Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(8)

“Didn’t really look like she’d trust anyone around here at the moment,” Jack said. “Cute little thing, though, huh?”

“Can’t say I noticed,” he said. He took a sip and then said, “Didn’t look like she had the muscle for the job, anyway.”

Jack laughed, “Thought you didn’t notice?” But he had noticed. She was maybe five-three. Hundred and ten pounds. Soft, curling blond hair that, when damp, curled even more. Eyes that could go from kind of sad to feisty in an instant. He enjoyed that little spark when she had snapped at him that she didn’t feel particularly humorous. And when she took on Doc, there was a light that suggested she could handle all kinds of things just fine. But the best part was that mouth—that little pink heart-shaped mouth. Or maybe it was the fanny.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “You could’ve cut a guy a break and been a little friendlier. Improve the scenery around here.”





Two




When Mel and Mrs. McCrea returned to the cabin, it had warmed up inside. Of course, it hadn’t gotten any cleaner. Mel shuddered at the filth and Mrs. McCrea said, “I had no idea, when I talked to you, that you were so prissy.”

“Well, I’m not. A labor and delivery unit in a big hospital like the one I came from is pretty unglamorous.” And it struck Mel as curious that she had felt more in control in that chaotic, sometimes horrific environment than in this far simpler one. She decided it was the apparent deception that was throwing her for a loop. That and the fact that however gritty things got in L&D, she always had a comfortable and clean house to go home to.

Hope left her in possession of pillows, blankets, quilts and towels, and Mel decided it made more sense to brave the dirt than the cold. Retrieving only one suitcase from her car, she put on a sweatsuit, heavy socks, and made herself a bed on the dusty old couch. The mattress, stained and sagging, looked too frightening.

She rolled herself up in the quilts like a burrito and huddled down into the soft, musty cushions. The bathroom light was left on with the door pulled slightly closed, in case she had to get up in the night. And thanks to two brandies, the long drive and the stress of spoiled expectations, she fell into a deep sleep, for once not disturbed by anxiety or nightmares. The softly drumming rain on the roof was like a lullaby, rocking her to sleep. With the dim light of morning on her face, she woke to find she hadn’t moved a muscle all night, but lay swaddled and still. Rested. Her head empty.

It was a rare thing.

Disbelieving, she lay there for a while. Yes, she thought. Though it doesn’t seem possible under the circumstances, I feel good. Then Mark’s face swam before her eyes and she thought, what do you expect? You summoned it!

She further thought, there’s nowhere you can go to escape grief. Why try?

There was a time she had been so content, especially waking up in the morning. She had this weird and funny gift—music in her head. Every morning, the first thing she noticed was a song, clear as if the radio was on. Always a different one. Although in the bright light of day Mel couldn’t play an instrument or carry a tune in a bucket, she awoke each morning humming along with a melody. Awakened by her off-key humming, Mark would raise up on an elbow, lean over her, grinning, and wait for her eyes to pop open. He would say, “What is it today?”

“‘Begin the Beguine,’” she’d answer. Or, “‘Deep Purple.’” And he’d laugh and laugh.

The music in her head went away with his death.

She sat up, quilts wrapped around her, and the morning light emphasized the dirty cabin that surrounded her. The sound of chirping birds brought her to her feet and to the cabin’s front door. She opened it and greeted a morning that was bright and clear. She stepped out onto the porch, still wrapped in her quilts, and looked up—the pines, firs and ponderosa were so tall in daylight—rising fifty to sixty feet above the cabin, some considerably taller. They were still dripping from a rain that had washed them clean. Green pinecones were hanging from branches—pinecones so large that if a green one fell on your head, it might cause a concussion. Beneath them, thick, lush green fern—she counted four different types from wide-branched floppy fans to those as delicate as lace. Everything looked fresh and healthy. Birds sang and danced from limb to limb, and she looked into a sky that was an azure blue the likes of which she hadn’t seen in Los Angeles in ten years. A puffy white cloud floated aimlessly above and an eagle, wings spread wide, soared overhead and disappeared behind the trees.

She inhaled a deep breath of the crisp spring morning. Ah, she thought. Too bad the cabin, town and old doctor didn’t work out, because the land was lovely. Unspoiled. Invigorating.

She heard a crack and furrowed her brow. Without warning the end of the porch that had been sagging gave out completely, collapsing at the weak end which created a big slide, knocking her off her feet and splat! Right into a deep, wet, muddy hole. There she lay, a filthy, wet, ice cold burrito in her quilt. “Crap,” she said, rolling out of the quilt to crawl back up the porch, still attached at the starboard end. And into the house.

She packed up her suitcase. It was over.

At least the roads were now passable, and in the light of day she was safe from hitting a soft shoulder and sinking out of sight. Reasoning she wouldn’t get far without at least coffee, she headed back toward the town, even though her instincts told her to run for her life, get coffee somewhere down the road. She didn’t expect that bar to be open early in the morning, but her options seemed few. She might be desperate enough to bang on the old doctor’s door and beg a cup of coffee from him, though facing his grimace again wasn’t an inviting thought. But the doc’s house looked closed up tighter than a tick. There didn’t seem to be any action around Jack’s or the store across the street, but a complete caffeine junkie, she tried the door at the bar and it swung open.