Робин Карр – Shelter Mountain (страница 9)
“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.”
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
“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
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.