Shelter Mountain (Page 10)

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?”

“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 log-splitting 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.