Shelter Mountain (Virgin River 2)

“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.”

It took every red blood cell in Preacher’s body to stay in his chair. He wanted to shout, He beat her up in the street in front of me! He killed their baby with his foot! He was squeezing and releasing his fork with such tension, he was unaware he was bending it. It wasn’t his right to speak out; he was a guest. He didn’t see himself as Bud’s guest, he was Paige’s guest. He got a sick feeling in his stomach at the thought he could’ve dropped her here for a visit, alone. He felt his blood pressure going up; his temples were pulsing.