Forbidden Falls (Virgin River #9)(2)

So Noah inked the deal with the presbytery and hoped his mother wasn’t spinning in her grave. Truth be told, she’d always quietly supported him when, years back, he had been determined as hell to run away from the ministry. She had good reason. Noah’s father was a powerful, semifamous televangelist—and a cold, controlling man. Noah had run away while his mother could not.

If someone had told Noah seventeen years ago, when he fled his father’s house at the age of eighteen, that he would one day be a preacher himself, he’d have laughed in their face. Yet here he was. And he wanted that church. That wreck of a church in that peaceful, uncomplicated mountain town.

Several weeks later Noah was in his fifteen-year-old RV, which would be his home for a good long time, towing his twenty-year-old faded-blue Ford truck. En route to Northern California, he called George’s office, placing the call from his cell phone before the signal was lost in the mountains and tall trees. “I’m on my way into Virgin River, George.”

“Well, boy—how does it feel?” George asked with a deep chuckle in his voice. “Like you pulled off the sweetheart deal of the century, or like you’ll be dead broke and out in the street before you know what hit you?”

Noah laughed. “Not sure. I’ll be tapped out by the time the church is presentable. If I can’t drum up a congregation, I could be back in Seattle throwing fish before you know it,” he said, referring to an old job of his working the fish market on Seattle’s downtown wharf. He’d literally thrown large fish across the market. It had been like theater and it was where George had discovered him. “I’ll get started on the improvements right away and trust the presbytery won’t leave me out in the cold if no one shows up to services. I mean, if you can’t trust the church…”

That comment was answered with George’s hearty laughter. “They’re the last ones I’d trust. Those Presbyterians think too much! I know I wasn’t keen on this idea at first, Noah, but I wish you well,” George said. “I’m proud of you for taking a chance.”

“Thanks, George. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Noah,” George said soberly. “Good luck, son. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

It was the first of July when Noah rattled into Virgin River and pulled right up to the church. Parked there was a big old Suburban with the wheels jacked up and covered with mud. Standing beside it was a tiny old woman with wiry white hair and big glasses, a cigarette hanging from her lips. She wore great big tennis shoes that didn’t look as if they’d ever been white and, although it was summer, she had on a jacket with torn pockets. When he parked and got out of his RV, she tossed the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. One of Virgin River’s stunning beauties, he thought wryly.

“Reverend Kincaid, I presume?” she said.

From the look on her face, Noah assumed she was expecting someone a bit more refined. Maybe someone who dressed in khakis and a crisp white button-down? Shiny loafers? Neatly trimmed hair? Clean shaven at least? His hair was shaggy, his whiskers itchy, and he had a healthy bit of motor oil on his jeans, a result of a stop a hundred miles back when he’d had to work on the RV. “Mrs. McCrea,” he answered, putting out his hand.

She shook it briefly, then put the keys in his palm. “Welcome. Would you like a tour?”

“Do I need keys?” he asked. “The building wasn’t locked the last time I was here. I looked it over pretty thoroughly.”

“You’ve seen it?” she asked, clearly startled.

“Sure did. I took a run down here before placing a bid on behalf of the Presbyterian church. The door wasn’t locked so I helped myself. All the presbytery really needed from you was the engineer’s report on the building’s structural competence. I gave them lots of pictures.”

She pushed her oversize glasses up on her nose. “What are you, a minister or some kind of secret agent?”

He grinned at her. “Did you think the presbytery bought it on faith?”

“I guess I didn’t see any other possibility. Well, if you’re all set, let’s go in to Jack’s—it’s time for my drink. Doctor’s orders. I’ll front you one.”

“Did the doctor order the smokes, too?” he asked with a smile.

“You’re damn straight, sonny. Don’t start on me.”

“I gotta meet this doctor,” Noah muttered, following her.

Hope stopped abruptly, looked at him over her shoulder as she adjusted her jacket and said, “He’s dead.” And with that she turned and stomped into Jack’s bar.

Noah had only been in town a couple of days before the need for cleaning supplies sent him in the direction of Fortuna. The narrow, winding mountain roads led him toward the freeway, and he marveled that he had managed to get his RV to Virgin River at all, especially while towing his truck. He wasn’t quite halfway to Fortuna before he had his first lesson in how dramatically different mountain life was from life in the city, the campus and the Seattle wharf.

He spied a motionless animal by the side of the road and by pure coincidence there was a wide space on the shoulder just ahead. He pulled over and got out of his truck. When he was within a few feet, he realized it was a dog; perhaps some family pet. He went closer. Flies were buzzing around the animal and some of its fur looked shiny with blood, but Noah detected a slight movement. He crouched near the dog, whose eyes were open and tongue hanging out of its parted mouth. The animal was breathing, but clearly near death. The condition of the poor beast tore at his heart.