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Virgin River
Robyn Carr


The Virgin River seriesVirgin River - Book 1Wanted: Midwife/nurse practitioner in Virgin River, population six hundred. Make a difference against the backdrop of towering California redwoods and crystal-clear rivers. Rent-free cabin included.When the recently widowed Melinda Monroe sees this ad she quickly decides that the remote mountain town of Virgin River might be the perfect place to escape her heartache, and to reenergize the nursing career she loves. But her high hopes are dashed within an hour of arriving: the cabin is a dump, the roads are treacherous and the local doctor wants nothing to do with her. Realizing she's made a huge mistake, Mel decides to leave town the following morning.But a tiny baby, abandoned on a front porch, changes her plans…and a former marine cements them into place.Melinda Monroe may have come to Virgin River looking for escape, but instead she finds her home…Praise for Robyn Carr‘A touch of danger and suspense make the latest in Carr's Thunder Point series a powerful read.’ –RT Book Reviews on The Hero‘With her trademark mixture of humor, realistic conflict, and razor-sharp insights, Carr brings Thunder Point to vivid life.’ –Library Journal on The Newcomer‘No one can do small-town life like Carr.' –RT Book Reviews on The Wanderer‘Strong conflict, humor and well-written characters are Carr's calling cards, and they're all present here… You won't want to put this one down.’ –RT Book Reviews on Angel's Peak‘This story has everything: a courageous, outspoken heroine, a to-die-for hero and a plot that will touch readers' hearts on several different levels. Truly excellent.’ –RT Book Reviews on Forbidden Falls‘An intensely satisfying read. By turns humorous and gut-wrenchingly emotional, it won't soon be forgotten.’ –RT Book Reviews on Paradise Valley‘Carr has hit her stride with this captivating series.’ –Library Journal on the Virgin River series‘The Virgin River books are so compelling – I connected instantly with the characters and just wanted more and more and more.’ –#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber










Praise for the novels of Robyn Carr

“The Virgin River books are so compelling—I connected instantly with the characters and just wanted more and more and more.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“Virgin River is sexy, tense, emotional and satisfying. I can’t wait for more!” —New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers

“A thrilling debut of a series that promises much to come.”

—New York Times bestselling author Clive Cussler

“Jennifer is a beautifully drawn character whose interior journey is wonderful to behold.”

—RT Book Reviews on Runaway Mistress

“This is one author who proves a Carr can fly.”

—Book Reviewer on Blue Skies

“Robyn Carr provides readers [with] a powerful, thought-provoking work of contemporary fiction.”

—Midwest Book Review on Deep in the Valley

“A remarkable storyteller…”

—Library Journal

“A warm, wonderful book about women’s friendships, love and family. I adored it!”

—Susan Elizabeth Phillips on The House on Olive Street

“A delightfully funny novel.”

—Midwest Book Review on The Wedding Party



Also available from New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author ROBYN CARR and MIRA Books

Virgin River, Series One VIRGIN RIVER SHELTER MOUNTAIN WHISPERING ROCK

Virgin River, Series Two SECOND CHANCE PASS TEMPTATION RIDGE PARADISE VALLEY

Virgin River, Series Three FORBIDDEN FALLS ANGEL’S PEAK MOONLIGHT ROAD

A VIRGIN RIVER CHRISTMAS

Grace Valley Series DEEP IN THE VALLEY JUST OVER THE MOUNTAIN DOWN BY THE RIVER

Novels NEVER TOO LATE RUNAWAY MISTRESS BLUE SKIES THE WEDDING PARTY THE HOUSE ON OLIVE STREET

Coming Soon

A SUMMER IN SONOMA

available July 2010


VIRGIN

RIVER





ROBYN CARR
























www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


This novel is dedicated to Pam Glenn, Goddess of Midwifery, my friend and sister of my heart.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Thanks to Pamela SF Glenn, CNM, MS—without whose expertise in midwifery, this story would not have been possible. My deepest gratitude for poring over manuscript after manuscript with sharp eyes and a ruthless pen, keeping me straight. And to Sharon Lampert, RN, WHNP, for sharing her expertise as a women’s health nurse practitioner, but mostly for picking up your cell phone no matter where you were and answering delicate questions about female anatomy and function with directness and honesty. I’m sure there are people out there still talking about what they overheard in the grocery store, beauty parlor and Department of Motor Vehicles. The passion and devotion with which you two professionals serve your women patients is inspiring, and was an enormous help in shaping the character of a dedicated nurse practitioner and certified nurse midwife.

