After 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 painkiller. 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 painfully. 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.”
“You know how many drinks?”
“Not his usual limit, that’s for sure,” Preacher said. “A couple, maybe three.”
“I gave him a couple,” Jack said, Mike kind of lolling against him.
“I gave him one,” Preacher said. “Tell Mel. She’ll know if it’s anything to worry about.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling. I got it now.”
Mike didn’t get to breakfast at the bar the next morning, but by afternoon, right before his appointment with Mel, he was looking pretty decent. He called Preacher and asked for a lift into town where his SUV waited.
“How’d you sleep?” Preacher asked when Mike got himself carefully into the truck.
“Probably good,” Mike said. “Couldn’t tell you.”
“You gotta watch those pain pills and drinks. I think maybe you had a couple pills, a couple of drinks, and went straight to la-la land.”
“Yeah, could’a been. Sometimes it gets terrible…”
“Then there’s depression,” Preacher said. “Depression after major surgery is real common, you know that? Especially if it’s heart surgery or something violent. I think you qualify for violent. Three bullets.”
“Could qualify,” Mike said evasively.
Preacher reached in the pocket of his denim shirt and pulled out a folded piece of typing paper. “And then there’s the morning tent…” he said. “I looked all this stuff up last night. Erectile dysfunction—common after major surgery, after violent crimes, while taking narcotic drugs, et cetera. There was a list of things. Besides waiting until you get better, which you will, you should get checked for chronic bladder infection, which happens after being in the hospital, having those catheter things. You can tell Mel about it, no problem. Mel doesn’t even tell Jack stuff. I printed it out for you.”
Mike took the paper gingerly, unfolded it. “Aw, Jesus, I couldn’t have told you about this….”
“It’ll come back, I think. If it doesn’t, you can always get a rod put in it. But I don’t know, Mike…I don’t think I’d get a rod put in my dick. I think I’d try prayer first….”
“Aw, fuck…” Mike said.
“But one thing you oughta really think about—something for that depression. Mel can hook you up. And maybe count the pain pills. Man, you were a goner.”
“Preacher, I swear to God, if you ever—”
“Why would I say anything? Gimme a break, huh?”
Mike looked at the printed page. “Where’d you get this stuff?”
“On the computer. You just tell Mel. Or Doc. But I’d tell Mel, even though she’s a girl. She’s a lot more up on some stuff than Doc. I don’t know that Doc sees a lot of this with the sheep ranchers. You know?”
“I hate you so much right now,” Mike said.
“Yeah? You’ll get over it. Probably real soon—when you next want food.”
It took him a few days of pouting, but then Mike brought up his issues with Mel during one of their rehab sessions. He got a round of antibiotics for a chronic bladder infection and an antidepressant that he’d probably only have to take for a few months. But he’d be damned if he’d thank Preacher. Guys just don’t talk about those things. At least sober.
But he secretly found this rather amazing, coming from Preacher.
He walked into the bar early one afternoon, between lunch and dinner, and found Preacher seated on a stool with a towel around his shoulders. Paige had scissors in her hand and was trimming him up. He cocked his head and looked at this activity.
“I was a beautician,” she said, smiling. “And if John is going to have hair, he’s going to have to keep it decent. I see to that,” she said, smiling. Then, taking a comb to his bushy eyebrows, said, “Not to mention these evil things. I’ve never seen a man with so much hair here.”
“He is looking better these days, I’ve noticed,” Mike said. “I figured it was you.”
Preacher glowered.
Laughing, Mike ran a hand over his own bizarre head of hair. It was longer on one side than the other, still a little sparse over that temporal scar.
“Want me to try to straighten that up for you? While I’ve got my stuff out?”
“Hey, that would be great. You don’t mind?”
“I’d be glad to. John’s done here,” she said, whipping off the towel.
“Okay if I let your girl touch me with her scissors, Preacher?”
Preacher merely scowled and stood up from the stool. But he turned toward Paige and placed a small fatherly kiss on her forehead. Just in case there were any questions.
Then she put a hand on his forearm and looked up at him with adoring eyes. But Preacher seemed not to see it. Mike wondered if Preacher had any idea what was going on here.
“I’ll go see if Christopher is waking up,” Preacher said.
“Thanks. Then I’ll be in the kitchen to help.” And to Mike she said, “Next?”
He sat on the stool and she draped him with the towel.
“Ah, yes,” she said, “I can work with this. Does this still hurt?” she asked, gently touching the scar.
“No, it’s fine. But it seems to be having trouble growing hair.”
“I’ll fix you up. Let me take it a lot shorter, give you a chance to catch up over here. I promise, it won’t be awful. You’d look good with shorter hair.”
“Yeah, that’s what the Marine Corps thought. They thought I was cute as a button as a jarhead. Anything you do is fine. I appreciate it.”
