Shelter Mountain (15 page)

“He’s gonna make it, isn’t he?”

“I’d give him a ninety-eight percent chance of making it—but we don’t know the extent of his potential disabilities.” Dr. Wilke took Jack to the employee lounge in the back of a busy emergency room. Wilke poured himself and Jack coffee. Jack took a sip and almost gagged. It was horrible. He wondered if it was possible they got the tap water mixed up with the mop-pail water. “Yeah,” Wilke said. “I know. Pretty bad.”

“I own a bar and restaurant up north. Our coffee is fantastic, better than Starbucks. I think I hooked Mel with the coffee first—she’s a caffeine junky. Tell me about Mike, Dr. Wilke.”

“Please, call me Sean. Here’s the situation so far. He remains unconscious because of the head wound, although it was really the least traumatic. The bullet, miraculously, doesn’t seem to have damaged the brain, but we had to do a craniotomy to remove it, and that has caused swelling, for which a shunt and drain has had to be inserted, and I believe that explains his coma. The bullet to the groin was his worst injury—the most complicated repair. We repaired bowel and bladder and he lost a lot of blood.”

“Jesus. He made it through eighteen months in Iraq without a scratch….”

“The shoulder is bad. We’re looking at a permanent disability there, I’m almost certain.”

“Damn,” Jack said, shaking his head. “What about his job?”

Sean shook his head. “I don’t see it. His injuries are critical. We’re looking at long-term rehab. The shoulder’s stitched up real nice, but it’s going to be weak. He’d be compromised in defensive tactics.”

“But he’s tough,” Jack said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s keeping him alive.”

“Thank you,” Jack said. “For everything you’ve done. For taking the time to tell me—”

“You’re welcome.” He leaned forward. “I know he’s your first concern right now, but I’d love to know how Mel’s doing. I haven’t heard from her in a long time.”

Jack smiled, happy to catch him up on Mel’s trek to the mountains, her first inclination to bolt, get the hell out of there. And how all that turned into not only her decision to stay, but remarriage and a baby on the way.

The shock on Wilke’s face was evident.

“Yeah, plenty of surprise to go around there. I know she didn’t think that was possible. Here she was, a woman who didn’t think she could ever be happy again, a midwife who would never have a baby. And I’m almost forty-one, a retired marine who never married. Hell, I was never attached, never intended to be. The day I met her was the best day of my life. A new life for both of us, I guess. She’s everything to me.”

There was a tablet on the table and Jack pulled it toward him. He reached toward Sean, holding out a hand for his pen, which the doctor took out of his coat pocket.

“You should call her. Don’t take my word for it—ask her how she’s doing. She’d love to hear from you. She gave me your name—told me to look you up.” He scribbled the number on the yellow pad and turned it toward Sean.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sean tore the page off, folded it and put it in his pocket.

“Really, give her a call. She’d like that. And one more thing. Any chance you can sneak me into ICU? Mike—he was one of my best guys. He was a fine marine. He saved lives. He was a hero. I love the guy. I do. Lotta people do.”

“You bet,” Sean said.

Jack sat at Mike’s side through the night so that the family could sleep. Mike’s head was shaved on one side, tubes and drains everywhere, but probably the hardest thing to see was the respirator breathing for him. Nurses and therapists moved his extremities, but Mike didn’t move them himself.

After briefly talking with Mike’s family, Preacher took Paige and Jack’s duffel and secured a couple of hotel rooms nearby and came back in the morning to give Jack a key. Jack went there to take a nap, but was back by afternoon, and again, spent the whole night at Mike’s
bedside. Every hour at least he would stand up, lean over the bed and talk to him. “Everyone is here, buddy. Your family, your cops, some of your squad. Everyone’s waiting for you to get up. Wake up, buddy.”

On the third day, the respirator was removed and Mike opened his eyes, but looked at Jack and his parents blankly. The nurses tried to stimulate him, but he was groggy and listless.