Thanks to Paul Wojcik for sharing your experiences in the United States Marine Corps, and to Richard Gustavson, RN, with twenty-three years in the Navy Reserves. I thank each of you for reading the manuscripts and for offering your invaluable technical input.

Kris Kitna, Chief of Police, Fortuna, California, thanks for valuable information on local law enforcement, not to mention help with details about hunting, fishing and firearms.

Kate Bandy, the best assistant a writer can possibly have, my dear friend of many years, thanks not only for reading copy and offering suggestions, but especially for accompanying me on an exciting research trip to Humboldt County. Without you there I would have floundered…or slipped off a mountain.

Denise and Jeff Nicholl—thanks for reading first drafts, taking exhaustive notes and answering a million questions. Your friendship and support during the whole process mean the world to me. Many thanks to Nellie Valdez-Hathorn for her help with my Spanish.

Other early readers whose input was critical included Jamie Carr, Laurie Fait, Karen Garris, Martha Gould, Pat Hagee, Goldiene Jones and Lori Stoveken—I’m deeply in debt to you for your comments and suggestions.

Huge thanks to Clive Cussler, Debbie Macomber and Carla Neggers for reading and commenting on Virgin River. To take the time, with your busy schedules, is a monumental compliment.

Huge thanks to Valerie Gray, my editor, and Liza Dawson, my agent, for your commitment to helping me craft the best series possible. Your hard work and dedication made all the difference—I’m so grateful.

To Trudy Casey, Tom Fay, Michelle Mazzanti, Kristy Price and the entire staff of Henderson Public Libraries, thank you for the monumental support and encouragement. I’ve never known a more hardworking and motivated group of public servants.

And finally, thanks to Jim Carr for your loving support. And my God, thank you for cooking! I wish I’d known years ago that you could!




One


Mel squinted into the rain and darkness, creeping along the narrow, twisting, muddy, tree-enshrouded road and for the hundredth time thought, am I out of my mind? And then she heard and felt a thump as the right rear wheel of her BMW slipped off the road onto the shoulder and sank into the mud. The car rocked to a stop. She accelerated and heard the wheel spin but she was going nowhere fast.

I am so screwed, was her next thought.

She turned on the dome light and looked at her cell phone. She’d lost the signal an hour ago when she left the freeway and headed up into the mountains. In fact, she’d been having a pretty lively discussion with her sister Joey when the steep hills and unbelievably tall trees blocked the signal and cut them off.

“I cannot believe you’re really doing this,” Joey was saying. “I thought you’d come to your senses. This isn’t you, Mel! You’re not a small-town girl!”

“Yeah? Well, it looks like I’m gonna be—I took the job and sold everything, so I wouldn’t be tempted to go back.”

“You couldn’t just take a leave of absence? Maybe go to a small, private hospital? Try to think this through?”

“I need everything to be different,” Mel said. “No more hospital war zone. I’m just guessing, but I imagine I won’t be called on to deliver a lot of crack babies out here in the woods. The woman said this place, this Virgin River, is calm and quiet and safe.”

“And stuck back in the forest, a million miles from a Starbucks, where you’ll get paid in eggs and pig’s feet and—”

“And none of my patients will be brought in handcuffed, guarded by a corrections officer.” Then Mel took a breath and, unexpectedly, laughed and said, “Pig’s feet? Oh-oh, Joey—I’m going up into the trees again, I might lose you…”

“You wait. You’ll be sorry. You’ll regret this. This is crazy and impetuous and—”

That’s when the signal, blessedly, was lost. And Joey was right—with every additional mile, Mel was doubting herself and her decision to escape into the country.