“You must have been terrified, when it happened,” she said.
“I don’t remember anything. Instant lights out.”
“That’s good, I guess.” She snipped a bit, black hair falling to his shoulders and onto the floor. “I should thank you, I think. I know that John called you about my…situation. My ex-husband.”
“Ex now?” he asked.
“Yes, very recently. I don’t even carry the name anymore.”
“And I guess, if you’re still here—”
“I love it here. I don’t know when I’ve felt more…I don’t know, normal. And Christopher is so happy—he loves John so much.”
“It’s pretty clear how Preach—how John feels.”
“Is it?” she asked.
Mike laughed. “Okay, he’s not the most demonstrative, but you can bet I’ve never seen him act like this before. It’s pretty obvious.”
She picked up the mirror off the bar and handed it to him. “What do you think?” she asked.
“You’re gifted,” he said. “Anyone who can get a silk purse out of that mess should have her own chain of shops.”
“Not in Virgin River, I don’t think,” she laughed. “Besides, I love working with John.”
Unable to sleep one morning, Mike hoisted himself out of bed, iced down his shoulder and went outside with his 9 mm. He stood on the porch and lifted it with his left arm, peering over the barrel.
Jack came out onto the porch, dressed to go into town. “Is the wildlife in danger?” he asked.
Mike turned. “I think I should start perfecting the left hand. In case…You know. In case I don’t get it back.”
Jack shrugged. “Never hurts to know what you can do. But I wouldn’t give up on the right arm. Not yet. It hasn’t been that long, Mike.”
“It’s frustrating as hell. That’s all.” He holstered the gun. “There a place around here I can shoot?”
“There’s a range about thirty minutes from here just outside of Clear River. I’ll write down some directions for you.”
“You on your way into town?” Mike asked.
“Headed that way pretty soon,” he said. “I’m going to get Mel out of bed.”
“I’ll see you there,” he said, carefully maneuvering the steps and climbing into his SUV.
Jack stood there until Mike had driven out of the clearing. Then he pulled off his boots and left them on the porch. In his bedroom, he got down to his boxers and slipped into bed beside his wife, pulling her into his arms. “Hmm,” she said, snuggling close. She sniffed. “You’ve had coffee already.”
“Mel,” he whispered. “We’re alone.”
Her eyes popped open and she turned toward him only to find her mouth instantly covered in a blistering kiss. It took her a second to realize what he’d said, and when she did, she returned the kiss. “You’re sure?” she asked.
“I watched him leave,” Jack said, smiling down at her. “You can make as much noise as you want.”
“I don’t make that much noise,” she said. She tugged his boxers down. “Oh-oh. I might make a little noise.”
“You go right ahead, baby. I might, too.”
Mike pulled up in front of the bar and parked, but he stayed in his car. There, slumped in one of the porch chairs, was a woman. She was a big woman wearing long men’s trousers, boots that hung open unlaced, a plaid shirt and quilted down vest. Her head lolled to one side, her arms dangled over the arms of the chair, and on the floorboards of the porch, an empty bottle.
He tucked the 9 mm under the seat and left his cane in the car. He had to use the porch rail to assist in getting up the steps. He went to the woman and pressed two fingers to her carotid artery—at least she was alive.
Mike tried the front door to the bar and found it was still locked. No need to wake anyone. He went back to the SUV and pulled a blanket out of the back. He covered the woman and used a book of matches to light one of the gas space heaters Jack kept on the porch in winter. Then he took a chair on the other side of the porch. Waiting.
After about fifteen minutes, he got a clue. Jesus, he was stupid sometimes. Suddenly, he began putting the pieces together. Great detective work, Valenzuela, he found himself thinking. At night, when everyone turned in, he could hear them softly talking. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their muffled voices in late-night conversation drifted to his room. And in mornings after he’d had trouble sleeping, Mel would usually say something like, “It was a bad night, wasn’t it? You okay?” Every groan, every flush—it was one big room. They might as well be camping together.
Just because he wasn’t getting it up didn’t mean no one was. Jack and Mel needed some time alone. My God, they were newlyweds, and Mel’s pregnancy wasn’t too advanced for her to enjoy a healthy, satisfying sex life. He made a mental note to pay attention to that—to find things to do that would free up the cabin. To be sure, they knew he wouldn’t be back for quite a while so they could have a private life.
He could look around for another place to stay and get out of their hair. But Jack was pleased that Mike had come to him. Mel was happy to be helping with his rehab. It would be better if he could just delicately find ways to give them the place to themselves for a few hours here and there.
He looked over at the woman, wondering who she was and what she was doing here. That bottle could be bar stock. Did Preacher give her the whole bottle and send her on her way so he could lock up? But if she’d been passed out here since last night, she might be frozen by now. The temperatures at night were pretty low; it was getting damned cold. Cold enough to give her some serious hypothermia.
