Hidden Summit (Virgin River #17)(50)

“And after the trial? Is your life in danger after the trial?” She wanted to know.

“Always possible, if you consider revenge. But I’m not a mobster testifying against mobsters.... I’m just a guy who was taking out the trash. I’ll keep this new identity and start over, but I’m not planning to hide in deep cover like secret witnesses in a marshal’s program. You know—like never make a phone call to friends or visit them. Every witness to any crime faces the possibility of revenge, I guess. But if the guy is locked up, getting rid of me won’t help him. Might even make things worse for him. I think I’m at risk before the trial. Which is why I’m going to visit Katie and the boys before I have to go testify. While I can…”

“You should,” she said.

“It would be hard to give you up, but like I said…”

“Right—cut my losses. Well, not before you cook and serve me that sea bass, that’s for sure.”

He smiled at her. “Maybe after I finish the dishes?” he asked.

“Maybe after you finish me,” she said. “But unlikely. If you decide to go away, I won’t try to hold on to you. You’re free to go, you know that. But I’m not going to give you up just because you come with a few complications. You’re too good in the kitchen.”

“I don’t want to put a strain on you....”

“Oh, I think we’ll manage. Now before we enjoy a splendid meal and some wild monkey sex, is there anything else you should tell me?”

“You mean other than a crazy ex-wife and a murderer who could be after me? No, that probably covers it.”

Twelve

Jack actually heard the motorcycle pull into town before he saw the biker. The Harley had a fierce rumble, like someone had poked a screwdriver into the muffler a few times. On purpose. He glanced out the side window behind the bar and saw a roadster with high handle bars parked right next to the bar. Seconds later its rider ambled in.

He was a big guy with a lot of leather and hair, long retro sideburns and a shaggy goatee. And it kind of surprised Jack to note a wedding band.

“Afternoon, pardner,” Jack said.

“Hey,” the guy answered. “Just a cup of coffee while I think about food. And while you’re pouring that, can I trouble you for the restroom?”

“Absolutely. Right through the kitchen there. Be sure you hit the one with the sign on the door and don’t make a wrong turn into the cook’s residence.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said, making his way through the door.

He was back momentarily, looking a little spruced up. His long hair, which had been a little matted down where it wasn’t wild and crazy, had been combed into a fresh pony tail; he might’ve washed his face.

“Get the bugs out of your teeth?” Jack asked.

“Pretty much,” he said, lifting his coffee cup. “It’s a beautiful day out there.”

“This place really lights up in spring,” Jack said. “Where you headed?”

“Don’t know,” he answered. “Just around. What’s good today?”

“There’s the irony,” Jack said. “There’s no choice, but it doesn’t matter—everything is good here. It’s whatever the cook dreams up. Today it’s a seafood bouillabaisse—there was a special on lobster and scallops.”

“Damn,” he said. “That sounds awesome!”

“It is. Has a coconut base and Preacher said to be sure to tell anyone who’s gonna eat it, there are peanuts in it. Not a lot, but they’re there. The way he tells it, people who are allergic to peanuts can’t take the smallest amount.”

“No problem. I love peanuts.” He looked at his watch. “Am I too early for some of that?”

“I think I can talk him out of some even though you’re a little ahead of the dinner crowd. Excuse me a second.” Jack went to the kitchen door to ask the question. “Fifteen minutes,” he said to the biker. “Can I get you some bread and butter to tide you over?”

“I’ll be okay, thanks,” he said. “But I’ll have some with the bouillabaisse, if you don’t mind.”

“My pleasure. Your bike was pretty loud coming into town....”

“Hope I didn’t wake anyone from a nap,” he said. “I have a couple of problems with the engine and muffler. I could work on it now, but it’s safe, and after I eat, I’m headed home.” He got up, took off his leather jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, ready to get down to some serious eating. When he came back to his stool at the bar, Jack couldn’t help but notice the tattoo of a na**d woman on his forearm.

“Where’s home?”

“Sacramento. How long you been up here?”

“Jeez, seven or eight years now. Best move of my life,” Jack said.

“You get a lot of bikers through here?”

“Just now and then,” Jack said with a shrug.

“I’m surprised you don’t get a lot of big groups. The roads up this way are just the kind riding clubs go looking for. In fact, that’s what I’m doing—scouting. We have a group ride coming up and I’m putting together a plan for a road trip. From the mountains to the coast, challenging roads, incredible views. I don’t get this far north too often.”