At every curve the roads had become narrower and the rain a little harder. It was only 6:00 p.m., but it was already dark as pitch; the trees were so dense and tall that even that last bit of afternoon sun had been blocked. Of course there were no lights of any kind along this winding stretch. According to the directions, she should be getting close to the house where she was to meet her new employer, but she didn’t dare get out of her swamped car and walk. She could get lost in these woods and never be seen again.

Instead, she fished the pictures from her briefcase in an attempt to remind herself of a few of the reasons why she had taken this job. She had pictures of a quaint little hamlet of clapboard houses with front porches and dormer windows, an old-fashioned schoolhouse, a steepled church, hollyhocks, rhododendrons and blossoming apple trees in full glory, not to mention the green pastures upon which livestock grazed. There was the Pie and Coffee shop, the Corner Store, a tiny-one-room, freestanding library, and the adorable little cabin in the woods that would be hers, rent free, for the year of her contract.

The town backed up to the amazing sequoia redwoods and national forests that spanned hundreds of miles of wilderness over the Trinity and Shasta mountain ranges. The Virgin River, after which the town was named, was deep, wide, long, and home to huge salmon, sturgeon, steel fish and trout. She’d looked on the Internet at pictures of that part of the world and was easily convinced no more beautiful land existed. Of course, she could see nothing now except rain, mud and darkness.

Ready to get out of Los Angeles, she had put her résumé with the Nurse’s Registry and one of the recruiters brought Virgin River to her attention. The town doctor, she said, was getting old and needed help. A woman from the town, Hope McCrea, was donating the cabin and the first year’s salary. The county was picking up the tab for liability insurance for at least a year to get a practitioner and midwife in this remote, rural part of the world. “I faxed Mrs. McCrea your résumé and letters of recommendation,” the recruiter had said, “and she wants you. Maybe you should go up there and look the place over.”

Mel took Mrs. McCrea’s phone number and called her that evening. Virgin River was far smaller than what she’d had in mind, but after no more than an hour-long conversation with Mrs. McCrea, Mel began effecting her move out of L.A. the very next morning. That was barely two weeks ago.

What they didn’t know at the Registry, nor in Virgin River for that matter, was that Mel had become desperate to get away. Far away. She’d been dreaming of a fresh start, and peace and quiet, for months. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a restful night’s sleep. The dangers of the big city, where crime seemed to be overrunning the neighborhoods, had begun to consume her. Just going to the bank and the store filled her with anxiety; danger seemed to be lurking everywhere. Her work in the three-thousand-bed county hospital and trauma center brought to her care the victims of too many crimes, not to mention the perpetrators of crimes hurt in pursuit or arrest— strapped to hospital beds in wards and in Emergency, guarded by cops. What was left of her spirit was hurting and wounded. And that was nothing to the loneliness of her empty bed.

Her friends begged her to stave off this impulse to run for some unknown small town, but she’d been in grief group, individual counseling and had seen more of the inside of a church in the last nine months than she had in the last ten years, and none of that was helping. The only thing that gave her any peace of mind was fantasizing about running away to some tiny place in the country where people didn’t have to lock their doors, and the only thing you had to fear were the deer getting in the vegetable garden. It seemed like sheer heaven.

But now, sitting in her car looking at the pictures by the dome light, she realized how ridiculous she’d been. Mrs. McCrea told her to pack only durable clothes— jeans and boots—for country medicine. So what had she packed? Her boots were Stuart Weitzmans, Cole Haans and Fryes—and she hadn’t minded paying over a tidy four-fifty for each pair. The jeans she had packed for traipsing out to the ranches and farms were Rock & Republics, Joe’s, Luckys, 7 For All Mankind—they rang up between one-fifty and two-fifty a copy. She’d been paying three hundred bucks a pop to have her hair trimmed and highlighted. After scrimping for years through college and post-grad nursing, once she was a nurse practitioner with a very good salary she discovered she loved nice things. She might have spent most of her workday in scrubs, but when she was out of them, she liked looking good.

