Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(109)

Jack rolled out of bed to answer the ringing phone. “Mel’s in trouble,” came Doc’s gravelly voice. “Someone’s trying to get in the back of the house. Downstairs. She’s down there. Glass broke.”

Jack dropped the phone and grabbed his jeans off the chair. No time for a shirt or shoes, he took his 9 mm handgun out of the holster that hung on a hook in the closet, checked to be sure it was loaded and that he had one in the chamber and bolted out the door. He crossed the street at a dead run. He didn’t think—he was on automatic. His jaw ground, his temples pulsed and his blood was roaring in his ears. There was an old truck at the clinic beside Doc’s truck and Mel’s Hummer. He knew exactly who was in there.

He looked into the front door window in time to see Calvin pushing Mel into the office, and they had come from the direction of the kitchen where the drug cabinet sat. He ran around to the back of the house and looked into the kitchen door window; they were still out of sight. Then they came back into view from down the hall and Jack ducked—but not before he saw that Calvin had a big, serrated knife against her neck. He waited; he wasn’t going to give him the time or opportunity to flee or to do any damage to Mel before fleeing. It was a long few seconds as he waited for them to get back into the kitchen. He could hear their movements, the man’s hostile voice as he held Mel.

They were almost to the drug cabinet when Jack kicked the door. It crashed open and bounced off the opposite wall, but he was already inside. Legs braced apart, arms raised, pistol pointed at the man who held his woman, he said, “Put down the knife. Carefully.”

“You’re gonna let me out of here, and she’ll come with me to be sure,” Calvin said. Knife against her throat, Mel looked at Jack and saw a man she had never seen before. The expression on his face should be enough to terrify the man who held her. Bare chested, barefoot, his jeans zipped but not buttoned, his shoulders and arms frighteningly huge, big tattoos on his swollen biceps, he looked like a wild man. He looked over the barrel of the gun, his eyes narrow, and a set to his jaw told her he was going to act. There was no question. He did not look at Mel, but at Calvin. And for a woman terrified of guns, she was unafraid. She believed in him. She knew, in that instant, that he would risk his life for her, but he would never put her at risk. Never. If he was going to make a move, she wouldn’t be in danger. Her expression went from frightened to trusting.

Jack had less than a four-inch target—the left side of the man’s head. Right next to that was Mel’s head, Mel’s beautiful face. At her throat, the blade. He didn’t even have to think about it—he wasn’t going to lose her like this.

“You have one second.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw her cast a look his way, a look that in that split second told him she loved him, believed in him. Then her eyes dropped closed and her head dipped ever so slightly to the right.

“Back off, man—”

Jack took his shot, blowing the man backward, the knife flying out of his hand. Mel ran to Jack. The arm that held the gun was dangling at Jack’s side and his other arm went around her. Jack held her close as she let out a long slow breath against his bare chest, clinging to him. He never took his eyes off the offender. A nice, neat hole was bored right into his head, a growing pool of blood spreading under him as he lay motionless.

They stood like that for a while, Mel trying to catch her breath and Jack watching. Ready. She pulled away enough to look up at him and was nearly startled anew by an expression so fierce, so angry. “He was going to kill me,” she said in a whisper. His eyes remained on the man as he said, “I will never let anything happen to you.”

The sound of running footfalls came up behind them, but Jack didn’t turn. Preacher stopped suddenly in the doorway, a hand braced on each side as he leaned in, panting. He looked into the kitchen, saw the man on the floor, Mel in Jack’s protective embrace, the gun dangling at Jack’s side. And Preacher’s expression went dark, his brows drawn close, his mouth turned down in a scowl. He walked into the kitchen, kicked the knife across the floor and bent to the man. He felt the man’s neck for a carotid pulse. He looked over his shoulder at Jack and shook his head. “It’s okay, Jack. It’s done.”

Jack put the gun on the table and, with Mel still protected against him, turned to the wall phone. He lifted the receiver, punched a few numbers and said, “This is Jack Sheridan in Virgin River. I’m at Doc Mullins’s—I just killed a man.”

Chapter Sixteen

I t took the sheriff’s deputy, Henry Depardeau, longer to arrive in Virgin River than it took him to determine that Jack had acted in defense of Mel, whose life was in danger. Just the same, Jack’s second call that night had been to Jim Post, June Hudson’s husband. That background in law enforcement could come in handy. Jim was there faster than Henry. And, Jack learned that night, Jim was a former DEA agent who had actually worked in the area prior to retirement.

“We better have a little look at Calvin’s camp,” Jim said. “If it’s just a little compound of vagrants, I don’t see that as a problem. But I suspect it might be more than that. If so—we’ll want to tell the sheriff.”

Jack was invited to spend what was left of the night with Mel at Doc’s. She saw a side of him she didn’t know existed. This gentle, tender giant was gripped with fury, and it was a silent and impressive fury. He held her through the night, both of them in one small hospital bed. Sleep was difficult for her and she was fitful, but every time she opened her eyes and looked at him, she found him awake, watching over her. She would look up at his face, his tense jaw and eyes narrowed in anger, but when she put her hand against his cheek, he would relax his features and turn soft eyes on her. “It’s all right, baby,” he said. “Try to get some sleep. Don’t be afraid.”