Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(49)

“All right, Bud,” she answered, letting him embrace her. Her arms, Preacher noticed, didn’t quite get into the game. Preacher hung back, holding Christopher’s hand, watching.

Bud released her and approached Preacher big grin, hand extended. “This the new boyfriend? How you doin’? How about a beer? You look like a beer man to me.”

Preacher took the hand; he concentrated on not squeezing too hard. In fact, he wasn’t much of a beer man. Nor was he much of a boyfriend. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m not the new—”

“Come in. Welcome to the humble home.”

Preacher caught the inflection. “Nice place,” he said, stepping into the living room. He didn’t know anything about decor, but it looked comfortable. Spotlessly clean, with a couch and La-Z-Boy recliner and a real big TV. “Nice yard. Bet you work hard on that.”

“Nah,” he said. “Gin does most of that. She says she likes it, but I think she’s competing for first prize in the neighborhood.” He didn’t greet Christopher. Bud put a hand at the back of Christopher’s head and seemed to try to physically direct him through the living room and away. “Kids are in the playroom, Chris. Go play with the kids.”

Chris pulled back, clinging to Preacher’s leg.

Leaning down, Preacher said, “You can stay here if you want.”

Chris said nothing but clung harder.

“Whatever,” Bud said. “Come on back. We got snacks, we got steaks. This is nice, sis. Glad you could stop by. Now, what did you say brought you out of hiding?”

Preacher saw her flinch slightly. “John’s friend…He’s in the hospital. He’s a police officer….”

As they moved into the kitchen, an older woman separated herself from the salad she was making and came around the counter. “Paige,” she said in a breath. “Oh, Paige…” She was smaller than Paige and very thin. She wore slacks and a blouse, long-sleeved and buttoned high, so conservative that for a split second Preacher was reminded of his own mother.

They embraced, both of them seeming to get a little misty. And Paige responded, “Mom. Mom.” This time her arms cooperated in the embrace. The younger woman followed, having waited for her turn. Again, the embraces were mutual. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said.

“Dolores, Gin, meet John, the new boyfriend,” Bud said.

“I’m not the new—”

“Bud Lite okay by you, pal? I figure a guy named Bud drinks Bud Lite. So what about this friend of yours? In the hospital?”

Preacher accepted the beer and said, “He’s a cop around here. He was shot in the line of duty. He was hurt pretty bad—so I came down.”

“Hey, did I hear about that on the news, maybe?” Bud asked, giving the neck of Preacher’s bottle a tap with his own. An odd time for a toast, Preacher thought.

“Maybe. Probably.”

“Yeah, I heard about that, I think. You have a lot of cop friends?” Bud asked, moving to the table. “Chris, go play with the kids. They’re in the playroom. So, you have a lot of cop friends?”

“Just the one,” Preacher said, a steady hand on Chris’s shoulder. It was already beginning to reach him—Paige’s brother was a bully. A bossy, immature, irreverent bully. He watched Bud go to the kitchen table, take his seat at the head. In the middle was a bowl of chips and one of salsa. Out the back patio doors he could see a manicured backyard surrounded by a high wall. There was an aboveground hot tub covered with a green leather tarp. A grill, a birdbath, some patio furniture, but no toys. Hadn’t Paige said three kids?

Bud indicated a chair with his hand and Preacher took the seat next to him. Bud wasn’t a small guy—probably six feet with some good arms on him. His hair was cut really short, the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up a couple of notches to bring his biceps into focus. His smile was constant, which was a signal—you only smile when something makes you smile. If you smile all the time, you’re hiding something. He told Chris once more to go play. Preacher pulled Chris onto his lap.

The women followed like lemmings, sitting at the table with the men. Bud started on the chips and salsa with his beer and said to Paige, “Tell me about this place you’re staying.”

“Virgin River,” she said. “It’s in the mountains, way north. It’s very pretty—lots of big trees.”

“And how’d you end up there?” he asked.

“We were on our way to visit a friend and got lost,” she said, her voice just a little quieter than Preacher had grown used to. “Chris had a fever, there was a doctor there, and we stayed over.”

Preacher tried not to frown as he listened to Paige give an almost fictional account of what had happened. This story was accurate enough for her new friends in Virgin River, but there was something so wrong about telling it this way to her family, people who knew her intimately. She had to stay a while because of Chris, she said. She fell in love with the place, the people were so nice, they needed some help in the bar and grill, and she thought maybe it was just the change she needed. She decided to see if it worked for her. Bud asked what Wes thought about that and Paige said, “Well, Bud, he wasn’t real happy about it—but I had made up my mind.” Not real happy? Preacher thought. She and her brother were nibbling around the edges of the real drama. Preacher found himself wondering, Don’t they know anything about her life? About the sad and dangerous state of her marriage? About her flight to save her life? To save her children?