Whispering Rock (Virgin River #3)(55)

“I mind,” she informed him.

“I just wish things would get back to normal,” he said.

And Mel thought—when has anything been normal for us?

The notebook Jack had been using to make all his building calculations was getting worn and bent. He had been folding it in half to stuff into a back pocket while he worked on the house, and some of his numbers were wearing thin and faint. But he was attached to it and that was what he had out, along with his calculator and pen, while he was on the phone. He had pulled up a stool to the kitchen counter and gone down a list of general contractors, all highly recommended and all men whose work he had seen at one time or another.

Everyone, it seemed, was pretty busy. Booked.

He called Paul Haggerty in Grants Pass, Oregon. “I know this is a shot in the dark, Paul, but is there any way you can help me with this? I’m on a real deadline here and I can’t find any general contractors or crews.”

“What’ve you got?”

“Well, the house is framed, drywall is up, it’s plumbed, wiring is mostly done, the roof is on—and Melinda has a bun in the oven.”

“Whoa! How about that! Congratulations, my man!”

“Thanks, buddy—but she’s very pissy. She needs a house.”

“Gotcha. Let me make some calls, see what I can do. Maybe we can get this done for you before the weather turns.”

“I’ll pay overtime. I’ll sell my soul.”

Paul laughed. “Take it easy. I wouldn’t take your soul—I’m pretty sure it’s tarnished. Overtime might cut through some tight schedules, however.”

“I’d sure appreciate it. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

When he hung up the phone, Preacher turned from his chore of chopping vegetables for his soup. “What’s going on, man?” he asked.

“I have to get that house finished.”

“Mel getting impatient?”

“No. Mel’s got another one cooking.”

“Oh?”

“She’s pregnant again, Preach.”

“Oh! Wow, that’s great, man!” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Thanks. But just so you’re warned, she’s not too thrilled yet. Watch your step.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“David’s still a baby, and she feels like she just finished being pregnant. Plus she’s moody, she’s exhausted, she’s puking and she thinks I did it to her on purpose.”

“Ohhh,” he said. “Okay. But you? You okay?”

“Hey.” He grinned. “I’m great. I’d have five more. But I wouldn’t live to tell about it.”

“This ever make you feel… You know. Old?”

“Oh hell, no. Every time I get her pregnant, I feel about ten years younger. And if you tell her I said that, we’re both gonna die.”

“Okay then, we go easy with Mel. But hey. Good for you, man.”

When police officers are assigned a new area or beat, one of the first things they do is get intimate with it. Learn all the roads, houses, vehicles and people. In the city, where the population is dense, it takes a while, but eventually every yard and alley, every building and business, every suspicious character becomes part of a familiar landscape.

In the country, in the mountains, there’s a lot more ground to cover, an awful lot of back roads and hidden trails, but the people, buildings and vehicles are a little more sparse. Mike spent as much as a few hours every day driving and hiking the countryside surrounding Virgin River and the neighboring towns. He made frequent runs by the old rest stop, but nothing much seemed to have changed there—he’d expect to see a lot of trash if the place had been used recently for a party.

As he roamed closer to the countryside and mountains surrounding Clear River he saw a couple of structures he chose not to get too close to—one appeared to be a very small prefab house and the other a storage shed. Both had recent tire tracks leading to them—off-road vehicle tracks, probably quads or Jeeps. Neither was in plain sight, though it wasn’t certain they were hidden in the trees and growth; it could be the owner’s preference to be unobtrusive. But on the chance one or both were illegal grows, he kept his distance—sometimes such enterprises were booby-trapped. And besides wanting to know what was out there, this wasn’t really his business. It was all just part of knowing the lay of the land, and it was lonely work.

There was a lot of interesting signage out this way. No Trespassing and No Hunting were pretty common, but now and then he’d see Trespassers Will Be Shot, Guard Dogs Patrolling and Hunters Will Be Hunted. They didn’t sell such signs at the hardware store—they were hand stenciled or spray painted. One sign that said Firearms Prohibited In This Area was riddled with buckshot.

Quite often he ended up at the place he’d begun to think of as Whispering Rock, the place he’d shared with Brie last spring. He’d park his SUV upstream and walk along the riverbank. From time to time there’d be a fisherman or two, though the water here was too shallow for a good catch. He’d seen a young couple sharing a blanket on the ground, doing what appeared to be homework. When he’d walked into the clearing they’d looked up in surprise, maybe a little nervous by his sudden presence—so he’d smiled, waved and walked back upriver, leaving them alone.