Second Chance Pass (Virgin River #5)(58)

But instead of trying to explain how she made him feel, he came up behind her, put his arms around her and kissed her neck. He shut off the running water and turned her around. He lifted her into his arms and whispered against her parted lips, “I can’t believe I can take you to my bed and love every piece of you.”

She trembled and answered, “I can’t believe you’re not getting me there faster.”

And then it began again…



Muriel St. Claire figured Sunday afternoon was a good time to check out the town of Virgin River. Everything was very quiet and she knew she could poke around without creating a huge stir. The house she’d recently bought was just outside of town and she’d never had time to do more than drive down the main street. The place was small and compact with what looked to be one very low-key restaurant and no other businesses on the main street.

The Open sign was on in the window of the restaurant, so she parked her truck and went inside. Muriel looked around appreciatively. This was a perfect little country bar and grill—everything polished to a high sheen, embers glittering in the hearth, two little old ladies sharing a table near the fire, fishing and hunting trophies on the walls. Behind the bar was a good-looking, grinning bartender polishing glasses.

She felt a little overdressed in her tailored pants, ostrich boots and fitted leather blazer over a cream-colored silk blouse. But, no worries, she’d know for next time.

The elderly women immediately started to whisper and twitter, glancing at her, then whispering some more. Well, that was quick; they might be senior citizens but they knew who she was. The bartender tilted his head and gave her a welcoming smile.

She walked up to the bar. “Nice little place,” she said.

“Thanks. We’re kind of proud of it. What can I get you?”

“How about a cola? Diet.”

“You got it.” He fixed her up with a drink and asked, “Passing through?”

“No, actually. I just moved here. Well—” she laughed “—I was born not far from here and always intended to come back.”

“You look kind of familiar,” Jack said. He shook his head. “I had a little déjà vu. You kind of reminded me of my wife for a second there. First time she walked in this place, I figured she was lost. Classy blonde in my bar? Couldn’t be happening.”

“I guess you did the right thing and married her.”

“What was I gonna do?” Jack asked with a laugh. He put out his hand. “Jack Sheridan.”

“Muriel,” she said, accepting the hand.

“You been around lately?” he asked.

“Not lately, no. I used to visit when my folks were still alive. But over the past few years I’ve just been up here on very quick trips to look at property. I’ve never been in this bar before.”

“I take it something worked out in terms of property?”

“A ranch. Out on Silverton Road.”

Jack frowned. “The old Weatherby place? He didn’t die, did he?”

“No,” Muriel said. “Finally decided to give it up and go live near the kids.”

“I didn’t know it was even available,” Jack observed.

“I don’t think it was. I’ve been working with a Realtor for a few years now, looking for property. I think she went visiting, telling people she might have a buyer if it was the right place. And this was the right place. Did you know him?”

“Nah,” Jack said, giving the counter a wipe. “He was an old-timer when I got here a few years ago. He’d already sold off most of his stock, kept a couple of horses, couple of dogs and a nice garden. He was already retired. I met him a couple of times in the bar. Had a slew of kids and none of ’em stayed around.” He laughed. “You know—you make it your life’s dream to get your kids a big education and, in the end, no one wants the ranch.” He glanced at the tittering women. “Madge and Beatrice,” he explained. “They are all stirred up. Newcomers rate some attention around here.”

“I suppose that’s the case,” she said.

“Doesn’t that Weatherby place need some work?” he asked.

“Some serious restoration,” she said, sipping her soda. “But it’s solid, has a good barn and corral, and there’s a guesthouse. What was Weatherby doing with a guesthouse?”

“As I understand it, his late wife used to like to paint, so she built herself a studio. After she died, a long while back, he turned it into a little apartment he could rent out to ranch hands or loggers. Sort of a bunkhouse.”

“Oh, that explains it,” she said.

“Explains what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s a good little room with a lot of windows. But it was filthy. Like it was rented to men and not cleaned in between.” She sipped her cola. “The Realtor got a crew to clean it up real nice. I gave it a coat of paint, decorated it in a small way, bought a big area rug and can live in it while I work on the bigger house.”

“You looking for a contractor?” he asked.

“Not yet. I’m sure I’ll need some help, but I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time and I want to do most of the work myself. I mean, I’m not crazy—I’ll need help if I ever have to wire, plumb, lay flooring or put on a roof. But I’m hell with a paintbrush. And, believe it or not, I’ve mastered seamless wallpaper.”