Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(114)

There wasn’t a second shot, but there was a disturbance in the trees. Rick stayed behind the truck, his weapon at the ready with nowhere to aim. The sounds heard in the trees suggested Lassiter could be on the run, hopefully only to be caught on his way down by Mike and Jim.

Preacher kicked out of Jack’s tackle and belly-crawled toward Paige with incredible speed. He got behind the tree and reached long arms around, grabbing her arm harder than he ever had, and pulled her, still completely bound, to safety behind the tree with him. He put his fingers first on the tape that covered her mouth. “It’s gonna hurt, baby,” he whispered, then gave a sharp, quick yank.

She pinched her eyes closed tightly and held bravely silent. Then she said, “John, he’s been waiting. He means to shoot you and me.”

Preacher pulled his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and made fast work of the bindings around her wrists and ankles. “Crazy son of a bitch,” he whispered, while slicing through the tape. He peered around the tree; someone was definitely on the run down that hill. Maybe even already caught and trying to fight his way out.

She touched his shoulder, the very top of his arm. Blood ran down his arm. “You’re hurt,” she whispered.

He put his finger to his lips and they froze, listening. The noise in the trees had weakened to a rustle; the night was otherwise silent.

A tense minute passed, then there was a shout. “Hey! Your bad guy’s down! We’re bringing him out!”

Paige whispered, “That’s not Wes.”

Preacher peered around the tree again. He saw Jack lying on his belly, his rifle up and trained in the direction of the trees. The man who’d led Jim and Mike up the hill had lost his shady brady, but he hauled Wes by the belt at his back, neatly folded in half, unconscious, through the trees. Wes dropped in a flop; the man wiped off his forehead with a hand. Then he shook his head. “Complicated,” he said. Preacher helped Paige to her feet and, keeping her behind him, cautiously approached.

“What the hell did you do?” Jack asked, getting up on his knees, then his feet.

“Ah, shit. I should’ve known you couldn’t hold off till we could get up on his back. Didn’t I tell you to wait? Till we could get up that hill?” He crouched, pulled handcuffs off the back of his belt and, yanking Wes’s hands behind his back, cuffed him. Jim was next out of the trees, holding two rifles, his and their guide’s. Right behind him was Mike, both of them panting.

Jack looked down at him. “He dead?”

“Nah.” He still gripped his flashlight. “But he’s gonna have a headache. Pretty good thing he didn’t see me—I can’t be in this. For obvious reasons.”

“You’re going to be counting on a lot of people covering you. Someone might just accidentally tell the truth.”

“Well, shit happens. Won’t be the first time I’ve had to relocate. But I’m telling you—life’s good right here, right now. I’d rather be left out of this.”

Wes Lassiter lay facedown on the ground, unconscious. Mike Valenzuela stepped toward Dan, still trying to catch his breath.

“You whack him?”

“Well, your man there provided diversion, and I couldn’t see good enough to shoot him….”

“You carry handcuffs?” Mike asked.

Dan grinned. “Yeah. You know. Kinky sex—you should try it.”

“Think I will,” Mike said.

Dan looked at Jack. “What if we made a trade here? Flashlights?” He pulled a rag out of his pocket and wiped his prints off his flashlight.

“Not this one,” Jack said. “I used this one to deliver my son.” He smiled. “I couldn’t find a midwife.”

Dan laughed. “I figured I owed you one. At least one. But seriously—I shouldn’t be in this.”

“Take mine,” Jim Post said, and this made Jack just slightly more attentive. Jim tossed Dan the flashlight, received the replacement by a toss.

Dan touched his forehead. “Lost my damn hat,” he said. “You’ll be okay now. He’s going away forever. No more trouble on that. I hear kidnapping’s huge.” He turned and moved down the hill, through the trees.

Silence reigned for a few moments while the sounds of his descent down the hill faded. The man on the ground began to squirm and moan. Preacher growled and pulled back a foot, but caught himself and didn’t kick him with a boot behind which there was two hundred fifty pounds of pure rage.

Jim Post tilted his head toward the departure of the man who traded flashlights. “You know him?”

“No,” Jack said. “He came into the bar for a drink with stinky Bens in a big wad. Then he took Mel out to a grow site to deliver a baby and I thought I’d lose my mind, it scared me so bad. Next time I saw him I told him that just can’t happen.” He shrugged. “He said she wasn’t in danger, but it wouldn’t happen again. Now this.”

“This,” Post said.

“The craziest part of our relationship so far,” Jack said.

“Well, he was making that climb a little faster than we were,” Jim said. “He must’ve heard you make the top of the hill, because he dropped his gun and took off up the hill at a run, through the growth. I heard the shot, then the struggle. He was taking a big chance there. If this guy was any better with a weapon, he could’ve turned on our man. Our friend.”