Bring Me Home for Christmas (Virgin River #16)(62)

“We should get on the road…” he said again.

Becca went to the pantry and pulled out cans of chicken soup. The supply must be something that Preacher kept on hand for the kids. She put six cans on the work island, then transferred them into a bag. She pushed the bag toward Denny. “We’ll get on the road in plenty of time. First things first. We have things to do.”

Becca turned off the stove and preheating oven, slipped her bowl of shredded potatoes into the refrigerator and crutched her way out of the kitchen.

“Denny,” she said over her shoulder. “Come on!”

He followed, pulling his stocking cap back on his head. “Yes, sir!”

Jack hung up the phone and looked at Lorraine. “Where’s Frank? We’ll go help him out.”

“He went out to the shed quite a while back. He said he’d have to get the snow off the roof and bring in firewood.”

“Let’s do it,” Jack said to Preacher. They pulled their hoods up and tromped out of the house, following footsteps through the deep snow around to the back, where a shed sat next to an abandoned outhouse.

Frank was up on a ladder, using a shovel with his only arm to clear the roof of the rickety shed. He was leaning precariously to one side. Progress was extremely slow.

Jack stood at the bottom of the ladder with hands on hips. “Frank, man, you need to learn to ask for a hand. You could fall and break the only arm you have left.”

“What’s the difference?” he grumbled.

“Well,” Preacher said, scratching his head. “About one…”

Frank looked down at them. “I ain’t much good to anyone as it is,” he said. “I tried like hell to get this shed reinforced before snow, and look how far I got.”

“You need another arm,” Jack said.

“No shit?” Frank laughed bitterly.

“Shouldn’t you be getting a prosthetic limb?”

“There’s a waiting list. You oughta know that. By the time they get around to me, I won’t need it anymore.”

“And why’s that? You fixin’ to grow one?”

“Funny. Don’t be an ass**le.”

“Listen, two of my closest friends have artificial legs. They didn’t like the process that much, but one of ’em can run on his now. The other one, Ricky, I figure he’ll be able to run on his once he makes up his mind to. If you had another arm, you’d get a lot more done. You’d probably land a job if you had two arms and weren’t such a miserable cuss. Now, get off that goddamn ladder. We’ll clean off the roof and bring in the wood. I don’t have all day!”

Frank swore, but he left the shovel lying on the roof of the shed and started down. “That shed’s a piece of crap, but I can’t do without it. Stores half my tools and there ain’t no room in the house for that.”

“I’ll get the snow off,” Jack said. “And I’ll tell Mel you need an arm. Maybe she can find you one. Or at least get you moved up on the list.”

“She can’t do that.”

“Technically, she probably can’t. But she’s annoying as all hell and when she starts making phone calls, people tend to do what she wants just to get rid of her.” Jack smiled proudly. Then he opened the door to the shed and peered inside at an impressive stack of split logs. “Holy crap, you do all that? With one hand?”

“Took a while,” Frank said.

Jack scratched his head. “How the hell did you do all that?”

“Took a while,” he repeated.

Jack laughed in spite of himself. “Frank, if you’d drop the poor-me attitude, you’d probably be a whole circus act. Now, let’s get over it, man. I grant you, a logger losing an arm is a lot to handle, but seriously, there’s work here and there. You want a little help looking, I’ll be glad to help you put out feelers. You’re just going to be twice as good at everything once you get that prosthetic arm.”

“Yeah. Sure,” he grumbled.

Denny and Becca talked in circles on the way to the Thicksons’ house. We should go. We should stay through this emergency. We’ll end up going late. Late is better than too soon… The unexpected twist was that Becca was arguing for staying and Denny for leaving.

They pulled up to the house right next to the Hummer. The Thicksons lived on a big piece of property on the outskirts of town. A little house was burrowed into a large copse of trees at the end of a long drive that had been recently plowed. Preacher’s truck was still there, which meant that Jack and Preacher were still there.

Denny deposited her along with her crutches onto the narrow porch and went back for the bag of canned soup. She gave two knocks and opened the door. Right inside the door was a little living room/dining room/kitchen—one room. Just a quick glance told her the Thicksons were poor—the floors were scarred wood, covered by a thread-bare rug, a lamp without a shade sat atop a barrel covered by cloth, the appliances were very dated. Mel was kneeling on the floor beside Megan, who was using a small, sagging couch as her bed.

“I’m mostly well,” she was telling Mel.

“Just let me be sure, while Doctor Michaels checks your brothers. Open your mouth and let me have a look. Say ‘ahhh.’ Throat’s a little red, but not scary.” She ran the temperature sensor across Megan’s forehead and read it. “Normal. You’re right—mostly well.”