Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(61)

Preacher put Jack on the bed and unlaced and removed his boots. “Let’s get the jeans off,” she said. To Preacher’s dubious look, she said, “I assure you, I’ve seen it all.” She undid the leather belt and unsnapped the jeans. Mel took the right pant leg, Preacher took the left and they pulled, leaving him in his boxers. Mel unbuttoned his shirt and rolling him from side to side, removed it. She took the clothes to his closet. Hanging on a peg just inside the door was a holster with a handgun in it and it made her gasp. She hung the pants and shirt over the gun.

Preacher was staring down at Jack, clad only in boxers. “He’s gonna kill me for this,” Preacher said.

“Or thank you,” she supplied, giving him a small smile. “If my pager goes off, I’ll come for you.” She pulled the comforter over Jack.

“Or if you have any problems,” the big man said.

When Preacher had gone, Mel pulled off her boots and in stocking feet, she poked around a little. He had a roomy bathroom with cupboards and drawers. She opened one and found that he kept underwear and socks in there. Towels were stored there, as well, and remembering that first day in Virgin River, she sniffed one. Downy, like he had said.

The closet was a medium-sized walk-in. There was a small laundry room with cabinets in addition to the washer and dryer. The bathroom and laundry room had doors that closed, but the bedroom was in full view of the living room.

Looking around, it was so obviously Jack. Very masculine; very functional. He had a leather couch and big leather chair. There was a television on the facing wall and beside it, a glass-and-wood gun case filled with rifles, the key dangling from the lock. There was a heavy wood coffee table and a side table between the sofa and chair with a lamp on it. The walls were of rough-hewn wood and there were only two framed pictures on the side table. A family photo showing all of them, Jack, four sisters, four brothers-in-law, eight nieces, one silver-haired father as large as Jack. Beside it, a rather older portrait of his mother and father.

She picked up the family photo. This was a family of strong good looks, the men all tall and handsome, the women trim and pretty, the girls adorable—the youngest just little, like three or four, the oldest a teen. She thought Jack the best looking of them all, and he stood in the middle of the group, an arm around a sister on each side.

She took the throw off the couch, wrapped it around herself, and curled up in the large chair. Jack hadn’t moved a muscle. Eventually she, too, nodded off.

Somewhere in the night, sounds came from Jack’s bed. He was fitful, rolling around, muttering in his sleep. Mel went to the bed, sat on the edge and touched his brow. He grumbled something unintelligible and curled toward her, grabbing her and pulling her into the bed. He rested his head against her. She took his head in the crook of her arm and lay down beside him. “It’s okay,” she said to him. And he quieted at once, draping an arm over her.

She pulled the comforter over them both and snuggled up to him. She sniffed the pillow—Downy. Who was this guy? she found herself asking. Looks like Paul Bunyan, runs a bar, has all these guns, and cleans and launders like Martha Stewart.

In his sleep, he pulled her closer. His breath smelled of Scotch. Whew, she thought. She put her face against his hair, which smelled of his musk combined with the wind and trees. She inhaled deeply; she’d already begun to love his particular scent and the taste of his mouth. She had wondered what was under the shirt—a nice mat of brown hair on his chest and a couple of tattoos. On his upper left arm an eagle, globe and anchor, almost as big as her hand. On the upper right, over a ribbon, the words:



SAEPE EXPERTUS,

SEMPER FIDELIS,

FRATRES AETERNI



She couldn’t resist, she rubbed her hands over the mat of hair on his chest and over his smooth shoulders. She pulled him close. Within minutes, she had fallen back to sleep, cradling Jack in her arms, his arm comfortably embracing her.



In the dim light of early morning, Jack awakened with a pounding head. He turned his face to the side and the first thing he saw were Mel’s golden curls against the pillow next to him. She clutched the covers under her chin, sleeping soundly. He raised himself up on an elbow and looked down at her face. Her pink lips were parted in sleep; sooty lashes lay against her cheek. He lifted a soft curl off the pillow and held it to his face, inhaling. Then he leaned toward her and lowered his lips to gently touch hers.

Her eyes came open. “Morning,” she whispered sleepily.

“Did we do it?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Good,” he said.

She smiled at him. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”

“When we do it, I want to remember it. I don’t even know why you’re here.”

“I stopped by the bar for a beer just about the time Preacher was scraping you off the floor. Headache?”

“It went away the minute I saw you. I must have had one too many.”

“Did it work? Did you scare away all the demons?”

He shrugged. “It got you in my bed. If I’d known it was that easy, I’d have gotten plastered weeks ago.”

“Lift the covers, Jack,” she said.

He did so. There he was, boxer clad and sporting quite a healthy morning erection. And there she was, fully clothed. “Don’t look down,” he said, dropping the comforter. “You have me at a huge disadvantage.” She laughed at him. “We could do it now,” he suggested. He felt the texture of her hair between his thumb and finger. “I’ll treat you real, real good.” He grinned.