Shelter Mountain. Robyn Carr

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СКАЧАТЬ saw her future—alone, weak and worked to death. A picture of her surly roommates wearing pretty satin at her wedding, smiling, envious of her good fortune and the cushy life she’d have. And she’d said yes.

      He hit her again on the honeymoon.

      Over the next six years she’d tried everything—counseling, police, running away. He got out of jail right away, if they even bothered to take him in; he found her in hiding, and it just got worse. Even her pregnancy and Christopher’s arrival hadn’t stopped the abuse. She discovered by accident that there might be a little more to this equation—a certain chemistry that gave him such energy to work those long hours and wear himself out keeping track of her, the fits of euphoria, the skull-splitting temper—some white powder in a small vial. Cocaine? And he took something his personal trainer gave him, though he swore it wasn’t steroids. A lot of traders used amphetamines to keep up with the demands of the job. Cocaine users tended to be reed-thin, but Wes was proud of his body, his build, and worked hard on his muscles. A coke and steroid regimen, she realized, could make his temper hair-trigger short. She had no idea how much, how long. But she knew he was crazy.

      This was her last chance. Through a shelter she’d met a woman who said she could help her get away, change her identity and flee. There was an underground for battered women and children in hopeless situations. If she and Christopher could just get to the first contact, they would be passed along from place to place, collecting new ID, names, histories and lives along the way. The upside was—it worked a lot. It was nearly foolproof when the woman followed instructions and the children were young enough. The downside was, it was illegal, and for life. Life like this, covered in bruises, afraid she’d be killed every day—or a life of being someone else, someone who isn’t hit?

      She started squirreling away money from her grocery allowance and packed a bag that she hid with a contact from a shelter. She managed almost five hundred dollars and fully intended to get herself and Christopher out before another bad episode occurred. With the last beating, she knew she was nearly too late.

      And here she was, looking at her third V-shaped ceiling. She knew she wouldn’t sleep; she’d hardly slept in six years. No worries about the drive—with so much adrenaline going on, she’d make it.

      But then she woke up to sunlight and a regular thwacking noise outside. Someone was chopping wood. She sat up cautiously and smelled coffee. She had slept after all. And so had Christopher.

      The dresser was still pushed against the door.

       Two

      Preacher barely slept. He spent half the night on the computer. It was like this little machine was invented for him, because he liked to look things up. He had been trying to get Jack to put the inventory and receipts on the computer, but Jack had a clipboard that was like an extension of his arm and wanted nothing to do with Preacher’s technology. It was slow, there being no cable hookup out here, but he was patient. And it got the job done.

      The rest of the night was spent trying to catch some sleep, which eluded him completely. He got out of bed several times and looked out the back window to see if the little Honda was still there. He finally got up for the day at five, when it was still black as pitch outside. He went into the kitchen, started the coffee, laid a fresh fire. There was no sound from upstairs.

      The rain had stopped, but it was overcast and chilly. He’d have liked to go ahead and split logs, work off some aggression, but Jack liked doing that, so he let it go. At six-thirty, Jack came into the bar, all smiles. This was the happiest man in Virgin River since he got married. It was as if he couldn’t stop grinning.

      Preacher stood behind the bar with his coffee mug and lifted his chin in greeting to his best friend. “Hey,” Jack said. “Good rain.”

      “Jack,” he said. “Listen. I did something…”

      Jack shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the peg inside the door. “Pee in the soup again, Preacher?”

      “I got a woman upstairs…”

      Pure shock settled over Jack’s face. Preacher didn’t have women around. He didn’t prowl, didn’t flirt, didn’t do any of that. Of course, Jack didn’t really know how he lived like that, but this was Preacher. When the guys, the Marines they had served with, were all out looking for women to pass the night with, Preacher stayed behind. They jokingly called him the Big Eunuch. “Oh, yeah?” he asked.

      Preacher took down a mug and filled it for Jack. “She came in last night, during the storm,” he said. “She’s got a kid with her—little,” he said, measuring with his huge hands. “Kid might be coming down with something. He’s got a fever, she said. I gave her my old room because there’s no place to stay around here….”

      “Well,” Jack said, picking up his coffee. “That was nice of you. I guess. She steal the silver or anything?”

      Preacher made a face. They didn’t have silver; the only thing worth stealing was the cash, locked up tight. Or liquor—way too much trouble for a woman with a kid. Not that any of that ever crossed his mind. “She’s probably in some trouble,” Preacher said. “She’s got… Looks like maybe she’s been in some trouble. Maybe she’s running or something.”

      Again, Jack was shocked. “Huh?”

      Preacher stared hard into Jack’s eyes. “I think she needs some help,” he said, when in fact he knew she needed help. “She’s got a bruise on her face.”

      “Oh, boy,” Jack said.

      “Mel coming in to Doc’s?” he asked.

      “Of course.”

      “She needs to have a look at the kid—make sure he’s not sick. You know. And the woman—Paige—she says she’s all right, but maybe… Maybe Mel can—I don’t know—be sure.”

      “Yeah,” Jack said, taking a sip from his mug. “Then what?”

      Preacher shrugged. “She’s gonna want to get out of here, I think. She’s all skittish. She seems scared. I want her to at least see Mel.”

      “Probably a good idea.”

      “Yeah. That’s what we’ll do. Ask her to let Mel have a look. But I can’t make her, you know. I think you should do it. Talk to her, suggest it to her….”

      “Nah, Preach, you can handle this. It’s your deal—I haven’t seen her or anything. You just talk to her. Quiet and soft. Try not to scare her.”

      “She’s already scared, which is how I figure she’s in some trouble. The kid hasn’t seen me yet, though—he was asleep. He’ll probably run screaming.”

      At seven-thirty Preacher fixed up a tray with some cereal in bowls, toast, coffee, orange juice and milk. He went up the back stairs and gently tapped on the door. It opened immediately. Paige had showered and dressed. She wore the same jeans and a long-sleeved chambray shirt. A little black-and-blue spot peeked out from the opened collar and Preacher immediately felt steamed up, but he tried to keep it from showing on his face. Instead, he focused on her eyes, which were a deep emerald-green, and her damp hair, which fell in curly tendrils to her shoulders. “Morning,” he said, trying to keep his voice quiet and soft, like Jack would.

      “Hey,” she said. “You’re up early.”

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