All of Judge Forrest’s determination to get Wes Lassiter to trial quickly hit a predictable snag—Forrest was in Mendocino County and Lassiter was arrested in Humboldt County. His case would go before a different judge.
Lassiter had been found to be in possession of methamphetamine at the time he assaulted his wife, a condition that his lawyer argued contributed to his crazed behavior and lack of judgment. The prison sentence could be impressive, if he was convicted. But his lawyer pleaded for drug treatment and the judge allowed bail on the condition that Lassiter would stand trial for one misdemeanor and two felony counts after drug rehab, and that successful completion of treatment could be held in sentencing consideration. There were other conditions—if he checked himself out of treatment early, his bail would be revoked and he could sit in jail, awaiting trial. And while ordinarily treatment centers operated under a code of strict anonymity, in Lassiter’s case, the prosecutor’s office would be able to check in, make sure he was still under wraps and not a threat to his family.
Brie called Paige. “Don’t take this decision as bad news,” she said. “It’s entirely possible that sobriety will make a huge difference in his perspective. My recommendation is that you proceed with the dissolution of the marriage and custody arrangements. He can stall you while he’s in treatment—but given the facts of the decision, my bet is that he’ll prove cooperative to keep his sorry ass out of prison.”
“How long will he be in treatment?” Paige asked.
“It’s hard to say. A month is a minimum, but meth is a pretty tough drug and I’ve heard of people staying as long as several months. In order for this agreement to work in his best interest, he can’t just quit. He has to be released by a supervisor.”
“I have no idea how bad his drug problem is,” Paige said. “I suspected drugs. I found something that looked like drugs once, but I was afraid to ask him about it. If it’s a matter of convincing a supervisor he’s cured—he’s very manipulative.”
“Yeah, they all are. Believe me, if there’s one place in the world the pros are on to the cons, it’s drug treatment.”
“I’ll be looking over my shoulder for months….”
“Paige, with what you’ve been through, as long as he’s alive you’ll be looking over your shoulder. Ask Preacher to teach you how to shoot.”
It took her a couple of days of thought before she broached the idea to John.
“That’s worth thinking about,” he said. “We could do that. In the meantime, I called my buddy Mike to be sure scum-bucket was where he belonged in L.A., but now that he’s gone to that treatment center in Minnesota, you should call the prosecutor’s office and check on him.”
“Oh,” she said, kind of squeamish. “Maybe I could have my lawyer do that?”
“Think about it, Paige,” Preacher said. “Take control. You know I’m glad to look out for you, but it’s important you get your confidence back. That confidence I know you had before…all this.”
Yes, she thought. I did have confidence once. Not as much as some young women, maybe—but enough to carve a little space out of the world for herself. And although it seemed barely noticeable to her, it was coming back, piece by tiny piece. She was going to have to reclaim her former self-assurance, self-trust—she was going to be a single parent to Christopher.
She hadn’t thought she could ask for that restraining order or custody; fear had had her in its grip. But with John at her side, encouraging her, she had. It was ugly and terrifying, but she’d gotten through it and Wes had been taken away in handcuffs. He might be in a cushy treatment program right now, but it wasn’t over. He had a lot to atone for, and his atonement might come behind bars, freeing her and her son for years. Now that she was on this track—getting free, getting her life back—she was determined to stare it in the face. No matter how scared she was.
She paced back and forth in front of the kitchen phone, then picked it up and called. The next day she paced less, and when she got the A.D.A.’s secretary on the phone, she was told they hadn’t checked that day and might not have time—perhaps she could call back the next day. Suddenly, she was furious. “No!” she said. “Do you understand my life and my child’s life are in constant danger from this man? That he’s threatened to kill me, and if you take a look at my medical records, it’s obvious he tried? No. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I’ll call back in an hour!” She hung up the phone, heart hammering, and stole a look at Preacher. She could feel the heat on her cheeks.
He lifted one eyebrow and smiled slightly. “There you go,” he said.
Her call was returned twenty minutes later by the assistant district attorney himself. He reassured her, then gave her the number of the treatment center and the name of a counselor with whom he’d been in contact, inviting her to call directly, as many times a day as it took.
Again she paced in front of the phone. “What’s wrong?” Preacher asked her.
