Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(40)

What was this magnificent man doing locked away in a little town of six hundred, where there were no women for him? She wondered if he had the faintest clue about her—that she had no heart. He had just given so much and she had absolutely nothing to give. Nothing. She was hollow inside. If she weren’t, a man like Jack would appeal to her.

This was the worst thing about grief, she thought as she walked back to Doc’s house. It emptied you. She should be flattered and pleased with what had been done for her in the renovating of the cabin. She should be thrilled that a man like Jack was interested in her, because clearly he was. But instead she was sad. She had lost the ability to be moved by these acts of kindness. Instead, it made her feel depressed and alone, because she didn’t feel up to the task of receiving gifts and kindnesses graciously. She couldn’t respond to a handsome man’s interest. She couldn’t be happy. Sometimes she asked herself if she was paying some tribute to Mark’s memory by hanging on to the sadness of losing him.

Ricky worked at the bar after school every day and some weekends, whenever Jack wanted him. He dropped Liz at the store after school, then parked behind the bar next to Jack’s and Preacher’s trucks. As he was going in, Jack was coming out. “Grab your gear,” Jack said. “We’re going to run out to the river, see if we can make a catch.”

“There isn’t anything out there now,” Ricky said. The good catch was in the fall and winter, dwindling by spring, starting to pick up again in summer.

“We’ll cast a while,” Jack said. “See what you got.”

“Preacher coming?” Ricky asked, going to the storeroom in the kitchen to get his rod, reel and waders.

“Nah. He’s busy.”

Jack remembered the first day he’d met Ricky. The kid had been thirteen and had ridden his bike up to the cabin that would become the bar. Skinny and freckle-faced with the most engaging grin and sweetest disposition. He let him hang around, help with the carpentry during the renovation if he could pay attention. When he found out it was just Ricky and his grandma, Lydie, he kind of took him under his wing. He’d watched the boy grow tall and strong; Jack taught him to fish, shoot. Now he was damn near a man. Physically, he didn’t have far to go, but mentally and emotionally, sixteen was still just sixteen.

At the river’s edge, they cast their lines a few times and then it came. The real reason for fishing when there were few fish. “You and I should have a little talk, I think,”

Jack said.

“About?”

Jack didn’t look at him. He just cast in long beautiful arcs. And said, “About all the places you can put your dick that aren’t statutory.”

Ricky snapped his head around and looked at Jack’s profile. Jack turned his head and met the boy’s eyes.

“She’s fourteen,” Jack said.

Ricky looked back at the river, silent.

“I know she doesn’t look fourteen. She’s fourteen.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Ricky said.

Jack laughed. “Oh, gimme a break. I saw your truck over at Connie’s the first Friday night she was in town—you moved on her fast. You want to stick with that story?” He reeled in and turned toward Ricky. “Listen, son, you have to keep your head. You hear me, Rick? Because this is dangerous ground you’re on. She’s a little hottie—”

“She’s a sweet girl,” Rick said defensively.

“You’re already hooked,” Jack said, hoping they weren’t already doomed. “How hooked?”

Ricky shrugged. “I like her. I know she’s young, but she doesn’t seem that young, and I like her.”

“Okay,” Jack said, taking a breath. “Okay, maybe we should talk about the things you can do to avoid putting your sixteen-year-old swimmers in contact with her fourteenyear-old eggs. Hmm?”

“You don’t have to,” Ricky said, casting. And casting pretty badly.

“Aw, Jesus. You’re already involved. Physically, huh?” Rick didn’t answer and Jack thought, who knew what they were up to. Jack remembered only too well the things experimental kids could do to get a little satisfaction without going all the way. It was a frickin’ art form. Problem was, it just didn’t last, and the closer you got, the greater potential for slip-ups. Sometimes it made more sense to decide you were going all the way with good birth control in place, rather than risk an accident. But man, you should be older. Older. “Aw, Jesus.” Jack took a breath. He dug down into his waders, down into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a fist full of condoms. “This is tough, Rick, because I don’t want you to use these on her, and I don’t want you not to. I’m stuck here. Help me out, will you?”

“It’s okay, Jack. I’m not going to do her. She’s fourteen.”

Jack reached out and tousled his hair. Those freckles had given way to the stubble of a young beard; he wasn’t skinny anymore. The work he did at the bar plus the pastimes of hunting and fishing, not to mention chores for his grandma had bulked the kid up and his shoulders and arms were muscled. Handsome kid, he thought. Real grown-up. He had a lot of responsibility—he worked hard, maintained his grades, did every physical thing around his grandma’s house that needed doing. With Jack’s supervision, Rick had painted her house. All that built toward creating a solid, reliable man—one who shouldn’t get shot in the foot by a teenage pregnancy.