She was sure the fish and deer would be very impressed.

In the past half hour she’d only seen one old truck on the road. Mrs. McCrea hadn’t prepared her for how perilous and steep these roads were, filled with hairpin turns and sharp drop-offs, so narrow in some places that it would be a challenge for two cars to pass each other. She was almost relieved when the dark consumed her, for she could at least see approaching headlights around each tight turn. Her car had sunk into the shoulder on the side of the road that was up against the hill and not the ledge where there were no guardrails. Here she sat, lost in the woods and doomed. With a sigh, she turned around and pulled her heavy coat from the top of one of the boxes on the backseat. She hoped Mrs. McCrea would be traversing this road either en route to or from the house where they were to meet. Otherwise, she would probably be spending the night in the car. She still had a couple of apples, some crackers and two cheese rounds in wax. But the damn Diet Coke was gone—she’d have the shakes and a headache by morning from caffeine withdrawal.

No Starbucks. She should have done a better job of stocking up.

She turned off the engine, but left the lights on in case a car came along the narrow road. If she wasn’t rescued, the battery would be dead by morning. She settled back and closed her eyes. A very familiar face drifted into her mind: Mark. Sometimes the longing to see him one more time, to talk to him for just a little while was overwhelming. Forget the grief—she just missed him—missed having a partner to depend on, to wait up for, to wake up beside. An argument over his long hours even seemed appealing. He told her once, “This—you and me—this is forever.”

Forever lasted four years. She was only thirty-two and from now on she would be alone. He was dead. And she was dead inside.

A sharp tapping on the car window got her attention and she had no idea if she’d actually been asleep or just musing. It was the butt of a flashlight that had made the noise and holding it was an old man. The scowl on his face was so jarring that she thought the end she feared might be upon her.

“Missy,” he was saying. “Missy, you’re stuck in the mud.”

She lowered her window and the mist wet her face. “I…I know. I hit a soft shoulder.”

“That piece of crap won’t do you much good around here,” he said.

Piece of crap indeed! It was a new BMW convertible, one of her many attempts to ease the ache of loneliness. “Well, no one told me that! But thank you very much for the insight.”

His thin white hair was plastered to his head and his bushy white eyebrows shot upwards in spikes; the rain glistened on his jacket and dripped off his big nose. “Sit tight, I’ll hook the chain around your bumper and pull you out. You going to the McCrea house?”

Well, that’s what she’d been after—a place where everyone knows everyone else. She wanted to warn him not to scratch the bumper but all she could do was stammer, “Y-yes.”

“It ain’t far. You can follow me after I pull you out.”

“Thanks,” she said.

So, she would have a bed after all. And if Mrs. McCrea had a heart, there would be something to eat and drink. She began to envision the glowing fire in the cottage with the sound of spattering rain on the roof as she hunkered down into a deep, soft bed with lovely linens and quilts wrapped around her. Safe. Secure. At last.

Her car groaned and strained and finally lurched out of the ditch and onto the road. The old man pulled her several feet until she was on solid ground, then he stopped to remove the chain. He tossed it into the back of the truck and motioned for her to follow him. No argument there—if she got stuck again, he’d be right there to pull her out. Along she went, right behind him, using lots of window cleaner with her wipers to keep the mud he splattered from completely obscuring her vision.

In less than five minutes, the blinker on the truck was flashing and she followed him as he made a right turn at a mailbox. The drive was short and bumpy, the road full of potholes, but it quickly opened up into a clearing. The truck made a wide circle in the clearing so he could leave again, which left Mel to pull right up to…a hovel!

This was no adorable little cottage. It was an A-frame with a porch all right, but it looked as though the porch was only attached on one side while the other end had broken away and listed downward. The shingles were black with rain and age and there was a board nailed over one of the windows. It was not lit within or without; there was no friendly curl of smoke coming from the chimney.