While Jack took his place at his friend’s bedside to wait out another long night, Mike’s mother put a hand on his shoulder. It was the middle of the night when he turned to look up into her dark eyes. Mrs. Valenzuela was a handsome and strong woman in her sixties; she had raised eight kids and had a passel of grandchildren. When she wasn’t in the ICU she was in the chapel worrying the beads; by now the rosary that dangled from her hands should have caused blisters. She hardly slept. “You’re a very patient man, aren’t you, Jack?”

“Not in this, I’m not,” he admitted.

“I know about you. Miguel is not the first young man you’ve kept vigil for. He said you’d never leave your man—no matter how dangerous staying with him could be.”

“He exaggerates,” Jack said.

“I don’t think so. I’m going to get some rest so I can be alert in the early morning. Thank you for doing this.”

“I wouldn’t leave this one, Mrs. Valenzuela. He’s a good troop.”

In the middle of the sixth night, Mike opened his eyes, turned his head and said, “Sarge?”

Jack was on his feet instantly, leaning over the bed. He saw clarity in Mike’s eyes. “Yeah, Gunny. Right here. Lotta people here for you, buddy. You have to stay with us now—the hospital staff is ready to throw us all out.”

A nurse was instantly at the bedside. “Mike?” she asked. “You know where you are?”

“I just hope I’m not in Iraq,” he said weakly.

“You’re in the hospital. In intensive care.”

“Good. No snipers here.”

“Mike, I’m going to call your mother,” Jack said. “I’ll be nearby.”

Jack walked out of the ICU and down to the lounge where family and friends could wait, make phone calls, rest. The Valenzuelas were in the trailer provided by the police department, but there were easily a dozen men passing the night in the lounge, just to be close by. “He’s awake. He’s recognizing people.”

A collective sigh of relief came out of the room. Jack called the trailer to bring Mrs. Valenzuela to her son’s bedside, then went back to ICU. By the time he got there, two doctors were examining his friend. One of them was Sean, the other a neurologist.

Sean came around the bed and, his hand on Jack’s arm, led him away from Mike. “I haven’t called Mel yet, but I’m going to. I just wanted to say something—you’ve been here every night, through the night, for almost a week. I’m damn glad you decided not to let her be lonely. You’re a good man, Jack. A good friend.”

“I told you—he’s a good guy. He’d do the same for me.” He smiled. “As for Mel, when she took me on, she made my life.”

While Jack was away Mel had one important errand to occupy her. She picked up Liz at the corner store to make the trip to Grace Valley to see Dr. Stone, the OB. Liz was waiting outside for her. “Are you sure you don’t want to invite your aunt Connie along?”

“No, really,” she said. “I want to go with just you.”

“That’s fine. You look very pretty today,” she said.

Liz smiled. “Thanks,” she said.

It pleased Mel that Liz had gone to some trouble to
look nice today, since she’d be meeting Dr. Stone for the first time. Her hair was shiny clean and curled, her makeup tasteful. She had on those tight jeans with a long sweater pulled down over the belly that wouldn’t allow them to close anymore.

“Are you looking forward to this?”

“I think so,” she said. “I’m nervous.”

“Nothing to worry about—it’s completely painless.”

When they got to the Grace Valley clinic, Mel realized that the appointment was probably not the only reason behind Liz’s primping, and there was definitely another reason Liz didn’t invite Aunt Connie. As they pulled up to park, a very familiar little white pickup was waiting across the street. Rick got out of the truck and began to walk toward them. When Liz saw him, she beamed with happiness and ran to him, meeting him halfway. Now, Mel had seen them together since Liz returned to Virgin River—at the bar and around town. They were pretty cautious, especially around Connie and Ron, and Connie and Ron seemed to always be around. Rick would hold her hand, drop an arm over her shoulders, maybe put a mature little kiss on her temple.

But this was different. She ran into his arms. He held her closely, lovingly. She saw Rick in a different light, his arms full of a pregnant girl. Tall, broad, strong, handsome, yet a boy—full of all that seventeen-year-old testosterone.

