Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(86)

When he went into the Marines, he had to let it go, had to realize he’d never have that life back. It was a hundred and forty thousand dollars in total, a fortune for an eighteen-year-old kid with no family but the band of brothers he signed on with. He’d felt a little like Paige—like he couldn’t even cash the check. So he did the next best thing. He put it in a safe place—a CD. A few years later he put it somewhere else—a mutual fund. Since he had no attachment to it and it meant so little to him, it caused him no stress at all to move it around a little, here and there. He had his first computer by then—and he was looking things up, his favorite pastime next to fishing, shooting, reading military history. He learned a little about investing on the computer, then began doing some online. In fourteen years his investments had grown considerably—they approached nine hundred thousand dollars.

The only pleasure Preacher had ever gotten from his nest egg was watching the balance grow—he had no use for it. But now he had a boy who’d be going to college in fifteen or so years. With any luck there’d be more kids needing college. He could keep going—investing and reinvesting—but it occurred to him to stuff a couple hundred thousand in bonds, which were safe, so that by the time it was needed, it would be handy.

Later, when the time was right, he’d tell Paige that if she couldn’t cash that check from her divorce settlement, it couldn’t matter less. She really did have everything she needed. She just didn’t know it yet.

Mel’s mind might have been wandering a little—pregnant women were known for that sort of thing. She was in Clear River where she’d been gassing up the Hummer, and while stopped at the only light in town, it turned green and she didn’t move. By the time she looked up to see that it had changed, there was a loud bang and a jolt; the Hummer was pushed into the intersection. When she got out of the vehicle, a hand pressed to her back and her stomach protruding like Mount Kilimanjaro, the man in the pickup truck who’d rear-ended her went completely pale. She recognized that man—he wore the shady brady on his head, and he had all but kidnapped her to deliver a baby in an illegal grow in a trailer a few months ago.

Mel looked at the bumper of the Hummer. One side was smashed in pretty good.

“Shit,” she said.

“You okay?” he asked, a panicked look skittering across his face.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Oh, Jesus, I really don’t want to have to deal with your husband on this,” he said.

“Me, neither.”

“I have insurance. I have a license. I have whatever you need. Just say you’re all right.”

“Sit tight,” she said. “Try not to go nuts on me. Don’t flee the scene or anything really stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said nervously. “Right.”

There were no local police in Clear River, so Mel walked back to the gas station and called the California Highway Patrol. She called Jack, assured him she was just fine, knowing that wouldn’t cut any grass with him and he’d be flying across the mountain.

About thirty minutes later CHP responded, pulling into the intersection, the car lit up to keep the traffic away from the accident. When the patrolman stepped out of his car, he found Mel sitting in the passenger seat of the Hummer, door open and feet in the street, listening to her belly with a fetoscope. He frowned down on Mel’s big belly. “Oh, boy,” he said. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, rubbing a hand over her belly. “I’m fine.”

“Um. You’re awful pregnant,” he said.

“Tell me about it.”

“You a doctor?”

“Midwife.”

“Then I guess you know what you need,” he said.

Right at that moment, Jack’s truck came screeching into the intersection and he was out and striding toward them. Mel looked up at the officer. “Well, that’s probably going to be irrelevant.”

Jack took one look at his old friend in the shady brady and got himself all stirred up. The jaw pulse ticked, his complexion went dark and angry. She put a hand on his arm. “I know it’s technically his fault, but the light had changed and I didn’t go. So try to leave your personal feelings out of this and let the cop do his job.”

He glanced over at the cop collecting the man’s data and said, “It might be real hard for me to not get personal here.”

“Okay, then,” Mel said. “Let’s shoot for rational.”

Forty minutes later, she was lying on the exam table in Grace Valley, the ultrasound bleeping beside her. Jack was nearly distraught, but no one else was particularly worried. John said it wouldn’t hurt to check, make sure everything was all right. Clearly the baby was not traumatized; she was bouncing around like a gymnast. June Hudson and Susan Stone were peering over Mel’s big belly, looking at the baby on the monitor while John moved the wand around. Then John said, “Well, shit.”

“Oh, brother,” John’s wife said.

“That doesn’t happen very often,” June said.

“What?” Jack said. “What?”

“But I have all these pink things! From Christmas!” Mel shrieked.

“What?” Jack said. “What the hell is it? Is the baby all right?”

“Baby’s fine,” John said. “It isn’t Emma, that’s for sure. Look—femur, femur, penis. I blew it. And I’m so damn good, I can’t imagine how that happened.”