Whispering Rock (Virgin River #3)(22)

Mike was having his dinner at the bar when six hunters came in. Since Jack didn’t greet them as men he’d seen before, Mike assumed this might be their first time through town. These were young men, all in their twenties, and obviously having a good time. All six went up to the bar, made a few jokes about the bartender being part-time babysitter, which Jack took in good-natured stride. They eschewed dinner, opting for some drinks. Once Jack had set them up with beer and shots, they retired to a table, where they enjoyed rehashing every aspect of their hunt.

“Who do you think is the designated driver in that crowd?” Mike asked Jack.

Jack was watching, but said nothing. And Mike was watching Jack, because the latter had a good sense for things. Getting a little loud and rowdy was not frowned upon here, so long as you could keep your head. These boys were hanging in there, though they were ordering up more beer and shots; they wanted a pitcher and a bottle and were getting a little louder by the shot.

It wasn’t long before Paige came out of the kitchen. “Have you asked them about dinner?” she asked Jack.

“Last time I offered, they weren’t interested,” he said.

“Okay, let me just check before we close the kitchen.” She went to their table to ask them if they wanted anything to eat. “My husband has a great lasagna and garlic bread, but also some broiled, stuffed sturgeon fresh off the river and steamed vegetables, if you’re interested.”

“Husband?” one of them chortled. “Damn, my hunting sucks no matter where I go.”

She instinctively retreated a step and the man reached for her hand, pulling her back. “You can get rid of the husband, can’t you, sweetheart?” His buddies laughed at his brazenness and Mike thought, shit. This is not a good thing; you don’t want to mess with Preacher’s woman. He looked across the bar at Jack’s narrowed eyes. Oh, boy.

Paige simply pulled her hand back, smiled politely and didn’t grapple with them any longer over food. As she would have gone back to the kitchen, Jack stopped her and asked her to take David. He slid the backpack off his shoulders and into her hands and one of the hunters yelled over to Jack, “That the wife, buddy?” And Jack’s mouth curved in a slow smile as he shook his head—no, you don’t really want to meet her husband.

Now, what none of these idiots knew was that Jack hadn’t had a nice summer. His sister’s trauma was not that long past and he’d been in a real mood. There was a side of Jack that was all soft, crushed concern and a side that wanted to kill someone. This was not a great time to screw with him. Since Jack had shed the baby, a telling move, Mike thought it might be worth it to try to head this off. He stood up from his meal at the end of the bar and walked over to their table. He flipped around a chair from a neighboring table and, straddling the back, he said, “Hey, boys. You have a good hunt?”

They eyed him suspiciously. One of them said, “One buck—young. Not much to brag about. Who are you?”

“Name’s Mike—how you doing? Listen, I just thought I’d mention—you don’t want to overdo it. Especially if you’re driving out tonight.”

They started to laugh, meeting eyes with each other as though sharing some kind of private joke. “That a fact?” one asked. “And who put you in charge?”

“I’m not in charge of anything,” he said. “But gee—I’d hate to see anyone get hurt. These roads,” he said, shaking his head. “Sometimes pretty tight around the curves going down. And real, real dark. No lights. No guard rails.”

Right then, Mel came into the bar, hung her jacket on the peg inside the door and jumped up on a stool in front of her husband, elbows on the bar, leaning toward him for a kiss.

“Holy shit,” one of the men said. “Look at that one. Talk about a doe I’d like to bag.”

Jack straightened before meeting his wife’s lips. The look on his face wasn’t a pretty one.

“You know,” Mike said, laughing uncomfortably, “about our women. You boys don’t want to be giving the women around here any trouble. Trust me on this, okay?”

That set up a round of hilarious laughter at the table of hunters and one of them said, unfortunately too loudly, “Maybe the girl wants to get bagged. I think we should at least ask her!” But oops—glancing over his shoulder, Mike saw Jack had heard that. And probably so had Mel. And after what those two had been through earlier in the summer, comments like that were not taken lightly.

And that’s when Mike became convinced that these guys had been pretty well oiled before they hit Virgin River. They had absolutely no judgment. Hunting and drinking was a thing he disliked—frowned on by him and his brothers, both the Mexican brothers and Marines. Drinking after the hunt—that was another story. Especially if the shooting was done, the guns unloaded and stowed, and all you were going to do was walk out back to your camper.

He looked back over his shoulder in time to see Jack whisper something to Mel. Mel jumped off the stool, disappeared into the back and Mike thought, oh f**k. He stood. “Okay, boys. Settle up for your drinks and hit the road. While you can still see straight. Okay?”

“Relax, chico. We’re not quite done here.”

Chico? He hated it when people did that. You don’t want to call a Mexican man a little boy.

Out of the corner of his eye Mike saw him. He’d known he would. Preacher had come out of the kitchen and stood behind the bar next to Jack, arms crossed over his massive chest, those big, black eyebrows drawn together in a frown that only Preacher could effect with such a look of menace. The diamond stud in his ear seemed to twinkle. Jack had sent Mel for him. They were ready to mix it up with these guys, defend the place.