They embraced and kissed in the middle of the street, kissed like grown-ups. Liz’s hands were on his cheeks, pulling him hard against her mouth. Hungry, eating each other’s mouths—there was enough passion in their kiss that steam was rising. He held her tight against him, his hands running up and down her back. He slid a hand over her tummy while he talked and smiled against her parted lips. This was no boy, but a man. Man and woman, yet children.

Mel cleared her throat.

They reluctantly parted and walked toward Mel. “Hey, Rick. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I had to cut school. I don’t think an ultrasound appointment for the father is the usual excused absence. But Liz wanted me here.”

“I can understand that.” So old. So young. They were kids; it was disconcerting. In fact, their apparent love for each other was somehow more unsettling than getting a poor young girl through something like this alone. These two seemed to want to have this baby together, and what could be more impossible for kids so young?

“Well, let’s go in and meet the doctor.”

Mel had talked to John Stone, told him about her patient. The exam got under way. Rick took his place beside Liz, holding her hand, like any young husband might. She looked up at him adoringly while his eyes were more fixed on the monitor. John moved the wand over her belly, and on the screen the baby fluttered and kicked. “Oh, man,” Rick said. “Man, look at that.”

“Can you make it out? Arms here, legs, head, butt. Penis,” John said.

Mel hadn’t been prepared for this—she watched a slow transformation come over Rick. His eyes grew wide; they began to mist. He gripped Liz’s hands tighter and his mouth fixed in a firm line as he struggled for control. It’s one thing to see a round tummy and know it’s yours, to feel movement there and understand it had life. But it was a whole lot more to see that baby, and know it’s your
son.

“Oh, God,” Rick said. Then he lowered his head and his lips touched Liz’s brow while she held on to his hands. Then she started to cry and Rick began to whisper to her, “It’s okay, Liz. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” He kissed her tears away and Mel thought she might cry with them.

Mel had known this boy for quite a while, since her
first night in Virgin River. She was at once amazed by him and felt that she didn’t know him at all. When had he crossed over into this other life? What was he doing here, looking at his son on a monitor when he should be in his calculus class?

John finished with the ultrasound, printed them a picture to take with them, then, pulling Mel’s hand, led her out of the room, leaving the kids alone for a few moments.

“Whew,” Mel said. “I didn’t know he was going to be here. I know that boy pretty well, but I never knew him like that. A father. Growing up way too fast.”

“Young and dumb, and so in love they make me ache. You think it’s too soon for me to get Sydney into the convent?” John asked.

“At eight? Maybe just slightly.”

“She’s almost six months along. Fifteen years old. Holy shit, huh?”

“Shh, don’t let them hear you.”

“Mel, they’re not going to hear me. In fact, we’d better knock on the door or they’ll be doing it again. Right in the exam room.”

“They’re not doing it, John. Their hearts are breaking. How can there possibly be a happy ending here?”

On the drive home, Mel asked Liz, “Why didn’t you tell me Rick was going to meet us there?”

Liz shrugged. “Connie wouldn’t like it.”

“Why not? He’s the father.”

“Aunt Connie’s pretty mad about this. Mad at me and Rick. And my mom—jeez. She’s on the moon, she’s so pissed. She doesn’t want me to see Rick at all….”

“She sent you back to Virgin River, but doesn’t want you to see Rick?” Mel asked, wondering, How does this make any sense?

“I know,” Liz said. “Stupid, huh?” She rubbed her hands over her belly. “A boy,” she said quietly. Sadly.

Mel stole a glance and saw a tear running down the girl’s cheek.

If a woman is old enough to have a baby, Mel found herself thinking, then she’s old enough to love what’s inside her. Old enough to love the man who put it there.

W
hile in Los Angeles, Preacher was able to leave Paige and Chris at the hotel for short periods of time while he went to the hospital. He was confident there was no danger to her. Although she still made phone calls to that treatment center regularly, even if Wes somehow slipped away, he had no way of knowing where they were. But whenever he returned, she would sigh audibly, her relief obvious, when he was back, shoring her up. He wasn’t quite sure if it was that terror from her marriage or something deeper. There were still some very large holes in his understanding of her. The largest of which was her family.

