Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(63)

“Maybe you could set me up a beer. That’d help.”

“You bet, buddy. Coming up. And maybe something to eat, huh?”

“Beer first, okay?”

Preacher went around the bar and fixed him a draft. Mel and Jack each sat on one side. Mel leaned in. “How bad is the pain?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s all soft tissue,” he said. “But it can get real…real.”

“What are you taking?”

“I’m trying to hang in there with the anti-inflammatory, maybe a beer, but every once in a while I have to cave in to the Percodan. I hate doing that. Makes me weird.”

“You’re already weird,” Jack said. “Preacher, let me have a beer with my man here.” When his glass was poured, Jack lifted it toward Mike. “Here’s to your recovery, bud. It’s going to be quick and powerful.”

“Hope God heard that,” Mike said, and took a long, refreshing pull. “The doc said I’d need three months to start feeling better and I’ve only given it six weeks, but…”

And then she came out from the kitchen. Mike almost choked on his words. She smiled at him and said, “Hello. You must be Mike.” She went to stand next to Preacher, and he, with his eyes focused on the shine in Mike’s, dropped an arm around her shoulders, claiming her. God, Mike thought. Preacher has a woman. And what a woman.

“Yeah,” Mike said slowly. She was gorgeous. Soft, light brown hair fell in silky curves to her shoulders. She had skin like creamy satin and peach-colored lips, a little line, a scar in her lower lip. He knew what that was about, he remembered better now. And warm, sexy green eyes surrounded by a lot of dark lashes and perfectly arched brows. With Preacher’s arm around her, she leaned against him.

“I just don’t get it,” Mike said with a laugh. “You two somehow found the most beautiful, sexiest women in the state right here in the backwoods. Shouldn’t there be at least one of you in Los Angeles?”

“Actually, we were both from Los Angeles,” Mel said. “And fortunately, both found our way to the backwoods.”

No way Preacher knows what he’s holding, Mike thought. And Preacher, knowing Mike’s careless ways with women, just about anyone’s woman, might feel a little threatened at the moment, even given the crippled hand and cane. Little did he know…

“Well, damn,” Mike said, lifting his glass. “To your good fortune. All of you.” Then he looked at Jack and said, “I’m sorry, Sarge, but I’ve had it. That drive—it was way more than I thought it would be. Do you mind if I…?”

“Come on,” Jack said. “You can follow me out to the cabin and I’ll help you unload your gear. Take a nap. Maybe you’ll feel like coming back for some of Preacher’s dinner later. If not, I’ll bring you home something.”

“Thanks, pal,” he said. He stretched his good hand toward Preacher for a shake.

Preacher’s expression lightened up. “Good you’re here, Mike. We’ll beef you up in no time.”

In the mornings, Mike drank the protein shakes that Mel gave him, though they were god-awful. Then he’d lift piddling weights and stretch. By 10:00 a.m., drenched in sweat, he’d need a shower and nap. Lying down always produced the same effect—soreness and pain when he got up. He’d roust himself up, try to ice it out, and if he could, get himself to the bar by three so he could have a beer to tamp it down a little before meeting Mel at Doc’s. Once there, she’d work on him, as vicious as any physical therapist. She would start with a deep massage of his shoulder and biceps and then the exercises would start. It was enough to make him cry like a baby.

He was lifting a one-pound weight laterally with the right arm and could not yet raise it to shoulder level, yet she praised him for it, but it was agony. Mike still couldn’t lift three plates out of a cupboard. He’d broken a couple, trying, and forced himself to drive all the way to Fortuna to replace them.

Every once in a while he’d try to lift his 9 mm right-handed and hold it out in front of him, looking over the barrel. No way.

“I really think we should set you up with an orthopedist. I can find you one on the coast,” Mel said.

“No. No more surgery,” he said.

“This could take a lot longer.”

But he was worried about trade damage, where they go in to fix one thing and muck up something else. “Where am I going? Save the orthopedist. I’ll work it out.”

“Any other issues?” she asked. “The head and groin?”

“Fine,” he said, but he didn’t connect with her eyes.

Almost two weeks in Virgin River, eight weeks post op, and he still couldn’t do a sit-up. But he had gained some weight and walking straight was easier, so things were looking up somewhat. And his friends, Jack, Mel, Preacher, Paige—they were hanging in there with him, encouraging his every movement.

Some days, if the sun was out, he could drive out to the Virgin and watch some angling. He particularly loved watching Jack and Preacher casting; he loved it even better when they had the boy Rick with them. They’d trained the kid and he was a master angler. The three of them, side by side, their lines soaring through the air in perfect S-shapes, flies touching down in the river with such grace and finesse, pulling in their catch. It was like ballet.