was done here. Then Jack went to his own end of the bar and busied himself wiping it down, straightening glassware and bottles. He lifted his head as he heard the stool scrape back. The man stood, turned and walked slowly out of the bar without looking at Jack. A glance showed Jack he hadn’t left any money behind and, in spite of himself, he chuckled under his breath.

Then he went to the window to see what kind of truck it was. So—he’d lowered his standards a little. A dark Ford, jacked up, lights up top, tinted windows. He memorized the license plate, but knew that wouldn’t matter.

It was only a minute before the door opened again and in came Mel. Her jacket stood open and her belly protruded slightly. She wore an odd expression.

“You see that guy, Mel?” Jack asked her. She nodded. “Did he say anything to you?”

She got up on a stool. “Uh-huh. He gave me a long up and down look and said congratulations.”

“You didn’t talk to him, I hope.”

“I asked him how that baby was. And he said, they have everything they need.”

“Aw, Mel…”

“That man never scared me, Jack. There might be lots of scary people out there, in those hidden grows, but something tells me he’s not one of them.”

A
fter two weeks in the hospital, two weeks in a rehab facility and two weeks with his mother, Mike Valenzuela was stir-crazy. He was still crippled in one arm and totally out of his mind with cabin fever. Not to mention shook up by how long it had taken for his mind to come back. Nothing scared him quite as much as memory loss and not being able to find the right word, or looking at the right word and thinking it was wrong.

Physically, he was getting by, but there was pain. Most of it was in his shoulder, arm, neck and scapula, and at night it could get so fierce he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t move. At those times, he could barely get out of bed, and the only thing that worked was a big ice pack and a pain-killer. The other pain was still stiffness and weakness in the groin area, and that kept getting better, but he was using a cane for left-sided weakness when he walked.

When he looked in the mirror he saw a thin and wasted body where a toned and muscled one had been. A man stooped slightly because straightening hurt his groin, his abdomen. His right arm was bent at the elbow and held protectively against his midsection, the hand curled inward and too stiff and weak to open all the way. A head
of thick black Mexican-American hair that had been shaved on one side of his head to remove a bullet was barely growing back. A man who, at thirty-six years of age, was retired from the police department with a one-hundred-percent disability. A man staying in his mother’s house because he’d given houses to two ex-wives and given up his rented apartment when he was shot.

There was another little matter. Something that didn’t show—it was still hard to pee and he hadn’t seen an erection in a long time. And what came to mind was, I pissed away my life and here I am, hardly able to piss.

Mike had been into living hard, living on the edge. The fighting Marines, the police department. Women. Lots of guy stuff—lifting, sports, poker, hunting, fishing. More women. Life in the moment. Fun, fun, fun. Ah. Instant gratification. He’d married twice because he was in the mood, married women he wasn’t really committed to, obviously. And he had pursued too many others. That was certainly not going to be an issue now. Maybe you get only so many erections, and I had all of mine, he thought.

Driving a long distance wasn’t advisable, but he managed. The right leg was good, the left arm worked fine. The doctors disapproved; they had ideas about further rehab and treatment, but he was a stubborn man and desperate to get away from it all. He threw the stuff he needed in the back of his Jeep SUV and headed north. “Stay as long as you want,” Jack had said. “You’ll have to stay with us, though. Preacher’s filled up the spare room in the bar. You might remember the woman—the one that Preacher called you about—she showed up in the bar, beat up, running from an abusive husband.”

Mike remembered, but vaguely.

What Mike wanted was a place to go where his family wouldn’t be in his business, hovering, breathing down his neck. Where his buddies from the department wouldn’t
keep calling to see how he was doing, because he wasn’t doing that great. The doctor said that he might eventually get back close to a hundred percent of his arm, but it would take a long time and hard work. The other things, the peeing, the erection, that stuff would either return spontaneously or not—nothing they could do about it right now.

Virgin River had always been a place of good memories for him. Of sanctuary and challenge at once. He and the boys from his squad went a couple of times a year, camped, stayed a week or so, fished every day, did a little hunting, played poker and drank all night, laughed themselves stupid, had a good time. And what Mike had to do was work on the arm, the groin. Get his body back. Then he could think about the future. At the moment, it seemed like the things he wanted were out of his reach.

The last time he’d been to Virgin River had only been a few months ago—August—not their usual fishing/hunting/poker trip. Jack had called saying he’d had to kill a man—a lunatic from out in the woods had held a knife on Jack’s woman, demanding drugs. Jack got together a couple of guys to go clean out the woods, so Mike had rounded up the boys and, of course, they all took emergency time off from their jobs and were there by the next morning. When one of them called, they rallied. They hadn’t found anything dangerous in the woods except a big, mean, smelly, pissed-off bear.

