Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(20)

“How do you know all this? Did your friend tell you?”

“I wanna find out something, I look it up,” he said.

“Then do you know while I’m trying to do that, he’s going to kill me? He’s mean, and he’s crazy. He’s going to kill me.”

“Not if you stay here,” Preacher said.

She was stunned silent for a moment. Then she said, “I can’t stay here, John. I’m pregnant.”

Then it was Preacher’s turn to show shock. Silent and dark. It settled into his eyes and over his expression slowly as he sat back in the chair, then stood. He went behind the bar and poured himself a shot, throwing it back. When he returned to the chair by the fire, he asked, “Did he know? When he beat you, did he know you were pregnant?”

She nodded and looked away from him, pursing her lips tight. Intellectually, she knew none of this was her fault, but there was an emotional misfire in her brain that said, you married him, had a child with him, didn’t get out in time, let it happen, screwed up, got pregnant again, never ran in time, never saw it coming and it was plain as day.

“You ever been to a shelter?” he asked her. She nodded.

“Here are your choices,” Preacher said calmly. “You can stay here and try to get your ducks in a row so when you do leave, you’re not breaking the law or hiding for the rest of your life. It’s okay if you stay here—there are medical people across the street if you need them, you can help out in the kitchen if you want to, so you don’t feel like you’re taking advantage, and if you happen to run into that son of a bitch around here, we’re ready for him. You think of it as a shelter, like any other shelter—sometimes people just want to help out. Or you can go if you want—continue on with your plan. Whatever it is. You don’t have to run in the night, anyway. Safer in daylight. Huh?” He stood up. “You sit a minute, think, have a little brandy there—it won’t hurt that baby, a tiny sip of brandy, and I think maybe you need it. I’m going to take care of those plates for you, then I’m going to get you the bear. Whatever you decide to do, you can’t leave without the bear, you know that.”

He left her, going through his apartment. She could hear him go out his back door. He must have found the bear in the kitchen and put it in a safe place. A log in the fireplace dropped and she pulled her jacket tighter around her, taking another tiny sip of brandy that burned its way down her throat and did, miraculously, settle her stomach and her nerves, if slightly. Or maybe it was the news that Wes didn’t have the police after her that calmed her a little. A while later, John came back from his apartment, still wearing the jacket he’d obviously fetched, and holding the bear.

“Connie’ll never know the difference on those plates,” he said, holding the bear out to her. “Besides, if she knew what was going on here, she’d tell you to take ’em.”

She frowned as she looked at the bear, changed. He had a new leg, sewn out of blue-and-gray plaid. It wasn’t exactly the same shape as the surviving leg; it was just a stuffed flannel tube stuck on the bear, but he was symmetrical now. “What did you do?” she asked, taking the bear.

Preacher shrugged. “I told him I’d give it a try. Looks pretty silly, I guess, but it was a good idea at the time.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Think you can get a little rest tonight? You still feel like you have to go right now? I could brew you up some coffee if you wanna just get out of here. I think I even have a thermos I could—”

She stood up, leaving the brandy on the table, holding Bear close against her. “I’m going back to bed,” she said. “I’ll leave in the morning, after Chris has a little breakfast.”

“If that’s what you want,” he said.

Paige awakened to the dim light of morning streaking through the dormer window and the sound of an ax striking wood. She rolled onto her side to see Christopher still sleeping peacefully, gripping the bear with the blue-and-gray flannel leg and she knew she should think about this for a while. It scared her to take a chance like this. But it didn’t scare her any more than driving on to some address in Spokane and a commitment to a life she knew nothing about, and might not be devious enough to pull off.

She’d like to think she had learned one or two things from her experiences. If anything, in any way, made her feel threatened, caused her radar to go up, she’d be gone in a flash. She wouldn’t bother with license plates or goodbyes.

Then there was that guilt—she didn’t want to put these people in Wes’s path, in danger. But her reality was that wherever she went, whether to family, a shelter, into hiding—the people who helped her were at risk. Sometimes it was unbearable to think about.

She dressed quietly, without waking Chris, and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. Preacher was standing at the counter, slicing and dicing for his morning omelets. When he saw her at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the knife froze and he waited.

“I’m going to need to borrow your washer and dryer,” she said. “We didn’t bring too much.”

“Sure.”

“I guess it makes more sense to stay here. A little while. I’ll be glad to help out. If you’re sure.”

He began to dice again, slowly. “We can do that easy. How about minimum wage plus the room and meals. Keep track of your own hours. Jack’ll pay you when you want him to—doesn’t matter. Daily, weekly, monthly. Doesn’t matter.”