On the long drive to the city from Virgin River, hours and hours in the truck together while Chris slept on and off in the backseat, there had been lots of time to talk. Paige shared happy and animated stories about the soap-operaish beauty shop in which she had worked, good times in the old half a house she’d shared with her best friends, and she even talked about old boyfriends. She had opened up more about life with Wes, in hushed, careful tones so that Chris wouldn’t hear and possibly become upset. But when it came to her widowed mother and older, married brother, she seemed to clam up, grow tense
and gloomy. There was deep ambivalence, but she didn’t explain. “I haven’t had much of a relationship with my family since I married,” she said. “And Bud and I were never close, not even as kids.”

“Maybe that will change now,” he replied. “Listen, you don’t want to miss an opportunity. I’d give anything for an hour with my mother. I joined the Marines to get brothers.”

“I know,” she said. “I know.”

“Hey, don’t let me talk you into anything. But if you’re right here…”

“You might not like my family, John,” she said.

“Hey, Paige, I don’t have to like ’em. They don’t have to like me. I’m just saying, you have a chance to visit now, if you want to.”

It was four days before she called her mother, another two before a meeting was arranged. She invited John to take her to her brother’s house for dinner with the family; her mother would be there.

Preacher suspected within three minutes what the problem was, but it took him about an hour to put it all together. Fifty-eight minutes too long. He wasn’t slow; he hadn’t been around too many people like this. A big, silent, loner type of guy like Preacher, when he got a whiff of something
off,
he gave it a wide berth.

Bud, Paige’s older brother, met them at the door of a small tract home in a dusty little suburb where there were only about four different styles of homes, very few trees, and where people worked on their cars in driveways. Bud’s house had an above-average front lawn, trim and green, right next door to a house with a cyclone fence around a grassless yard. Bud was wearing a T-shirt with his khaki pants, holding a beer. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, coming out onto the stoop and down the sidewalk toward them. “There’s my girl. How you been, baby?”

“All right, Bud,” she answered, letting him embrace her.
Her arms, Preacher noticed, didn’t quite get into the game. Preacher hung back, holding Christopher’s hand, watching.

Bud released her and approached Preacher big grin, hand extended. “This the new boyfriend? How you doin’? How about a beer? You look like a beer man to me.”

Preacher took the hand; he concentrated on not squeezing too hard. In fact, he wasn’t much of a beer man. Nor was he much of a boyfriend. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m not the new—”

“Come in. Welcome to the
humble
home.”

Preacher caught the inflection. “Nice place,” he said, stepping into the living room. He didn’t know anything about decor, but it looked comfortable. Spotlessly clean, with a couch and La-Z-Boy recliner and a real big TV. “Nice yard. Bet you work hard on that.”

“Nah,” he said. “Gin does most of that. She says she likes it, but I think she’s competing for first prize in the neighborhood.” He didn’t greet Christopher. Bud put a hand at the back of Christopher’s head and seemed to try to physically direct him through the living room and away. “Kids are in the playroom, Chris. Go play with the kids.”

Chris pulled back, clinging to Preacher’s leg.

Leaning down, Preacher said, “You can stay here if you want.”

Chris said nothing but clung harder.

“Whatever,” Bud said. “Come on back. We got snacks, we got steaks. This is nice, sis. Glad you could stop by. Now, what did you say brought you out of hiding?”

Preacher saw her flinch slightly. “John’s friend…He’s in the hospital. He’s a police officer….”

As they moved into the kitchen, an older woman separated herself from the salad she was making and came around the counter. “Paige,” she said in a breath. “Oh, Paige…” She was smaller than Paige and very thin. She wore slacks and a blouse, long-sleeved and buttoned high,
so conservative that for a split second Preacher was reminded of his own mother.

They embraced, both of them seeming to get a little misty. And Paige responded, “Mom. Mom.” This time her arms cooperated in the embrace. The younger woman followed, having waited for her turn. Again, the embraces were mutual. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said.

“Dolores, Gin, meet John, the new boyfriend,” Bud said.