And they’d found Jack, their leader, for the first time in his life, hooked into a woman. Mel, a petite, stunning, delicious woman. Jack, who’d always played the ladies with little care and a lot of useless charm, getting ready to commit to a woman. Now Mel was Jack’s wife and carried their child. Mike was amazed this had happened. He assumed Jack had finally stumbled on a woman who could trip him up, catch him. And make him think he was happy to be caught.

That, and the three bullets, had set up a real strong sense of regret in Mike. And a longing for a different kind of life. He felt like he’d missed out on something.

So, he went to Virgin River with his clothes, his guns, his weights, a rod and reel he wasn’t sure he’d get to use again. He was going to keep rehabing his arm, get some rest and gain some weight back eating Preacher’s food.

When he got to the bar he honked the horn and Jack came out on the porch. Mike got out of the SUV using his cane for balance. Jack was tough—he didn’t look at Mike as if he was pathetic, thin, limping slightly, his arm crimped and still useless. Instead, he embraced him like a brother would, but more carefully than in the past. And said, “Damn, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Me, too. I have so much work to do to get strong. Again.”

“You’ll get there.”

Mel came outside. She was showing now, and it made her more beautiful than ever—she was glowing with Jack’s life in her. She wore a smile that was sincerely welcoming and opened her arms to him, as well. “I’m glad you’re here, too, Mike,” she said. “I can help you with that arm. We’ll get it back.”

He hugged her with the good arm. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Come inside,” Mel said. “There’s someone you haven’t met, even though you helped her.”

Jack let Mike navigate the stairs up onto the porch himself, obviously resisting the urge to help him. When they were inside, Jack yelled for Preacher and the big man came out, wearing his apron. He cracked a rare grin when he saw Mike and he came around the bar, arms open.

“Oh, man,” Preacher said, embracing him. He gave him several pats on the back, causing Mike to wince pain
fully. Then he held him away and looked at him. “Damn, it’s good to see you!”

“Okay, great. Now, never do that again.”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry. You still in pain?”

“Some, yeah. What’s with this? Hair on my Preacher-man?”

“Head got cold,” he said, ducking shyly. “You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Maybe you could set me up a beer. That’d help.”

“You bet, buddy. Coming up. And maybe something to eat, huh?”

“Beer first, okay?”

Preacher went around the bar and fixed him a draft. Mel and Jack each sat on one side. Mel leaned in. “How bad is the pain?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s all soft tissue,” he said. “But it can get real…real.”

“What are you taking?”

“I’m trying to hang in there with the anti-inflammatory, maybe a beer, but every once in a while I have to cave in to the Percodan. I hate doing that. Makes me weird.”

“You’re already weird,” Jack said. “Preacher, let me have a beer with my man here.” When his glass was poured, Jack lifted it toward Mike. “Here’s to your recovery, bud. It’s going to be quick and powerful.”

“Hope God heard that,” Mike said, and took a long, refreshing pull. “The doc said I’d need three months to start feeling better and I’ve only given it six weeks, but…”

And then she came out from the kitchen. Mike almost choked on his words. She smiled at him and said, “Hello. You must be Mike.” She went to stand next to Preacher, and he, with his eyes focused on the shine in Mike’s, dropped an arm around her shoulders, claiming her. God, Mike thought. Preacher has a woman. And what a woman.

“Yeah,” Mike said slowly. She was gorgeous. Soft,
light brown hair fell in silky curves to her shoulders. She had skin like creamy satin and peach-colored lips, a little line, a scar in her lower lip. He knew what that was about, he remembered better now. And warm, sexy green eyes surrounded by a lot of dark lashes and perfectly arched brows. With Preacher’s arm around her, she leaned against him.

“I just don’t get it,” Mike said with a laugh. “You two somehow found the most beautiful, sexiest women in the state right here in the backwoods. Shouldn’t there be at least one of you in Los Angeles?”

“Actually, we were both from Los Angeles,” Mel said. “And fortunately, both found our way to the backwoods.”

No way Preacher knows what he’s holding, Mike thought. And Preacher, knowing Mike’s careless ways with women, just about anyone’s woman, might feel a little threatened at the moment, even given the crippled hand and cane. Little did he know…

“Well, damn,” Mike said, lifting his glass. “To your good fortune. All of you.” Then he looked at Jack and said, “I’m sorry, Sarge, but I’ve had it. That drive—it was way more than I thought it would be. Do you mind if I…?”

