Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(104)

She brought a change of clothes and her makeup for work the next day. If Jack didn’t want to come back to her cabin with her, she would force her company on him. They had to get beyond this. This was her fault. It wasn’t just the two of them anymore. He wanted this baby. He wanted her and the baby. She was going to find a way to make this right.

There were only about a dozen customers in the bar when she got there—the Bristols and Carpenters sitting at a table for four, Hope and Doc at the bar, a couple of men playing cribbage with a pitcher of beer, and a young family. Jack stood behind the bar and lifted his chin slightly in greeting as she entered. It was a very subdued gesture; there was going to be penance to pay.

She stopped and chatted briefly with the Bristols and Carpenters, filling them in on the Givens baby, before going to the bar. She got onto the stool next to Doc. “Did you get any rest today?” she asked him.

“I don’t sleep in daylight,” he grumbled. He popped an antacid and Jack put a whiskey in front of him.

“Long night?” Hope asked her.

“Long night for the Givenses,” she said. “But they’re going to be fine.”

“Good work, Mel,” she said. “I knew I was smart to get you up here.” She stubbed out her cigarette and left, chatting her way out the door.

Without being asked, Jack put a cola in front of her. She mouthed the words, I’m sorry. His lips curved just slightly, hurt in his eyes, but he leaned toward her and placed a gentle kiss on her brow. Ow, she thought. This is bad.

And it just got worse. They had only the most superficial conversation while Mel picked at her dinner, but determined, she waited out the emptying of the bar. It was eight o’clock by the time Preacher was sweeping the floor and Jack was putting up clean glasses. “Are we going to talk about it?” she quietly asked Jack.

“How about we let it go and move forward,” he said.

“Jack,” she whispered so that Preacher wouldn’t hear. “I love you.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“But it’s true. Please believe me.”

He lifted her chin and put a light kiss on her lips. “Okay,” he said. “I believe you.”

“Oh, God,” she said, tears gathering in her eyes.

“Don’t, Mel,” he said. “Don’t start crying again. I’m afraid I won’t understand why—and it’ll make things worse.”

She sucked it back, forced herself to still the nerves that were tightening inside her. Her fleeting thought was, God, what will I do if he’s through with me on account of that? “I’m going to your room,” she told him. “I’m going to stay there until you come to me and I’m going to convince you, somehow, that we belong to each other. Especially now.”

He gave a nod that was so slight, it was almost imperceptible, so she got off her stool and walked through the back of the bar to his quarters. Once alone, she couldn’t suppress the tears. They flowed freely down her cheeks. He thinks I’m going to spend the rest of my life explaining myself to my dead husband, apologizing for how I feel about Jack. Well, that’s what I was doing—what’s he to think? He won’t believe me if I tell him that’s not true, not how it’s going to be. It was just a one-time thing—the shock, the exhaustion, the high emotional state I’m in.

Mel sat in the big chair in his room, revisiting in her mind that night she sat in this spot, drenched from the rain, and he gently undressed her, dried her and put her to bed. That was when she knew, without a doubt, there was a partner here for her, even if she couldn’t admit it to herself for quite a while. Since the ultrasound, she was pretty convinced she had conceived that night. Jack opened her up, showed her passion she didn’t know existed, and put his baby in her. It was nothing short of a miracle—the love, the passion, the baby. She just didn’t know how difficult it would be to make that transition into a new life. A second life. A completely different life.

She sat in that chair for an hour. Waiting.



Jack put up all his clean glasses and dishes, wiped down the bar and poured himself a drink. There was a particular, old single malt, an aged Glenlivet, that he saved for special occasions. Or emergencies.

Preacher put away his broom and went to the bar. “Everything okay, man?” he asked.

Jack pulled down a glass and poured a shot for his friend. He lifted his toward Preacher in something of a toast and said, solemnly, “Mel’s pregnant.” Then Jack took the shot in one swallow.

“Aw, man,” Preacher said. “What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to be a father,” he said. “I’m going to marry her.”

Preacher picked up his glass and lifted it tentatively, taking a drink. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“That what you want, man?”

“Absolutely.”

Preacher grinned. “Sarge. A family man. Who’d think?”

Jack tipped the bottle once more, over both glasses. “Yeah,” Jack said.

“Seems like, maybe, things aren’t so hot right now,” Preacher said.

“Nah,” he lied. “Just found out,” he further lied. “It’s gonna work out great. It’s gonna be perfect.” Then he smiled. “You know I never do anything I don’t want to do. Uncle Preacher.” He threw back the second shot and put his glass on the bar. “Good night.”