“I’m not the new—”

“Bud Lite okay by you, pal? I figure a guy named Bud drinks Bud Lite. So what about this friend of yours? In the hospital?”

Preacher accepted the beer and said, “He’s a cop around here. He was shot in the line of duty. He was hurt pretty bad—so I came down.”

“Hey, did I hear about that on the news, maybe?” Bud asked, giving the neck of Preacher’s bottle a tap with his own. An odd time for a toast, Preacher thought.

“Maybe. Probably.”

“Yeah, I heard about that, I think. You have a lot of cop friends?” Bud asked, moving to the table. “Chris, go play with the kids. They’re in the playroom. So, you have a lot of cop friends?”

“Just the one,” Preacher said, a steady hand on Chris’s shoulder. It was already beginning to reach him—Paige’s brother was a bully. A bossy, immature, irreverent bully. He watched Bud go to the kitchen table, take his seat at the head. In the middle was a bowl of chips and one of salsa. Out the back patio doors he could see a manicured backyard surrounded by a high wall. There was an aboveground hot tub covered with a green leather tarp. A grill, a birdbath, some patio furniture, but no toys. Hadn’t Paige said three kids?

Bud indicated a chair with his hand and Preacher took the seat next to him. Bud wasn’t a small guy—probably
six feet with some good arms on him. His hair was cut really short, the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up a couple of notches to bring his biceps into focus. His smile was constant, which was a signal—you only smile when something makes you smile. If you smile all the time, you’re hiding something. He told Chris once more to go play. Preacher pulled Chris onto his lap.

The women followed like lemmings, sitting at the table with the men. Bud started on the chips and salsa with his beer and said to Paige, “Tell me about this place you’re staying.”

“Virgin River,” she said. “It’s in the mountains, way north. It’s very pretty—lots of big trees.”

“And how’d you end up there?” he asked.

“We were on our way to visit a friend and got lost,” she said, her voice just a little quieter than Preacher had grown used to. “Chris had a fever, there was a doctor there, and we stayed over.”

Preacher tried not to frown as he listened to Paige give an almost fictional account of what had happened. This story was accurate enough for her new friends in Virgin River, but there was something so wrong about telling it this way to her family, people who knew her intimately. She had to stay a while because of Chris, she said. She fell in love with the place, the people were so nice, they needed some help in the bar and grill, and she thought maybe it was just the change she needed. She decided to see if it worked for her. Bud asked what Wes thought about that and Paige said, “Well, Bud, he wasn’t real happy about it—but I had made up my mind.” Not real happy? Preacher thought. She and her brother were nibbling around the edges of the real drama. Preacher found himself wondering, Don’t they know anything about her life? About the sad and dangerous state of her marriage? About her flight to save her life? To save her children?

One of the kids ran through—a little girl about seven or eight. She had a wild look in her eyes. She grabbed a fistful of chips, her father barked at her to go play and she was gone.

Paige talked a little more about the area, about the redwoods, the people, the simple lifestyle. Bud got up and got two more beers, and when he put one in front of Preacher, Preacher said, “I’m good.” But Bud left the beer in front of him.

Chris reached for a chip, tentatively, and Bud said, “Those are for the grown-ups, son.” And Chris yanked his hand back as though he’d touched fire. Preacher tried not to glare at Bud, but pulled the bowl closer to himself and Chris and said, “He might be hungry.” He took a chip out of the bowl and handed it to Chris and noticed out of the corner of his eye that Paige watched this action with the slightest smile on her face. He also noticed that Dolores and Gin weren’t talking much and partaking of the hors d’oeuvres, such as they were, sparingly. Cautiously.

Another kid ran through—another girl—scruffy, her hair wild, her shoes untied. Whatever was going on in the playroom got the kids as gamey as an afternoon outdoors on the playground. She grabbed at the chips, got yelled at to go play and disappeared. Now Preacher might manage a bar and hang out with men primarily, but he was unaccustomed to fathers who pushed their children out of sight. Rudely, at that. In his crowd, families were appreciated. Most of his friends were married with children, and the children were a part of everything. The women were nearly worshiped.