The pictures were lying on the seat beside her. She blasted on her horn and jumped immediately out of the car, clutching the pictures and pulling the hood of her wool jacket over her head. She ran to the truck. He rolled down his window and looked at her as if she had a screw loose. “Are you sure this is the McCrea cottage?”

“Yup.”

She showed him the picture of the cute little A-frame cottage with Adirondack chairs on the porch and hanging pots filled with colorful flowers decorating the front of the house. It was bathed in sunlight in the picture.

“Hmm,” he said. “Been awhile since she looked like that.”

“I wasn’t told that. She said I could have the house rent free for a year, plus salary. I’m supposed to help out the doctor in this town. But this—?”

“Didn’t know the doc needed help. He didn’t hire you, did he?” he asked.

“No. I was told he was getting too old to keep up with the demands of the town and they needed another doctor, but that I’d do for a year or so.”

“Do what?”

She raised her voice to be heard above the rain. “I’m a nurse practitioner. And certified nurse midwife.”

That seemed to amuse him. “That a fact?”

“You know the doctor?” she asked.

“Everybody knows everybody. Seems like you shoulda come up here and look the place over and meet the doc before making up your mind.”

“Yeah, seems like,” she said in some self-recrimination. “Let me get my purse—give you some money for pulling me out of the—” But he was already waving her off.

“Don’t want your money. People up here don’t have money to be throwing around for neighborly help. So,” he said with humor, lifting one of those wild white eyebrows, “looks like she got one over on you. That place’s been empty for years now.” He chuckled. “Rent free! Hah!”

Headlights bounced into the clearing as an old Suburban came up the drive. Once it arrived the old man said, “There she is. Good luck.” And then he laughed. Actually, he cackled as he drove out of the clearing.

Mel stuffed the picture under her jacket and stood in the rain near her car as the Suburban parked. She could’ve gone to the porch to get out of the elements, but it didn’t look quite safe.

The Suburban’s frame was jacked up and the tires were huge—no way that thing was getting stuck in the mud. It was pretty well splashed up, but it was still obvious it was an older model. The driver trained the lights on the cottage and left them on as the door opened. Out of the SUV climbed this itty bitty elderly woman with thick, springy white hair and black framed glasses too big for her face. She was wearing rubber boots and was swallowed up by a rain slicker, but she couldn’t have been five feet tall. She pitched a cigarette into the mud and, wearing a huge toothy smile, she approached Mel. “Welcome!” she said gleefully in the same deep, throaty voice Mel recognized from their phone conversation.

“Welcome?” Mel mimicked. “Welcome?” She pulled the picture from the inside of her jacket and flashed it at the woman. “This is not that!”

Completely unruffled, Mrs. McCrea said, “Yeah, the place could use a little sprucing up. I meant to get over here yesterday, but the day got away from me.”

“Sprucing up? Mrs. McCrea, it’s falling down! You said it was adorable! Precious is what you said!”

“My word,” Mrs. McCrea said. “They didn’t tell me at the Registry that you were so melodramatic.”

“And they didn’t tell me you were delusional!”

“Now, now, that kind of talk isn’t going to get us anywhere. Do you want to stand in the rain or go inside and see what we have?”

“I’d frankly like to turn around and drive right out of this place, but I don’t think I’d get very far without four-wheel-drive. Another little thing you might’ve mentioned.”

Without comment, the little white-haired sprite stomped up the three steps and onto the porch of the cabin. She didn’t use a key to unlock the door but had to apply a firm shoulder to get it to open. “Swollen from the rain,” she said in her gravelly voice, then disappeared inside.

Mel followed, but didn’t stomp on the porch as Mrs. McCrea had. Rather, she tested it gingerly. It had a dangerous slant, but appeared to be solid in front of the door. A light went on inside just as Mel reached the door. Immediately following the dim light came a cloud of choking dust as Mrs. McCrea shook out the tablecloth. It sent Mel back out onto the porch, coughing. Once she recovered, she took a deep breath of the cold, moist air and ventured back inside.

