Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(64)

Mike had been a damn fine angler himself in days gone by. He’d been pretty good at a lot of things.

It was in that kind of a mood that Mike found himself a little later than usual at Jack’s. There were only a few fishermen at a table by the fire with a late meal. Mike was up at the bar when Preacher came back downstairs from story time. Jack exited, leaving Preacher to lock up, and Mike asked for another drink. Then he started to grumble. He was frustrated with the arm, the pain, the clumsiness. A few other things.

Preacher poured himself his closing shot and stood behind the bar, listening to Mike complain, nodding every so often, saying, “Yeah, buddy. Yeah.”

“Can’t lift the gun, can’t lift a lot of things. Know the true meaning of ‘weak dick,’” he said morosely. Preacher’s eyebrows lifted and Mike looked up at his face, glassy-eyed. “That’s right, the old boy’s dead and gone. May as well have shot it off.…”

Preacher lifted his drink. “You’re the only guy I know who’d complain about not getting laid in a few weeks because he’s been in a coma,” Preacher said. “I guess you thought you could get lucky even while you were unconscious….”

“That’s what you know,” he slurred. “Do I look like I’m unconscious now?”

“Hey, man, there aren’t all that many women around here. You just might have to do without for a bit.…”

“What do you see when you wake up in the morning, Preacher? A nice tent, huh? I see the…the…the great plains.”

Preacher frowned. “You have a pain pill tonight, Mike?” He didn’t answer. “Mike? You have a pain pill tonight?”

“I dunno.”

“Hmm. Sit tight. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Sit still? Mike thought vaguely. Like moving was an option…

Mike might not have even known he was gone when Preacher was back; he was still peering into his drink, babbling to himself, slumped over the bar. It didn’t seem like any time at all had passed when Jack was helping him to his feet.

“Come on, Mike. There you go. Forget the cane, just lean on me.”

“Wha—”

“Yeah, you’re going to sleep good tonight, that’s for sure,” Jack said.

Preacher got the door and as Jack was helping him through, said, “He might’ve had more than one pill, Jack. I asked him if he took a pain pill and he didn’t know.”

“You know how many drinks?”

“Not his usual limit, that’s for sure,” Preacher said. “A couple, maybe three.”

“I gave him a couple,” Jack said, Mike kind of lolling against him.

“I gave him one,” Preacher said. “Tell Mel. She’ll know if it’s anything to worry about.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling. I got it now.”

Mike didn’t get to breakfast at the bar the next morning, but by afternoon, right before his appointment with Mel, he was looking pretty decent. He called Preacher and asked for a lift into town where his SUV waited.

“How’d you sleep?” Preacher asked when Mike got himself carefully into the truck.

“Probably good,” Mike said. “Couldn’t tell you.”

“You gotta watch those pain pills and drinks. I think maybe you had a couple pills, a couple of drinks, and went straight to la-la land.”

“Yeah, could’a been. Sometimes it gets terrible…”

“Then there’s depression,” Preacher said. “Depression after major surgery is real common, you know that? Especially if it’s heart surgery or something violent. I think you qualify for violent. Three bullets.”

“Could qualify,” Mike said evasively.

Preacher reached in the pocket of his denim shirt and pulled out a folded piece of typing paper. “And then there’s the morning tent…” he said. “I looked all this stuff up last night. Erectile dysfunction—common after major surgery, after violent crimes, while taking narcotic drugs, et cetera. There was a list of things. Besides waiting until you get better, which you will, you should get checked for chronic bladder infection, which happens after being in the hospital, having those catheter things. You can tell Mel about it, no problem. Mel doesn’t even tell Jack stuff. I printed it out for you.”

Mike took the paper gingerly, unfolded it. “Aw, Jesus, I couldn’t have told you about this….”

“It’ll come back, I think. If it doesn’t, you can always get a rod put in it. But I don’t know, Mike…I don’t think I’d get a rod put in my dick. I think I’d try prayer first….”

“Aw, f**k…” Mike said.

“But one thing you oughta really think about—something for that depression. Mel can hook you up. And maybe count the pain pills. Man, you were a goner.”

“Preacher, I swear to God, if you ever—”

“Why would I say anything? Gimme a break, huh?”

Mike looked at the printed page. “Where’d you get this stuff?”

“On the computer. You just tell Mel. Or Doc. But I’d tell Mel, even though she’s a girl. She’s a lot more up on some stuff than Doc. I don’t know that Doc sees a lot of this with the sheep ranchers. You know?”