“I don’t know. It’s like I’m afraid he’ll answer or something.”
“And what if he did?”
“I’d die!”
“No,” he said calmly. “You’d hang up, because you don’t have to talk to him ever again. Right?”
“I don’t,” she said, a little bit surprised by that reality. Her mind started spinning—what if he denied ever having touched her? What if he convinced them he was sorry? She picked up the phone immediately, punching in the numbers, though her brain twisted with possibilities. What if he wanted a message delivered to her? What if he asked to call her, to talk to Christopher? He never talked to Christopher, but she wouldn’t put it past him to act as though he cared about his son.
The phone was answered, the counselor she asked for was put on and she said, “This is Paige Lassiter. I’m just calling to be sure Wes Lassiter is still there.”
“All tucked in, ma’am,” he said, his voice calm and friendly. “Rest easy.”
“Thank you,” she said weakly.
“You try to have a nice day.”
She hung up the phone, trembling for a moment. Then she looked at John and found him smiling. “I know it’s hard,” he said, his voice soft. “But every day you take your life back a little more. That’s how it’s done, Paige.”
There was a road into Fallujah, Iraq, that held a strong reputation for mortal danger. American troops had fallen there before. When Sergeant Major Jack Sheridan led his platoon in, one of his squads, led by Gunnery Sergeant Miguel—Mike to his friends—Valenzuela, was separated from the platoon by a suicide truck bomb. They were holed up in an abandoned building with injuries, pinned down by sniper fire. Joe Benson and Paul Haggerty were bleeding dangerously, along with others wounded by sniper fire. Gunny held off snipers with an M16 he fired repeatedly for hours until the rest of the platoon—Preacher among them—could subdue the insurgents and effect a rescue. When it was over, Mike could barely move his arm and his shoulder was frozen. He was decorated for his heroic performance.
Mike, an L.A. police sergeant, had been activated for an eighteen-month tour in Iraq. He was never injured. He had saved lives.
And now he lay in an L.A. hospital bed, comatose, with three bullet holes in him. The shots were fired by a fourteen-year-old gangbanger. The one place the kid hadn’t hit was square in Mike’s bulletproof vest. Another officer got off a fatal shot to the kid. Investigation suggested it might have been an initiation right of passage to get jumped into the gang—and bringing down the sergeant under which the gang unit served was a major feat.
Preacher had called on Mike about Paige, and Mike had done everything he could to help. Now Preacher had received the call.
It was early—the coffee barely brewed, Chris not yet racing downstairs in his pajamas, the loud crack of the ax in the backyard just begun. The shooting had occurred the night before and it took Ramon Valenzuela, Mike’s oldest brother, a few hours to get to someone in the old Marine squad. In the meantime, Mike had undergone emergency surgery and lay comatose in an intensive care unit.
Preacher went to the back door of the bar. “Jack!” he called. “Come in!”
Jack had an anxious look on his face when he came through the back kitchen door.
“Valenzuela was shot on the job,” Preacher said without preamble. “He’s critical. L.A. trauma center. I’ll call Zeke, have him pass the word, and close up the bar.”
“Jesus,” Jack said, rubbing his chin. “What chance they give him?”
“His brother Ramon said he thinks he’ll make it—but he’s in a coma. He said something about him never being the same.” He shook his head. “See if you can catch a flight. I’ll make the drive.”
Paige appeared at the bottom of the stairs and knew something serious was happening. She stood, waiting.
“What about Paige? Christopher?” Jack asked.
Preacher shrugged. “I’ll have to take them. I’m sure as hell not leaving them here without me.”
“Take me where?” she asked.
Both men turned to look at her. “L.A.,” Preacher said. “One of our boys was shot in the line of duty. He’s in intensive care and I have to go.”
“L.A.? John, I can’t go to L.A.”
“Yeah, you can. You have to. My friend Mike, the one who helped you so much, he’s in the hospital. Jack?” he said, looking at his best friend. “Go ahead. I’ll call Rick’s grandma and have her tell him to check on the bar every day.”
“Right,” Jack said, taking off at once.
Preacher turned back to Paige. “It’ll be all right. You’ll be safe. You can call that treatment center every day. If you want to, you can go get a few of your things while he’s in there. Maybe there’s someone you want to visit—you could do that safely. But I have to go.” She stared at him, unmoving. “I have to go right away, Paige. I need you to do this with me, so I can go to my friend and be sure you and Chris are safe. Please.”