Mrs. McCrea seemed to be busy trying to put things right, despite the filth in the place. She was pushing chairs up to the table, blowing dust off lampshades, propping books on the shelf with bookends. Mel had a look around, but only to satisfy her curiosity as to how horrid it was, because there was no way she was staying. There was a faded floral couch, a matching chair and ottoman, an old chest that served as a coffee table and a brick and board bookcase, the boards unfinished. Only a few steps away, divided from the living room by a counter, was the small kitchen. It hadn’t seen a cleaning since the last person made dinner—presumably years ago. The refrigerator and oven doors stood open, as did most of the cupboard doors. The sink was full of pots and dishes; there were stacks of dusty dishes and plenty of cups and glasses in the cupboards, all too dirty to use.

“I’m sorry, this is just unacceptable,” Mel said loudly.

“It’s a little dirt is all.”

“There’s a bird’s nest in the oven!” Mel exclaimed, completely beside herself.

Mrs. McCrea clomped into the kitchen in her muddy rubber boots, reached into the open oven door and plucked out the bird’s nest. She went to the front door and pitched it out into the yard. She shoved her glasses up on her nose as she regarded Mel. “No more bird’s nest,” she said in a voice that suggested Mel was trying her patience.

“Look, I’m not sure I’d make it. That old man in the pickup had to pull me out of the mud just down the road. I can’t stay here, Mrs. McCrea—it’s out of the question. Plus, I’m starving and I don’t have any food with me.” She laughed hollowly. “You said there would be adequate housing ready for me, and I took you to mean clean and stocked with enough food to get me through a couple of days till I could shop for myself. But this—”

“You have a contract,” Mrs. McCrea pointed out.

“So do you,” Mel said. “I don’t think you could get anyone to agree this is adequate or ready.”

Hope looked up. “It’s not leaking, that’s a good sign.”

“Not quite good enough, I’m afraid.”

“That damned Cheryl Creighton was supposed to be down here to give it a good cleaning, but she had excuses three days in a row. Been drinking again is my guess. I got some bedding in the truck and I’ll take you to get dinner. It’ll look better in the morning.”

“Isn’t there some place else I can stay tonight? A bed-and-breakfast? A motel on the highway?”

“Bed-and-breakfast?” she asked with a laugh. “This look like a tourist spot to you? The highway’s an hour off and this is no ordinary rain. I have a big house with no room in it—filled to the top with junk. They’re gonna light a match to it when I die. It would take all night to clear off the couch.”

“There must be something…”

“Nearest thing is Jo Ellen’s place—she’s got a nice spare room over the garage she lets out sometimes. But you wouldn’t want to stay there. That husband of hers can be a handful. He’s been slapped down by more than one woman in Virgin River—and it’d be a bad thing, you in your nightie, Jo Ellen sound asleep and him getting ideas. He’s a groper, that one.”

Oh, God, Mel thought. Every second this place sounded worse and worse.

“Tell you what we’ll do, girl. I’ll light the hot water heater, turn on the refrigerator and heater, then we’ll go get a hot meal.”

“At the Pie and Coffee shop?”

“That place closed down three years back,” she said.

“But you sent me a picture of it—like it was where I’d be getting lunch or dinner for the next year!”

“Details. Lord, you do get yourself worked up.”

“Worked up!?”

“Go jump in the truck and I’ll be right along,” she commanded. Then ignoring Mel completely, she went to the refrigerator and stooped to plug it in. The light went on immediately and Mrs. McCrea reached inside to adjust the temperature and close the door. The refrigerator’s motor made an unhealthy grinding sound as it fired up.

Mel went to the Suburban as she’d been told, but it was so high off the ground she found herself grabbing the inside of the open door and nearly crawling inside. She felt a lot safer here than in the house where her hostess would be lighting a gas water heater. She had a passing thought that if it blew up and destroyed the cabin, they could cut their loses here and now.

