Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(43)

“What’d you say?” Preacher asked.

“She’s got my baby in her, Preach. She didn’t ask for it. What the hell was I gonna say, huh? Maybe I should’ve said, I sure thought I did last spring when we were doing it—that’d be a real stand-up guy.” He looked down into that short shot and shook his head. “I said, ‘Of course I do.’”

“Aw, Rick, that was the right thing,” Preacher said. “What else could you do?”

Jack clinked Rick’s glass; he was damn proud of the boy. No feeling sorry for himself, no whining about how he got screwed. No blaming. It took a lot to straighten your back like that, hold your head up, be the strength and not the victim. Took a lot to do that at any age—and at seventeen, it was admirable. “You’re going to be okay, buddy,” he said, hoping it was true.

“I feel like I have to do something, and I have no idea what,” Rick said.

“Right now, you do nothing,” Jack said. “You take some time to think. Don’t get crazy on me and run off and get married or something. You’re seventeen, she’s fifteen, and the only thing for sure is a baby’s coming. You just hang close to her, treat her right, and we’ll figure it all out.”

“Jack, Preach,” he said, his eyes getting a little wet. “Guys, I’m sorry. You tried to warn me about this and I—”

“Rick,” Jack said, stopping him. “You’re not the first guy to walk down this road, okay? Take it slow.” Jack lifted his glass and had a little sip. “We’re gonna get through this. Might be tough, but thank God—we’re tough.”

Eight

All of Judge Forrest’s determination to get Wes Lassiter to trial quickly hit a predictable snag—Forrest was in Mendocino County and Lassiter was arrested in Humboldt County. His case would go before a different judge.

Lassiter had been found to be in possession of methamphetamine at the time he assaulted his wife, a condition that his lawyer argued contributed to his crazed behavior and lack of judgment. The prison sentence could be impressive, if he was convicted. But his lawyer pleaded for drug treatment and the judge allowed bail on the condition that Lassiter would stand trial for one misdemeanor and two felony counts after drug rehab, and that successful completion of treatment could be held in sentencing consideration. There were other conditions—if he checked himself out of treatment early, his bail would be revoked and he could sit in jail, awaiting trial. And while ordinarily treatment centers operated under a code of strict anonymity, in Lassiter’s case, the prosecutor’s office would be able to check in, make sure he was still under wraps and not a threat to his family.

Brie called Paige. “Don’t take this decision as bad news,” she said. “It’s entirely possible that sobriety will make a huge difference in his perspective. My recommendation is that you proceed with the dissolution of the marriage and custody arrangements. He can stall you while he’s in treatment—but given the facts of the decision, my bet is that he’ll prove cooperative to keep his sorry ass out of prison.”

“How long will he be in treatment?” Paige asked.

“It’s hard to say. A month is a minimum, but meth is a pretty tough drug and I’ve heard of people staying as long as several months. In order for this agreement to work in his best interest, he can’t just quit. He has to be released by a supervisor.”

“I have no idea how bad his drug problem is,” Paige said. “I suspected drugs. I found something that looked like drugs once, but I was afraid to ask him about it. If it’s a matter of convincing a supervisor he’s cured—he’s very manipulative.”

“Yeah, they all are. Believe me, if there’s one place in the world the pros are on to the cons, it’s drug treatment.”

“I’ll be looking over my shoulder for months….”

“Paige, with what you’ve been through, as long as he’s alive you’ll be looking over your shoulder. Ask Preacher to teach you how to shoot.”

It took her a couple of days of thought before she broached the idea to John.

“That’s worth thinking about,” he said. “We could do that. In the meantime, I called my buddy Mike to be sure scum-bucket was where he belonged in L.A., but now that he’s gone to that treatment center in Minnesota, you should call the prosecutor’s office and check on him.”

“Oh,” she said, kind of squeamish. “Maybe I could have my lawyer do that?”

“Think about it, Paige,” Preacher said. “Take control. You know I’m glad to look out for you, but it’s important you get your confidence back. That confidence I know you had before…all this.”

Yes, she thought. I did have confidence once. Not as much as some young women, maybe—but enough to carve a little space out of the world for herself. And although it seemed barely noticeable to her, it was coming back, piece by tiny piece. She was going to have to reclaim her former self-assurance, self-trust—she was going to be a single parent to Christopher.

She hadn’t thought she could ask for that restraining order or custody; fear had had her in its grip. But with John at her side, encouraging her, she had. It was ugly and terrifying, but she’d gotten through it and Wes had been taken away in handcuffs. He might be in a cushy treatment program right now, but it wasn’t over. He had a lot to atone for, and his atonement might come behind bars, freeing her and her son for years. Now that she was on this track—getting free, getting her life back—she was determined to stare it in the face. No matter how scared she was.