Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(43)

“He shouldn’t waste his time,” she said. I’m not available, she didn’t add.

In her new abode, Mel had put her own favorite books on the shelves—all of which she had already read and reread—and Mark’s picture on the table beside the bed. Each night she told him how much she missed him. But she cried less. Maybe because of the way Jack looked at her. The soothing way he talked to her.

The house Mel sold in L.A. was almost four thousand square feet and it had never seemed too big; she had loved the spaciousness of the rooms. Yet the cabin, maybe twelve hundred square feet total, felt right. Like a cocoon. It hugged her.

One of her favorite parts of the day was at the end, before she drove out to her new cabin. She would go to the bar for a cold beer and some chips or cheese and crackers. Once in a while she had dinner, but she didn’t mind being by herself at her cabin where there was now food in the cupboard.

Jack put her cold beer in front of her. “We have macaroni and cheese tonight,” he said. “I can talk Preacher into putting a slice of ham with that.”

“Thanks, but I’m going home for dinner tonight.”

“You’re cooking?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” she said. “I cook things like sandwiches. Coffee. The occasional fried egg. And takeout.”

“A modern woman.” He laughed. “But that place is working out for you?”

“It’s wonderful, thanks. And I need the quiet. Did you know Doc snores like a freight train?”

He chuckled. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

“I picked up a little gossip about you. That you’re seeing a woman in Clear River?”

He didn’t look all that surprised. He lifted his brows and his coffee mug. “Seeing? That sounds a little delicate for this crowd.”

“I was glad to hear you have someone in your life.”

“I don’t,” he said. “Ancient history. And I wasn’t exactly seeing her. It was a lot more basic than that.”

Somehow, that made her smile. “Sounds like maybe you had some kind of arrangement.”

He sipped from his mug and gave a shrug. “It was—”

“Wait,” she said, laughing. “You don’t owe me any explanation.”

He put both hands on the bar and leaned toward her. “We had an understanding. I went to her place once in a while. For an evening. Nothing deep. No love affair. Casual sex, Mel, between consenting adults. When I realized it didn’t work for me, we parted as friends. I’m not with a woman.”

“Well, that’s kind of too bad,” she said.

“It’s not necessarily a permanent condition,” he said. “That’s just how it is right now. Want a slice of pie to take home?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Sure.”



Mel had been in Virgin River four weeks. In that time, patients and friends dropped by frequently. Some had a little cash for medical services, a few had insurance, but the majority had produce from their farms, ranches, orchards, vineyards or kitchens. The latter, knowing that a single loaf of bread or pie probably didn’t cover the cost of an exam and treatment or medication, tended to stop by with a little something even when they were well. The unprepared food—a bushel of apples or nuts, canned or fresh fruit, vegetables, berries, lamb shank or veal, would go right over to Preacher, who could make good use of it, later feeding some of it to Mel and Doc. In some ways, it was like a commune.

That usually left Doc and Mel with more food than they could use, especially since they were getting most of their meals at Jack’s. Mel packed up a box of some stuff that was likely to go bad soon—some eggs, bread, sliced ham and a brick of cheese, a pie, apples and nuts. A carton of orange juice she’d picked up from Connie. She put the box in the passenger seat of Doc’s old truck before she asked him, “Could I borrow your truck for a couple hours? I want to drive around some and I don’t really trust the BMW. I promise, I’ll be real careful with it.”

“My truck? I can’t see you in my truck,” he said doubtfully.

“Why not? I’ll gas it up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m worried about you driving it off a cliff and leaving me with that piece of shit you call a car.”

She pursed her lips. “Some days, you’re more than I can take. Really.”

He picked up his keys and flipped them at her. She caught them. “Don’t hurt the truck. As God is my witness, I will never be caught driving that foreign job.”

She drove his truck out of town and the minute she was on the winding mountain roads, in the trees, driving up up up and then down down down over the mountain, her heart started to beat a little wildly. She was afraid, plain and simple. But she’d been haunted for two weeks and couldn’t live with the feeling. And that brought a plan into focus.

She surprised herself by remembering where Clifford Paulis’s camp was. She wondered if she was driven by some psychic energy. Her sense of direction in the hills, through the trees, was perfectly lousy. But—before long she was there, recognizing the nearly invisible old logging road that led to their compound. She drove in, made a big turn inside the opening so that she was pointed toward the way out, and then got out of the truck. She stood right beside the driver’s door and yelled, “Clifford!”