Paradise Valley (Virgin River #7)(61)

“What if I don’t want to?”

“What if you try?” Jack replied, very proud of himself for not saying f**king try. Mel would be proud, too.

Rick made a face and a noise of displeasure, placed his hands and foot, gave a tug and hoisted himself up into the cab. He did it, first time. But while it made Jack so happy, it obviously gave Rick no pleasure at all. “Well, there you go.” Jack grabbed the walker and put it in the truck bed. Really, he wanted to throw it as far as it would go. He wanted his boy back; he wanted the dependence on the excuse of this disability to stop, probably long before it was reasonable.

Jack was too impatient. He knew that. He wished he could be another way. But he felt so desperate to have his Rick back, no matter how many pieces he was in. Even if it took a while, that was okay, as long as Rick wanted to get back as much as he should. It was this attitude of defeat that was killing Jack.

He should have gone down to San Diego a few times while Rick was in rehab, if only to run through fast food and feed him. He’d gotten thin. All that upper body strength he’d had before Iraq had wilted. Rick was going to need the muscle to compensate for the missing leg. A little time on Preacher’s food would help, but he had to work those muscles, and that took motivation.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” Jack said.

“I had breakfast,” Rick said.

“How about more breakfast? Looks like you could use it.”

“Get some for yourself if you want. I’m not hungry. I’ll wait in the truck.”

Jack just kept driving. It was going to be a long trip home.

Every couple of hours Jack stopped, someplace there was food if he could help it, and forced Rick out of the truck to move around. “Come on, the PT guy in Eureka said you need to move around to avoid something—I can’t remember exactly what it was….”

“Contractures,” Rick supplied. “I’m fine. But this leg has got to come off for a while.”

“Right after this stop. Let’s do it, Rick. Look around—you have your choice. Big Mac, Subway, fish ’n’ chips, whatever you see.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Christ,” Jack muttered. He hauled the walker out of the back and put it down beside Rick. “Walk around the truck at least twice. Then we’ll get the leg off.” Then he took off across the street and walked into a sandwich shop, coming back out with two big submarine sandwiches. He almost smiled to note the walker was back in the truck bed and Rick back in the cab. Not so disabled when he wanted to be done with his exercise. And Jack wasn’t sure how he’d accomplished it, but the prosthesis was in the backseat of the extended cab.

Jack tossed one of the sandwiches in Rick’s lap, put two giant colas in the cup holders and started up the truck.

Rick just stared at the food in his lap.

“Eat what you can. It’s been hours since you’ve eaten and I’ve eaten three times. When we get back, I’m going to get some of Preacher’s weights out of the storage shed for you. You should probably bulk up those arms, shoulders, chest. Give you back your advantage.”

“For?”

Jack was stupefied. He shook his head. “For getting through life?” he said by way of a question.

“For?” Rick said again.

And Jack thought, you can’t slug him. You have to keep your mouth shut and be patient, that’s what Mike said, what Mel said. So Jack talked to himself. Okay, I’m not the best person to deal with this. I never had it this bad, and sure not when I was this young. Mike, he’s been through a terrifying, life-threatening injury. Mike might be able to step in. Mel had done as she promised and lined up a counselor through the VA. He couldn’t make Rick help himself, but he could throw him in the truck, drive him there and sit outside till the hour was up.

Eventually Jack said, in his sensitive and mellow voice, “Eat the goddamn f**king sandwich. And I mean it.”

A few seconds later, Rick peeled off the wrapping paper and took a bite, then another bite.

But Jack had lost his appetite. He was glad Rick was eating something, but this didn’t feel victorious at all. The drive had to come from inside Rick, not from the bully in the seat next to him.

Jack forced down about half his sandwich, wrapped up what was left and managed to keep heading north. After Rick had eaten what was presumably his fill, he leaned back in the seat and dozed, his own wrapped half sandwich on his lap. Jack lifted it carefully; he put it in the sack for later. Rick’s nap gave him a little time to think.

He remembered what Mel had said, that Jack needed his boy back so bad, he was pushing on him. He remembered when Mike Valenzuela picked Virgin River as a place to recover when he’d been critically wounded on the job at LAPD—because his family and friends needed him well again so badly they were suffocating him. And he remembered that he’d never loved a kid as powerfully as he loved this one, except maybe David and Emma, and his love was strong. Sometimes it caused him to act in desperate ways. He could end up doing more harm than good.

It was a good couple of hours before Rick woke with a painful cramp in his thigh, his stump. He groaned in pain and started rubbing.

“We’ll come up on a rest stop real soon here. Hang in there,” Jack said.

Rick just kept rubbing, gritting his teeth. He pushed back in the seat, lifted his butt and fished a pill bottle out of his pocket. He swallowed a pill with a gulp of old, watered-down cola.