Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(80)

He dragged himself out of bed and looked at the clock—6:00 a.m. There was time to mend his fences before the masses descended on them again, but he would first have to find his wife. He hoped she was still in Sacramento.

He rinsed his mouth and ran a brush over hair that was spiking every which way. The only thought he had was that he really hoped his lousy brothers-in-law were all in worse trouble than he undoubtedly was. Because surely they had done this to him. Bad influences, to the last.

He still had on last night’s trousers. Not a good sign. However, she had not killed him in his sleep—and that was a good sign. She was probably saving his execution for later, when he could feel it. He stood up straight in front of the mirror. He stuck out his hairy chest. He flexed, popping out tattooed biceps. I am a marine, he said to himself. She is five foot three. He sagged visibly. Who am I kidding? was his next thought.

He crept out of the bedroom into a silent house. Ah, there they were. Mel, Brie and Joey, on the sofa bed. Brie? Well, he’d find out about that later. He knelt on Mel’s side and gently moved her hair away from her eyes. One eye opened and there was not a smile in it. “Baby, are you pissed?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I might’ve had one too many.”

“I know. I hope you’re in agony.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Trying not to sleep in an ashtray.”

“What’s Brie doing here?”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“Am I going to be punished?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. And she closed her eye.

It turned out that the great lover, Jack Sheridan, didn’t know his way around women nearly so well as he thought. He decided to shower and dress, in an attempt to get some points for effort. That accomplished, he crept quietly to the kitchen to make coffee and take aspirin. He was in no condition to fight; he had a hangover. And within a few hours there would be that huge gang of people back at the house, tearing into presents, yelling, laughing, making his head want to explode.

Sam met him there. “Gonna be fun today,” he said. “You boys, you sure know how get the women all spooled up.”

“Save it. Want me to help you get the bird ready?”

“Yeah, we should do that. Then we make brunch.”

“I’m good with brunch,” he said. “Did you notice Brie is here?”

“I noticed that,” Sam said. “And I noticed that so far, two of the five married women in this family did not spend the night in bed with their husbands.”

“Okay, save it. Since I’m going to get it later, I don’t need your two cents.”

“Whatever you say, son,” he said. “If you get in really deep, maybe you can take her back to my office and show her all your medals, tell her how you’ve barely escaped death a dozen times and she just doesn’t scare you.”

Jack glared at his father. Sam laughed, having far too much fun with this. Then Jack got busy cooking. He sautéed onion and celery in butter, washed the turkey, mixed the stuffing, peeled the potatoes. He had noticed that when Mel saw him doing domestic things, it softened her.

Brie was the next one in the kitchen, cozy in one of Mel’s long flannel nightgowns—the kind she used when she’d be around other people in her nightwear because at home, with Jack, his body heat was so intense, she could hardly bear to wear anything at all. Brie put her arms around Sam and said, “Morning, Daddy. I just couldn’t go home last night.”

It tore at Jack’s heart and he wanted to kill Brad. Wanted to put his arms around Brie.

“I’m glad you were here, honey,” Sam said. “You know this is always your house. Stay tonight, too.”

“Maybe,” she said, burying her face in his chest as he held her.

Next came Mel. She was still in last night’s sweat suit. But when she walked sleepily into the kitchen, she walked right into Jack’s arms and he must have breathed an audible sigh of relief because she whispered, “You’re still going to be punished. But not on Christmas.”

He smiled and kissed the top of her head because here was something he thought he knew about women for sure—if there was any kind of delay in the execution, they tended to lose interest. If she wasn’t mad enough to go after him right now, she wasn’t mad enough.

Christmas in Virgin River was a much quieter affair. For the first time since opening, the bar was closed for the day. Christopher had his gifts in the morning, which left him with plenty to occupy him throughout the day. Preacher turned out a delicious roast duck and all the trimmings while Paige worked on pies. Mike showed up at five with gifts—books for Christopher, a green cashmere sweater for Paige the color of her eyes, and for Preacher, specialty items for the kitchen purchased at Williams-Sonoma. “This is great!” Preacher said with enthusiasm.

“I don’t even know what some of that stuff is,” Mike said. “But it’s guaranteed for someone who loves to cook.”

“Let’s see, we have a mandoline, a thermostatic tray—Jesus, this stuff is incredible. A gravy separator, which I don’t really need ’cause my gravy is perfect. A grip-and-flip spatula, scoop-and-strain ladle, micro grater. Good work, Mike,” he said, grinning.

As they were sitting down to dinner, Paige came into the bar wearing her new sweater and, Mike noticed, dangling in the V of the neck, a very beautiful diamond pendant necklace. “Well,” he said, “someone had a very nice Christmas.”