It was thirty minutes before Jack’s truck pulled in next to his SUV. When he got out of the truck, his brow was furrowed. “What’s this?” he asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Mike said.
“Preacher’s not up yet?”
“I don’t know. He might be back in the kitchen, but the door is still locked and I didn’t want to take a chance on waking up the house. You know?”
“Hey, buddy, I’m sorry. I—”
“Jack. You don’t have to explain. I should be the one trying to explain. Sometimes I just don’t think.”
“Jeez, Mike…”
Mike tilted his head and laughed suddenly. “Holy shit, are you blushing?” he asked, astonished. “The woman’s your wife, for God’s sake. I’ve been whoring with you and you never—”
A strong hand was clamped on his good shoulder. “That’s where we’re going to stop talking about it,” Jack said.
“Except to say, luckily for you, I am now sensitized. You and the comadrona deserve the life of man and wife.”
“Comadrona?”
Mike laughed. “The midwife. I’ll be a better houseguest from now on.”
“Don’t worry about it. Getting strong is your first priority. Our first priority.”
Mike laughed. “This is when you really know who your friends are,” he said. “Now, who’s this?”
“Her name is Cheryl Chreighton. I’m afraid she’s an alcoholic.”
“She wind up here a lot?”
“No. This is a first.”
“She get that bottle out of your bar?”
“No. We don’t serve her,” he said. “I can’t say where she got the bottle. She used to stick to that nasty Everclear, kind of hard to find around here. We’re the only place in town with a bar.” He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “We should probably get her out of here.”
“Where you going to take her?”
“Home,” he said.
The lock on the door moved and it opened. Preacher stood in the doorway, looked out, assessed and said, “Oh, crap.”
“Preacher, you have coffee yet?” Jack asked.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s have a cup of coffee while we think about what to do with her. She’ll keep.” Jack bent down and picked up the empty bottle to throw away.
Twenty minutes later Mel came into the bar, her jacket collar pulled up around her neck, hands in her pockets, all that blond hair scrunched up at her shoulders. Mike looked at her appreciatively; her cheeks were rosy with love, her eyes bright, lips bruised pink. “Jack, Cheryl Chreigton is kind of weaving down the street with a blanket around her shoulders. You know anything about that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “That means I don’t have to take her home. She was passed out on the porch when we opened up this morning.”
“Oh, Jack, there must be a way to get that woman some help. My God, she’s only thirty years old!”
“If you think of something, I’ll be glad to pitch in,” he said. “But, Mel, her parents have been trying for years.”
“They’re obviously not trying the right things,” she said. She shook her head sadly and left the bar.
Jack had barely finished splitting logs when Connie was in the bar, visibly upset. “Well, they did it,” she said. “They ran off.”
“Aw, Jesus,” Jack said. “When?”
“Who knows?” She shrugged. “Could’ve been the middle of the night—I didn’t hear anything. Ron’s out driving around now. I can’t stand the thought of calling my sister.”
“Well, don’t,” Jack said. “Give me a minute. Help yourself to coffee.” He went into the kitchen, pulled out the business card that was stuck between the phone and wall, dialed up the sheriff’s department and asked if they’d dispatch Henry Depardeau, the deputy assigned to their area. He called the California Highway Patrol. Both times he gave a description of Rick’s truck and said that family in Virgin River needed to get in touch with the young couple. Then he went back to Connie. He refilled his mug with coffee. “I’ve tried to stay out of this, Connie. But maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, Rick’s just got Lydie, and she’s old and not too well most of the time. If Rick has anyone coaching him into manhood, trying to teach him, it would be me and Preacher. Probably not the best father figures in the world, but that’s all he’s got. We should do better by these kids right now.”
“Look, Jack, I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know that. Do you know why they ran off? Because I have some ideas. One is—they don’t want to give that baby away. Holding that hard line with them, even if it seems to make the most sense, might drive them to do more drastic things.”
“What are they going to do with a baby, Jack?”
“When Rick found out there was a baby, he said he was going to make sure Lizzie wasn’t afraid. He’s going to protect her, whatever it takes. He must have felt like he was facing a firing squad—you know any seventeen-year-old boy looking to be a father? Huh? But he said he was going to stick close to Liz. Me and Preach, we were damn proud of him for that. He’s trying to be a man here, take care of the mother of his child. He shouldn’t be protecting her from us.”
“I agree, he’s a good boy, but still, Jack…”
He shrugged. “Rick’s going to be eighteen in a few months. Young, but not the youngest father on record. But he’s living with his grandma, Liz is living with you, and they can’t even be alone together.”
“Jack, they shouldn’t get any more involved! They’re children!”
