Redwood Bend (Virgin River #18)(58)

“I repeat—Dylan has no idea there’s a pregnancy! He’s not an ass so much as another version of you a few years ago. We will give Katie love and support and stay out of her business. She can make her own decisions.”

“Doesn’t look like she’s making really good ones,” he grumbled angrily.

“If she heard this from you, she would be furious,” Leslie said. “And you’d be lucky if she ever confided in you again.”

“Let me get it out!” he said. “I’ll get it out, I’ll be done with it! Katie won’t have to put up with this from me. I’ll take care of her.”

Leslie sighed. “Stop at Jack’s,” she said. “I’ll get something of Preacher’s to take home. And whatever you have to do to be done with this, do it. I don’t want all this anger from you—I’ve never had to deal with this from you before. You get about fifteen more minutes, then I’m out of patience.”

She soon realized how badly she’d chosen her words. It was almost six o’clock, the bar was at peak dinner hour when they walked in. There were only a couple of empty tables or bar stools. Sitting at the end of the bar with a beer and a dinner plate was Dylan Childress.

It was like waving the red cape in front of the bull.

Conner didn’t look right or left. He stomped into the bar, grabbed Dylan by the front of his shirt, taking him completely by surprise, lifting him off the stool, and began to drag him out of the bar. Leslie screamed, “Jaaaccckkk!” Dylan hooked his boot behind Conner’s knee and they both went down, toppling a table as they crashed to the floor. Just like a scene from the old West, people rose and pushed back tables and chairs to stay out of the way of a good old-fashioned bar fight.

And the fists flew, both men making significant, loud, crunching contact. They each got off two or three on the other before Jack, Paul Haggerty, Conner’s boss and, fortuitously, Mike Valenzuela, the town cop, pulled them apart and got them outside. Dan Brady and Preacher came from the kitchen for backup. Most of the people who had been in the bar were more than happy to leave their dinners to get cold while they headed for the porch, enjoying the show. And quite the show it was, complete with Preacher in what could have appeared to be a bloody apron, except it was tomato sauce.

“What the f**k?” Dylan yelled through a split lip, spitting blood onto the street.

“You are the f**k!” Conner returned nasally, his nose having taken on a weird shape and now bleeding onto his shirt. “You don’t treat my sister like the gum on your shoe!”

“No, I don’t! Am I here? I’m here! Why do you think I’m here? She’s a good woman. I care about her!”

“A little late, cowboy,” Conner shot back. “Let go of me,” he said over his shoulder to Paul and Dan Brady. “Let me kill him. I’ll wipe up after.”

“You just try, ass**le,” Dylan roared. “That f**ker’s crazy! Lock him up, will you?”

Jack and Preacher held on to Dylan. Mike V. stood between the opposing teams. “We don’t exactly have a lockup around here,” he said. “I could call the sheriff, however. But I’d have to give him both of you.”

“I don’t like their chances for family holidays,” Jack said to Preacher. “Do you?”

“Did I do anything?” Dylan asked hotly. “I was having a beer and a meal!”

“And screwing my sister!” Conner shouted.

“Conner!” Leslie shouted from the porch. “Shut up!”

“You hurt her!” Conner yelled at Dylan, failing to take his beloved’s advice.

“I’m back here to try to make amends!” Dylan yelled back.

“You’re a little late, pretty boy!”

“You son of a—” And with that, Dylan threw himself against the strong arms that held him.

A piercing whistle shot through the air and everyone stopped yelling and moving. Right at the base of the porch stood Mel Sheridan and her partner, Doc Michaels. Jack lifted his eyebrows, wondering if that whistle had come out of his wife.

“Two choices, gentlemen,” Mike Valenzuela said. “You can walk away quietly, get patched up and go home or I can cuff you and call the sheriff’s deputy.”

Dylan immediately stopped struggling. “I’m not the problem,” he pointed out.

“Wanna get your lip fixed?” Jack asked.

“Pretty boy probably needs a plastic surgeon,” Conner said.

“I’m about done trying,” Mike V. said.

“All right,” Conner said. “All right.”

“Take Conner to the clinic,” Jack said. “His nose needs to be…” he cleared his throat “…adjusted. This one can go to Preacher’s quarters with Mel.” Then to Dylan he said, “If you even bump into my wife, you’ll have me to deal with and trust me…”

“Why would I bother your wife, man?” Dylan asked. “That was just self-defense, what happened. I just need a little ice. I’ll settle up for my dinner and get out of here.”

Mel walked over to Dylan and looked at his face, the bleeding lip, a small cut over his eye and rapidly spreading inflammation on the right side of his face. “I can probably fix those cuts with some tape,” she said, turning his head left and right. “I’ll go get my bag from the clinic. It could take me a few minutes to wade through all the testosterone in the street, so be patient.”