Shelter Mountain. Robyn Carr

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      She opened the door for Preacher and he came in, putting the tray on the bureau just inside the door. He stayed by the door and gave the kid a nod. He tried to relax his features into softness, but wasn’t sure how to do that. “Hey, little buddy. You want some breakfast?”

      The kid shrugged, but his round eyes were wide and focused on Preacher.

      “He’s not so good with men,” Paige whispered softly. “Shy.”

      “Yeah?” Preacher asked. “Me, too. Don’t worry—I’ll stay back.”

      He looked at the child and tried out a smile. Then the kid pointed at Preacher’s head and said, “You hafta shabe that?”

      It made Preacher laugh. “Yeah. Wanna feel?” he asked. He approached the bed slowly, carefully, bending his bald head toward the kid. He felt a small hand rub over his dome and it made him laugh again. He raised his head and said, “Cool, huh?” And the kid nodded.

      Preacher went back to Paige. “My buddy’s wife, Melinda, she’s coming to Doc’s this morning and I wanna take you over there. Let her have a look at the kid, make sure he’s okay, and if he needs medicine or anything, she’ll fix you right up.”

      “She’s a nurse, you say?”

      “Yeah. A special nurse. A midwife. She delivers babies and that.”

      “Oh,” Paige said, a little more interested. “That’s probably a good idea. But I don’t have much money—”

      He laughed. “We don’t worry about things like that around here, if someone could use a little help. It’ll be fine.”

      “If you’re sure…”

      “It’s all good. Come on downstairs when you’re ready. Mel will be over there about eight, but take your time. Not too many people get sick around here and they’re not usually busy.”

      “Okay. Then we’ll press on….”

      “Um, if you need to, you can stay a couple of days. I mean, if he’s not feeling so well. Or, if you’re tired from driving.”

      “I’ll probably just get back on the road.”

      “Where you headed?” he asked. “You never mentioned.”

      “Just a little farther. I have a friend… We’re going to visit a friend.”

      “Ah,” he said, but if it had been just a little farther, she’d have kept going. “Well, you think about it. Open offer.”

      While Christopher sat cross-legged on the bed to eat cereal, Paige leaned toward the mirror, dabbing makeup on her purple cheek, covering it as best she could. It had at least lightened somewhat. But there was nothing she could do about the split lip, which was scabbing over. Christopher would touch it and say, “Mommy’s owie.”

      Her mind wandered back to that last beating. The part that still shook her was not being able to remember what had really started it. Something about Christopher’s toys being strewn all over the family room, and then Wes’s suit not back from the dry cleaners. He wasn’t happy about what she’d made for dinner. Or was it what she had said about the toys? “Jesus, Wes, he has toys—he plays with them. Just give me a minute.” Had he slapped her then? No, right after that, when she muttered, under her breath, “Don’t get excited, don’t get mean, just let me do it…”

      How could she not know that he’d react like that? Because she never knew how he would react. They’d had months of no violence. But she had seen it in his eyes when he came home from the office. It was already there—eyes that said, I’m going to hit you and hit you and hit you some more and neither of us will know exactly why. As usual, by the time she zoned in on that dangerous gleam, it was too late.

      She had started spotting then, in danger of losing the baby—the new baby that she’d recently told him about. Big surprise—since he had kicked her. So she dragged herself out of the bed and went to pick up Christopher at day care. The girl behind the desk, Debbie, had gasped when she saw Paige’s face. Then she stammered, “M-Mr. Lassiter asked us to call him if you came for Christopher.”

      “Look at me, Debbie. Maybe you could forget to call him. Just this once. Maybe for a while.”

      “I don’t know…”

      “He’s not going to hit you,” she had said boldly.

      “Mrs. Lassiter, maybe you should call the police or something?”

      And Paige had laughed hollowly. Right. “I guess you think I haven’t.”

      At least she’d gotten out of town. With her one suitcase, almost five hundred dollars and an address in Spokane.

      And here she was, waking up under another V-shaped ceiling. Still scared to death, but at least in the moment, apparently safe.

      While Christopher ate, she poked around a little, not touching anything. It wasn’t a real big room, but there was enough space for Preacher’s bench and weights. She looked at a couple of barbells on the floor—sixty pounds each. On the press he had stacked four hundred pounds; Wes had bragged incessantly about his two-fifty.

      There was a medium-size bookcase against the wall, full, books stacked on the floor beside it and on top. She held her hands behind her back; force of habit—Wes didn’t like her touching his things, except his dirty laundry. Weird titles—the biography of Napoléon, World War Two warplanes, medieval armies. Hitler’s Occupation—that sent a chill through her. Most of them were pretty worn, old. Some new. She couldn’t spot a fiction title—all nonfiction, all military or political subjects. Maybe they had belonged to his father or an uncle. He didn’t exactly look like a big reader, though he sure looked like a weight-lifter.

      When Chris was done with his breakfast, she put on his jacket, then her own, picking up the quilted bag to hang over her shoulder. She left the suitcase, packed, on the bed and carried the breakfast tray down the back stairs. John was in the kitchen wearing an apron, flipping sausage patties, an omelet pan steaming over a high flame. “Go ahead and set that down right on the counter and give me one minute,” he said. “I’ll walk you over.”

      “I could wash these up,” she said meekly.

      “Nah, I got it.” Paige watched as he pressed the patties with his big spatula and sprinkled cheese on the omelet, then deftly folded and flipped it. Toast popped up, was buttered and everything put on a large oval plate. He took off his apron and hung it on a hook. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that was stretched so tight across the broad expanse of his chest it looked like it should split. The biceps on the man were like melons. If he’d been wearing a white T-shirt, he’d look like Mr. Clean.

      He plucked a denim jacket off the peg and shrugged into it. He picked up the plate and said, “Come on,” and walked into the bar. He put the plate down in front of a man who sat at the bar, quickly refilled the man’s coffee and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Here’s the pot. Jack’s out back if you need anything.”

      Paige stole a look out the back door window where she saw a man in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt hefting an ax over his head and bringing it down to split a log. That had been what woke her. She took note of the СКАЧАТЬ