She shook herself. “I’ll get us ready,” she said, running back up the stairs.
She didn’t hear Preacher let out his breath in a long, relieved sigh.
Jack stood on Doc’s front porch with Mel, his packed duffel on the bed of his truck. “Reconsider,” Jack said. “Come with me. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
She put a hand on his chest, looked up at him and said, “I won’t be alone. I have a whole town. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“But Preacher won’t be here. He’s taking Paige and Christopher because he can’t leave them. I think he’s scared to death to leave them.”
“Of course. Jack, Doc needs me. I have things I have to do. And I’ll be fine. No one’s going to bother me. Here’s the name of a doctor to speak to,” she told him, tucking a piece of paper into his shirt pocket. “Just tell him you married his old nurse. He’ll give you any information he can about Mike.”
“You worked with him? When?”
“It’s been a while, but he won’t have forgotten me. He’s a trauma surgeon—he may have operated on Mike. Be sure to tell him the news—that we’re having a baby. That’ll make him so happy.”
“I’ll find him.” He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her deeply, one hand at the small of her back while the other ran over her expanding middle. “Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve done in some time,” he said.
“You’d better go. You want to get there as quickly as you can.”
Jack drove like mad to Eureka, charging Mel’s old cell phone in the truck so that he could use it to call her from the L.A. hospital. He picked up a flight that made only one stop in Redding, getting him to L.A. in less than three hours. Preacher, however, was making the whole drive, which would take eight, maybe closer to ten, hours.
When Jack got to L.A., he didn’t even stop at a hotel. Mike was still on the respirator with visitors limited to immediate family for just a few minutes every hour, but the crowd at the hospital was very much what Jack expected—impressive in numbers. Cops were known to gather for one of their fallen and there were dozens, in and around the hospital. They had parked an RV in the parking lot where Mike’s family could take occasional breaks from the stress of the hospital and they stood virtual guard around it. Mike had been married twice, but was at present single. There was no shortage of family—a big family of parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews. There was probably an ex-wife around somewhere, and an inevitable girlfriend or two. A couple of their boys from the squad were there, the ones who could get away on short notice—Zeke, a firefighter from Fresno, and Paul Haggerty, a builder from Grants Pass. Others might make an appearance if they could. “Where’s Preacher?” they asked.
“He should be here soon. He made the drive. How’s Mike doing?”
“We don’t know too much. Three hits—one each in the head, shoulder and groin. He lost a lot of blood and hasn’t regained consciousness. There was a long surgery.”
Jack pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket. “Anyone know the surgeon’s name?” he asked.
They looked at one another, shaking their heads.
“Okay, let me look for this guy,” Jack said. “An old friend of Mel’s. He’s a doctor here—might be able to tell us something. I’ll be back.”
Jack spent the better part of an hour going from nurses’ station to nurses’ station, looking for Dr. Sean Wilke, leaving messages for him to no avail. It wasn’t until two hours later that a man about forty years old wearing a white coat over scrubs was heading for the ICU and the name embroidered on his coat in blue thread read “Wilke.”
“Dr. Wilke,” Jack said, stepping forward and stopping him. Jack put out a hand. “Jack Sheridan, Doctor. I’m here for Mike Valenzuela.” The doctor seemed cool and distracted, accepting the handshake absently. After all, there were a ton of people here for Mike—the doctor couldn’t speak to all of them. “I’m married to Mel Monroe,” he blurted.
The man’s expression changed instantly and dramatically. “My God,” he said, grasping Jack’s hand enthusiastically in both of his. “Mel? How is she?”
“Great. She gave me your name. Said you might be able to get me some information about my friend.”
“Let me see my patient, then I’ll tell you whatever I can. That work for you?”
“You bet,” Jack said. “Thanks.”
About fifteen minutes later Jack realized he had hit the jackpot when he saw Wilke pausing outside the ICU to have a brief conversation with Mike’s mother, father and brother. So—he was the surgeon. After leaving the family so they could go back into ICU, Wilke walked toward Jack. “Come on,” he said to Jack. “I’ve got a little time.”
“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.