Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(38)

“Sure,” the old boy said, not looking up from his game.

When Mel had the few amassed baby things packed up, he took her. They had no car seat, so she held the baby—and she got a little teary. But once they had traversed the long road up into the hills and were passing through the fenced pastures of grazing sheep, he could see that she was pulling herself together.

Lilly Anderson brought them into her home—a simple house that spoke of the abundance of life. The floors and windows were shining from the housekeeping attention they received; there were folded quilts on the ends of sofas and draped over chairs, crewel pictures on the walls, the smell of freshly baked bread, a pie cooling on the counter and dozens of pictures of children, of family, a collection that spanned many years. A wicker bassinet stood ready for Chloe. Lilly made Mel tea and they sat at the kitchen table and talked while Jack went with Buck to the corral where his grown sons had begun the spring shearing.

“I’ll be honest with you, Lilly. I got pretty attached to her.”

Lilly reached across the table for her hand. “It’s perfectly understandable. You should come out here often, hold her, rock her. You should stay close.”

“I don’t want you to go through that—when someone finally comes for her.”

Lilly got tears in her eyes in sympathy with the tears Mel was showing. “You must be such a tender heart,” Lilly said. “Don’t worry, Mel—now that I’m a grandma, lots of little ones pass through here and don’t stay. But while she’s here, promise you won’t be a stranger.”

“Thank you, Lilly. For understanding. My women and their babies—it’s what I live for.”

“It shows. We’re so lucky to have you with us.”

“But I’m not staying, you know….”

“You should think about that. This isn’t a bad place.”

“I’ll hang around long enough to be sure things are working out for Chloe. And I’ll try to make it a few days before I’m back to cuddle her,” Mel said.

“You come every day if you like. Twice a day.”

It wasn’t long before Mel joined Jack at the fence and stood watching the shearing. “You’ll have to come back for the lambing in a few weeks,” Buck said. “We like to shear before the lambing—it’s easier on the sheep.”

When they left the ranch, Jack drove around the hills of Virgin River. He didn’t say anything—he just let her see the beauty of the green fields, the high hills, grazing livestock. He took her for a little stretch along Highway 299 through a piece of the redwoods that, despite her morose mood, caused her to gasp in awe. The sky was still and blue, the breeze light and cool, but in the tallest trees it was dark except for those blinding flashes of bright sun that broke through. He could tell she was getting better, if slowly, quietly.

It was like this place was divided into two worlds—the dank and dark world of the deep forest where life was bleak and poor, the people desperate. And this world, the national forest of redwoods, the first-rate campgrounds, the hills and valleys where the fields were lush and plentiful, where health and contentment abounded.

Jack drove down a tree-canopied road toward the widest curve in the Virgin River, pulled the truck up to the edge and parked. There were two men in the river, waders held by suspenders, wearing tan fishing vests with many pockets and wicker creels held by shoulder straps, casting out into the water. The arcs of their lines were like a ballet, so graceful, so rhythmic.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“I wanted you to see a few things before you cut and run. This is where a lot of the town and visitors like to fish, where I mostly fish. When the winter rains come, we come out here to watch the salmon leap up over the natural waterfalls to return to their home creeks to spawn. It’s really something to see. Now that the baby is at the Andersons’, I’ll take you to the coast if you like. Pretty soon the whales will be migrating north to cooler waters for the summer. They’ll travel close to the coastline with their new calves and it’s incredible.”

She watched the fishermen cast and reel in, then there was a catch. A good-sized brown trout.

“During a good season, fish is the main staple on the menu at the bar,” he said.

“Most of it you catch yourself?” she asked.

“Me and Preacher and Ricky. The best way to make work into play. Mel,” he said, his voice soft. “Look downstream. There…”

She squinted and then sat back with a gasp. Poking their heads out of the brush at the side of the river on the other side was a mother bear and her cub.

“You were asking about the bear. Black bear. The cub looks young. They’re just giving birth and coming out of hibernation. Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“Only on the Discovery Channel. The fishermen don’t see her?” she asked.

“I’m sure they see her. She won’t bother them and they won’t bother her. But they carry bear repellent just in case. And they’ll have a rifle in the truck—but if she gets too close they’ll just reel in their lines and sit in their trucks until she leaves.” He chuckled. “Watch while she eats their fish.”

She watched in fascination for a moment, then said, “Why’d you bring me here?”

“Sometimes, if something’s eating me up—I can come out here, or drive into the redwoods, or go up on the knoll where the sheep are grazing, or maybe out to a pasture where the cows roam, and just sit awhile. Just connect with the earth. Sometimes that’s all I have to do.”