“They made a baby together, Connie. Do you think you can un-shoot that gun? Every day is a hard day for Liz—and sometimes she needs the only person she thinks is on her side to put his arms around her. It isn’t a good time for her to think she doesn’t have love in her life, when it’s growing in her every day. She needs him, Connie.”
“But, Jack, Lizzie is fifteen….”
He gave a nod. “I know this, too. Now, Connie, I hope I never say anything about a woman that isn’t gentlemanly, but I’d like you to do a quick memory check. When Rick and Liz got involved, she was only fourteen—fourteen going on twenty-one. Two kids with grown-up bodies and adolescent minds. I don’t know about you, but I think it’s better if they don’t get married just yet. And being in somewhat the same position as Rick, nobody would get my baby away from me. Not at knifepoint.”
She looked down and shook her head. “I didn’t have my own kids,” she said. “My sister shouldn’t have stuck me with this. She told me to watch that they don’t get any more serious, make sure that baby gets adopted by someone who can give it a good home.”
“You’re right there—she shouldn’t have done that to you. But I’m glad she did. Doesn’t sound like your sister has the wisdom or patience for it, and I’ve known you for some time now. I know you’re up to it. It might be better if you start playing by your own rules, not someone else’s. After all, Liz is living under your roof.”
“I don’t know what’s the right thing, the wrong thing….”
“Sure you do. They’re a couple, Liz and Rick. Unfortunately for them, they got into this so young, we don’t know if they can make it stick, but they’re a couple right now. They should be getting ready for the baby, because I can tell you, that baby’s coming no matter what they decide to do. Even if Liz can be forced to give him up, Rick can’t. Maybe we should put our heads together and see if we can help them be parents and finish school, because the only thing for sure right now is, they’re going to be parents. No matter what we do. We might as well offer up some support.”
“I’m not taking on a baby full-time,” she said. “I don’t think my health is up to it.”
“Lotta help around here, Connie. Preacher and I—we’d do anything for Rick. I think Mel and Paige fall into that category, as well. Instead of telling them what they have to do, we better start asking them what they need.” He shrugged. “Connie, if those kids need each other right now, it’s time to back off. She’s not going to get more pregnant. It might keep them from getting married before they’re old enough to vote.” He took a drink of coffee. “Unless we’re already too late.”
The phone rang and Jack went to the kitchen. He was back in seconds. “We got ’em. Henry Depardeau is holding them out on 99, changing a tire. I’ll go get them if you’ll keep an eye on the bar until Preacher gets out here. Okay?”
Jack drove down the highway for only about fifteen minutes before he saw the sheriff’s car, and right in front of that the little white truck. He pulled up in front and got out. Rick already had the old tire off and the new one on. The minute Liz saw Jack, she put her hands over her face and began to cry.
Rick put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned her face into his chest. Jack came up behind her and with strong hands on her upper arms, pulled her back from Rick and into his embrace. “Liz, honey, I want you to stop crying. Everything is going to be all right. Go sit in my truck and let us get this tire changed. Go on, it’s all right.”
Rick held the lug wrench in one hand. He looked at Jack. “You pissed?” he asked.
“Nah. What happened?”
Rick applied the wrench to one of the lugs and gave it a sharp, angry twist. Jack noticed, not for the first time, how strong the kid was. “Lizzie hit a wall—total panic. Hysteria. She’s afraid of losing the baby. Losing me.”
“Shew,” Jack said. “You must have felt like you had to do something about that.”
“Yeah, I was trying.” He tightened another nut. “I thought if I took her somewhere…Oregon. Married her. She’d settle down. She’s getting kind of close, Jack. I can’t have her all messed up like that. It worries me.” He applied the wrench again. “I should be with her as much as I can. Try to keep her calm.”
“You’re right. But you can’t run off. Take her home, sit down with Connie. Tell Connie you need to be in the driver’s seat now. You have to take care of your girl, your baby. I think maybe she’ll listen to you. I had a talk with her.”
“Yeah?”
Jack hung his thumbs on his belt and looked down. “Rick, I know you’re trying to keep everything from spinning out of control. You gotta keep your head, buddy. Before you do something as crazy as running away to marry a fifteen-year-old girl, talk to me. Will you, please? Between us, we can keep things sane.”
“Sometimes that seems impossible,” he said, tightening the final lug nut.
“I know, Rick. But—”
“I want that baby,” he said flatly.
“I would, too,” Jack admitted. “Let’s focus on getting this to come out the best we can. I’m on your team, Rick.”
“I really don’t know how you could be,” he said. “After all, I didn’t exactly listen to you in the first place.”
“I never saw it like that. We’ve been over this. You’re not the Lone Ranger on this fuckup. Okay?”
“All I ever wanted was to make you guys proud of me,” Rick said.
Jack grabbed the kid’s upper arm and gave him a little shake. “Don’t you ever think otherwise. The only thing that could make me more proud is if you were my son.”