He was starting to know things were not kind and respectful here. He was already unhappy with the way Bud regarded Paige. Preacher was real close to saying, “This meeting is over.” Then a child started to cry, from the playroom, presumably, and Bud’s wife, Gin, jumped up
and ran. A few minutes later she carried a child of about two into the kitchen. This beautiful child had short blond curls and streaks of tears on her chafed cheeks.

Bud turned to Preacher and asked him what he did.

“Me? I’m a cook. My buddy bought a bar. I went up there for some fishing, and stayed.”

They talked a little about the bar and Preacher was trying. This guy wasn’t his cup of tea, but he didn’t have to love everyone. He thought it was a good idea to get along if he could, for Paige’s sake. This was family; sometimes you’re stuck with family. He was sure good old Bud had his fine points. He wasn’t sure he’d come in touch with them tonight, however. But they landed on a conversation about how much fishing and hunting there was to do up there, and Bud loved that. He might just come up, check it out. Bud would do a lot more of that, if he didn’t have to work so goddamn hard all the time, but with three kids…Three kids almost never seen, Preacher thought. But, Preacher talked more than he usually did, because he wanted Paige to know he was giving it his best shot. He could be cordial. Friendly.

During this time, Gin, holding her youngest daughter on her lap, cajoled Chris over to her and acquainted them. Chris was not intimidated by a child younger than he and they began to get friendly. The child came off Gin’s lap and with a little push of her hands, she sent both children off to the playroom.

“So, what did you do before being a cook?” Bud asked.

“I was in the Marines about twelve years.”

“Marines!” Bud said. “Should’ve known. Ever been to war?”

Preacher gave a solemn nod. “Couple of times,” he said. “No fun.”

“So, you’re the cook,” he said, laughing. “Looks more like you should be a bouncer.”

“We don’t usually need a bouncer.”

“Speaking of cooking, how’s that salad coming?”

Paige’s mother and sister-in-law got up from the table and instantly went to the kitchen. Paige rose, too, asking if she could help, but Bud directed her back to her chair, saying, “They’ll do it.” And she
sat.

Plates were brought out—five of them. Preacher counted twice. “What about the kids?” he asked.

“Gin’ll give ’em something in the playroom. She’s got some dogs, some beans. They love it. Kids. I like to have some grown-up time, sometimes.”

The salads appeared, as well as another beer each. “You’re slowing down there, my friend,” Bud said. “You’re going to have to catch up!”

Preacher had his ear tuned in to the “playroom.” Just as he was sharpening his listening and they were starting on their salads, Bud looked at Paige and said, “What’s going to happen to Wes?”

She lifted her eyes steadily to her brother’s, but she didn’t answer at once. “I don’t know. He’s admitted himself into a drug treatment program.”

“Why?” Bud asked.

Again she paused. “For drug treatment. It’s not unusual for some of those traders to get hooked on…You know…Uppers?” It was stated as a question. And Preacher thought, it was meth. It wasn’t a little bitty innocent drug.

“And you couldn’t do anything about that?”

“Like what, Bud?” she returned.

“I don’t know. Like help him with that. I mean, what did you have to
do?
”

Paige put down her fork and glared into her brother’s eyes. “No, Bud. I couldn’t help with that. It was completely beyond my control.”

Bud tilted his eyes toward his lettuce, stabbed a piece
with his fork and muttered, “Maybe you could’ve kept your stupid mouth shut.”

Preacher’s fork went down sharply. And Preacher, who rarely used profanity and only in the most heated moments, said, “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

Bud’s eyes snapped up to Preacher’s face. His jaw ground and he scowled. “She tell you she had six thousand square feet and a pool?”

Preacher glanced at Paige, Paige glanced at Preacher and then swiveled her eyes slowly to Bud. She spoke to Preacher while she looked at Bud and said, “My brother doesn’t understand. The size of the house you live in has nothing to do with anything.”

“The hell,” Bud said. “I’m just saying, there are times to keep your mouth shut, that’s all I’m saying. You had it fucking
made.
”