Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(52)

They drove a little then Preacher said, “Chris and me, we’re thinking pancakes. And chocolate milk.”

She sighed deeply. “I really thought about trying to explain them,” she said. “And why I really didn’t want to—”

He reached across the console and picked up her hand, holding it, giving it a squeeze. He smiled and shook his head at her. It’s okay, he mouthed silently. He didn’t let go of her hand. “After pancakes, I’d like to take a swing by the hospital, see if there’s any change on Mike.”

“Of course,” she said.

Another moment of silence, then, “You know, my mother—she was a little like your mother. Skinny, but stronger than she looked. I was six feet by the time I was twelve. I might’ve been taller than my mother in the fifth grade. But my mother, Church Lady, she had this move—she could reach up and grab the top of my ear and give it a twist. If I swore or spit or showed disrespect, so fast you never saw it coming, she’d wrench that ear and bring me to my knees. She was still taking me down like that the week before she died. I think she learned it from nuns—some of ’em were mean as junkyard dogs. But she made her point.” He squeezed her hand. “I don’t think your mom ever perfected that move.”

Paige laughed lightly.

“Paige, the way you just stood up and left like that, I was awful proud of you. Really, you’re stronger than you let on.”

She sighed. “I should’ve stood up and left sooner. I was real close.”

“Me, too,” he said. “I think maybe we tried too hard with Bud. Both of us. He always act like that?”

“When he’s not real quiet and sulky.”

“He get along with Wes okay?” Preacher asked.

“Bud thinks Wes is awesome. Because he thinks Wes is rich. Wes thinks Bud’s an idiot.”

“Hmm.” Preacher contemplated. He didn’t let go of her hand. “You think Bud really believes it would be all right to get your head bashed in a few times a year for six thousand square feet and a pool?”

“I believe he does,” she said. “I really believe he does.”

“Hmm. Think he’d like to move into my big house—test that theory?”

She laughed. “Do you have a big house somewhere, John?”

“Not at the moment.” He shrugged. “But for Bud, I’d be willing to look around.”

It had been flowing over Preacher like a steady wave since the very first night she came to Virgin River, and it grew. Being around her gentled him, steadied him. Made him want to be a better man. It also had another, more disquieting effect; when she brushed up against him, when he caught a whiff of her sweet, natural scent, he could almost become aroused.

The three of them had been in each other’s constant company for weeks, and his attachment to Chris was strengthening, his affection for Paige deepening by the day. By the hour. When he took her small hand in his, she never pulled it away and he loved that. Sometimes he’d drape an arm over her shoulders, just to let her know he was right there, watching, caring, and she would lean into him a little.

He wanted this to never end.

They shared a hotel room while in Los Angeles—two queens. Preacher in one bed, Paige and her son in the other. Lying in the same room with her was both blissful and painful. He would hear every soft noise, every little snuffle in the bed, and wonder what it might be like to lie beside her, bring her against him. When he would shower after her in the morning, he’d get heady from the smells of her soap, shampoo and lotion.

Mike Valenzuela was sitting up and taking nourishment, though still in pain and a little goofy in the head. There was very little hope of him returning to the police force and his recovery and physical therapy was going to be intense. But with the crisis past, the number of cops sitting constant vigil at the hospital was thinning. Zeke and Paul had gone home; Jack and Preacher were talking about getting back to Virgin River.

At Preacher’s urging, and the last step before leaving Los Angeles, was a trip to Paige’s house. Right after loading a few things into the truck, they would head north. Christopher was dozing in the backseat of the truck in his car seat, for which Preacher was grateful. He had the passing worry that the boy would want to stay home, not understanding the dangers his father posed.

“I don’t think you’re prepared for this, John,” she said. “It’s a lot of house.”

“Yeah, so Bud said. It bother you at all, leaving a big fancy house?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be quick. There’s really not much I want.”

They drove through a security gate into an upscale, exclusive neighborhood and Preacher had to keep himself from reacting to the ostentatious setting, but he gulped. The houses within seemed monstrous to him, sitting back on manicured lawns, landscapers at work, cleaning ladies approaching front doors. Paige’s house was a big brick two-story with a wide, curving drive and wrought-iron gates. Like a country estate. They must have rattled around in there like marbles in a tin can. It was enormous.

Preacher backed into the drive so that the truck bed was handy for her things. “God, that’s amazing,” he muttered. “There has to be a part of you that felt, for maybe five minutes, what a big deal that was.”

She put a hand on his knee, looked up at him and said, “Not for five minutes. I begged him not to buy that house. He was constantly angry about the cost, the bills, but he had to have it. Do you want to come in? Look around?”