“Come on,” Jack said. “You can follow me out to the cabin and I’ll help you unload your gear. Take a nap. Maybe you’ll feel like coming back for some of Preacher’s dinner later. If not, I’ll bring you home something.”

“Thanks, pal,” he said. He stretched his good hand toward Preacher for a shake.

Preacher’s expression lightened up. “Good you’re here, Mike. We’ll beef you up in no time.”

In the mornings, Mike drank the protein shakes that Mel gave him, though they were god-awful. Then he’d lift piddling weights and stretch. By 10:00 a.m., drenched in sweat, he’d need a shower and nap. Lying down always
produced the same effect—soreness and pain when he got up. He’d roust himself up, try to ice it out, and if he could, get himself to the bar by three so he could have a beer to tamp it down a little before meeting Mel at Doc’s. Once there, she’d work on him, as vicious as any physical therapist. She would start with a deep massage of his shoulder and biceps and then the exercises would start. It was enough to make him cry like a baby.

He was lifting a one-pound weight laterally with the right arm and could not yet raise it to shoulder level, yet she praised him for it, but it was agony. Mike still couldn’t lift three plates out of a cupboard. He’d broken a couple, trying, and forced himself to drive all the way to Fortuna to replace them.

Every once in a while he’d try to lift his 9 mm right-handed and hold it out in front of him, looking over the barrel. No way.

“I really think we should set you up with an orthopedist. I can find you one on the coast,” Mel said.

“No. No more surgery,” he said.

“This could take a lot longer.”

But he was worried about trade damage, where they go in to fix one thing and muck up something else. “Where am I going? Save the orthopedist. I’ll work it out.”

“Any other issues?” she asked. “The head and groin?”

“Fine,” he said, but he didn’t connect with her eyes.

Almost two weeks in Virgin River, eight weeks post op, and he still couldn’t do a sit-up. But he had gained some weight and walking straight was easier, so things were looking up somewhat. And his friends, Jack, Mel, Preacher, Paige—they were hanging in there with him, encouraging his every movement.

Some days, if the sun was out, he could drive out to the Virgin and watch some angling. He particularly loved watching Jack and Preacher casting; he loved it even better
when they had the boy Rick with them. They’d trained the kid and he was a master angler. The three of them, side by side, their lines soaring through the air in perfect S-shapes, flies touching down in the river with such grace and finesse, pulling in their catch. It was like ballet.

Mike had been a damn fine angler himself in days gone by. He’d been pretty good at a lot of things.

It was in that kind of a mood that Mike found himself a little later than usual at Jack’s. There were only a few fishermen at a table by the fire with a late meal. Mike was up at the bar when Preacher came back downstairs from story time. Jack exited, leaving Preacher to lock up, and Mike asked for another drink. Then he started to grumble. He was frustrated with the arm, the pain, the clumsiness. A few other things.

Preacher poured himself his closing shot and stood behind the bar, listening to Mike complain, nodding every so often, saying, “Yeah, buddy. Yeah.”

“Can’t lift the gun, can’t lift a lot of things. Know the true meaning of ‘weak dick,’” he said morosely. Preacher’s eyebrows lifted and Mike looked up at his face, glassy-eyed. “That’s right, the old boy’s dead and gone. May as well have shot it off.…”

Preacher lifted his drink. “You’re the only guy I know who’d complain about not getting laid in a few weeks because he’s been in a coma,” Preacher said. “I guess you thought you could get lucky even while you were unconscious….”

“That’s what you know,” he slurred. “Do I look like I’m unconscious now?”

“Hey, man, there aren’t all that many women around here. You just might have to do without for a bit.…”

“What do you see when you wake up in the morning, Preacher? A nice tent, huh? I see the…the…the great plains.”

Preacher frowned. “You have a pain pill tonight, Mike?” He didn’t answer. “Mike? You have a pain pill tonight?”

“I dunno.”

“Hmm. Sit tight. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Sit still? Mike thought vaguely. Like moving was an option…

Mike might not have even known he was gone when Preacher was back; he was still peering into his drink, babbling to himself, slumped over the bar. It didn’t seem like any time at all had passed when Jack was helping him to his feet.

“Come on, Mike. There you go. Forget the cane, just lean on me.”

“Wha—”

“Yeah, you’re going to sleep good tonight, that’s for sure,” Jack said.

Preacher got the door and as Jack was helping him through, said, “He might’ve had more than one pill, Jack. I asked him if he took a pain pill and he didn’t know.”