Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(45)

“L.A.? John, I can’t go to L.A.”

“Yeah, you can. You have to. My friend Mike, the one who helped you so much, he’s in the hospital. Jack?” he said, looking at his best friend. “Go ahead. I’ll call Rick’s grandma and have her tell him to check on the bar every day.”

“Right,” Jack said, taking off at once.

Preacher turned back to Paige. “It’ll be all right. You’ll be safe. You can call that treatment center every day. If you want to, you can go get a few of your things while he’s in there. Maybe there’s someone you want to visit—you could do that safely. But I have to go.” She stared at him, unmoving. “I have to go right away, Paige. I need you to do this with me, so I can go to my friend and be sure you and Chris are safe. Please.”

She shook herself. “I’ll get us ready,” she said, running back up the stairs.

She didn’t hear Preacher let out his breath in a long, relieved sigh.

Jack stood on Doc’s front porch with Mel, his packed duffel on the bed of his truck. “Reconsider,” Jack said. “Come with me. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

She put a hand on his chest, looked up at him and said, “I won’t be alone. I have a whole town. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

“But Preacher won’t be here. He’s taking Paige and Christopher because he can’t leave them. I think he’s scared to death to leave them.”

“Of course. Jack, Doc needs me. I have things I have to do. And I’ll be fine. No one’s going to bother me. Here’s the name of a doctor to speak to,” she told him, tucking a piece of paper into his shirt pocket. “Just tell him you married his old nurse. He’ll give you any information he can about Mike.”

“You worked with him? When?”

“It’s been a while, but he won’t have forgotten me. He’s a trauma surgeon—he may have operated on Mike. Be sure to tell him the news—that we’re having a baby. That’ll make him so happy.”

“I’ll find him.” He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her deeply, one hand at the small of her back while the other ran over her expanding middle. “Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve done in some time,” he said.

“You’d better go. You want to get there as quickly as you can.”

Jack drove like mad to Eureka, charging Mel’s old cell phone in the truck so that he could use it to call her from the L.A. hospital. He picked up a flight that made only one stop in Redding, getting him to L.A. in less than three hours. Preacher, however, was making the whole drive, which would take eight, maybe closer to ten, hours.

When Jack got to L.A., he didn’t even stop at a hotel. Mike was still on the respirator with visitors limited to immediate family for just a few minutes every hour, but the crowd at the hospital was very much what Jack expected—impressive in numbers. Cops were known to gather for one of their fallen and there were dozens, in and around the hospital. They had parked an RV in the parking lot where Mike’s family could take occasional breaks from the stress of the hospital and they stood virtual guard around it. Mike had been married twice, but was at present single. There was no shortage of family—a big family of parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews. There was probably an ex-wife around somewhere, and an inevitable girlfriend or two. A couple of their boys from the squad were there, the ones who could get away on short notice—Zeke, a firefighter from Fresno, and Paul Haggerty, a builder from Grants Pass. Others might make an appearance if they could. “Where’s Preacher?” they asked.

“He should be here soon. He made the drive. How’s Mike doing?”

“We don’t know too much. Three hits—one each in the head, shoulder and groin. He lost a lot of blood and hasn’t regained consciousness. There was a long surgery.”

Jack pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket. “Anyone know the surgeon’s name?” he asked.

They looked at one another, shaking their heads.

“Okay, let me look for this guy,” Jack said. “An old friend of Mel’s. He’s a doctor here—might be able to tell us something. I’ll be back.”

Jack spent the better part of an hour going from nurses’ station to nurses’ station, looking for Dr. Sean Wilke, leaving messages for him to no avail. It wasn’t until two hours later that a man about forty years old wearing a white coat over scrubs was heading for the ICU and the name embroidered on his coat in blue thread read “Wilke.”

“Dr. Wilke,” Jack said, stepping forward and stopping him. Jack put out a hand. “Jack Sheridan, Doctor. I’m here for Mike Valenzuela.” The doctor seemed cool and distracted, accepting the handshake absently. After all, there were a ton of people here for Mike—the doctor couldn’t speak to all of them. “I’m married to Mel Monroe,” he blurted.

The man’s expression changed instantly and dramatically. “My God,” he said, grasping Jack’s hand enthusiastically in both of his. “Mel? How is she?”

“Great. She gave me your name. Said you might be able to get me some information about my friend.”

“Let me see my patient, then I’ll tell you whatever I can. That work for you?”

“You bet,” Jack said. “Thanks.”