Once in the passenger seat, she looked over her shoulder to see the back of the Suburban was full of pillows, blankets and boxes. Supplies for the falling-down house, she assumed. Well, if she couldn’t get out of here tonight, she could sleep in her car if she had to. She wouldn’t freeze to death with all those blankets. But then, at first light…

A few minutes passed and then Mrs. McCrea came out of the cottage and pulled the door closed. No locking up. Mel was impressed by the agility with which the old woman got herself into the Suburban. She put a foot on the step, grabbed the handle above the door with one hand, the armrest with the other and bounced herself right into the seat. She had a rather large pillow to sit on and her seat was pushed way up so she could reach the pedals. Without a word, she put the vehicle in gear and expertly backed down the narrow drive out onto the road.

“When we talked a couple weeks ago, you said you were pretty tough,” Mrs. McCrea reminded her.

“I am. I’ve been in charge of a women’s wing at a three-thousand-bed county hospital for the past two years. We got all the most challenging cases and hopeless patients, and did a damn fine job if I do say so myself. Before that, I spent years in the emergency room in downtown L.A., a very tough place by anyone’s standards. By tough, I thought you meant medically. I didn’t know you meant I should be an experienced frontier woman.”

“Lord, you do go on. You’ll feel better after some food.”

“I hope so,” Mel replied. But, inside she was saying, I can’t stay here. This was crazy, I’m admitting it and getting the hell out of here. The only thing she really dreaded was owning up to Joey.

They didn’t talk during the drive. In Mel’s mind there wasn’t much to say. Plus, she was fascinated by the ease, speed and finesse with which Ms. McCrea handled the big Suburban, bouncing down the tree-lined road and around the tight curves in the pouring rain.

She had thought this might be a respite from pain and loneliness and fear. A relief from the stress of patients who were either the perpetrators or victims of crimes, or devastatingly poor and without resources or hope. When she saw the pictures of the cute little town, it was easy to imagine a homey place where people needed her. She saw herself blooming under the grateful thanks of rosy-cheeked country patients. Meaningful work was the one thing that had always cut through any troubling personal issues. Not to mention the lift of escaping the smog and traffic and getting back to nature in the pristine beauty of the forest. She just never thought she’d be getting this far back to nature.

The prospect of delivering babies for mostly uninsured women in rural Virgin River had closed the deal. Working as a nurse practitioner was satisfying, but midwifery was her true calling.

Joey was her only family now; she wanted Mel to come to Colorado Springs and stay with her, her husband Bill and their three children. But Mel hadn’t wanted to trade one city for another, even though Colorado Springs was considerably smaller. Now, in the absence of any better ideas, she would be forced to look for work there.

As they passed through what seemed to be a town, she grimaced again. “Is this the town? Because this wasn’t in the pictures you sent me, either.”

“Virgin River,” she said. “Such as it is. Looks a lot better in daylight, that’s for sure. Damn, this is a big rain. March always brings us this nasty weather. That’s the doc’s house there, where he sees patients when they come to him. He makes a lot of house calls, too. The library,” she pointed. “Open Tuesdays.”

They passed a pleasant-looking steepled church, which appeared to be boarded up, but at least she recognized it. There was the store, much older and more worn, the proprietor just locking the front door for the night. A dozen houses lined the street—small and old. “Where’s the schoolhouse?” Mel asked.

“What schoolhouse?” Mrs. McCrea countered.

“The one in the picture you sent to the recruiter.”

“Hmm. Can’t imagine where I got that. We don’t have a school. Yet.”

“God,” Mel groaned.

The street was wide, but dark and vacant—there were no streetlights. The old woman must have gone through one of her ancient photo albums to come up with the pictures. Or maybe she snapped a few of another town.

Across the street from the doctor’s house Mrs. McCrea pulled up to the front of what looked like a large cabin with a wide porch and big yard, but the neon sign in the window that said Open clued her in to the fact that it was a tavern or café. “Come on,” Mrs. McCrea said. “Let’s warm up your belly and your mood.”

“Thank you,” Mel said, trying to be polite. She was starving and didn’t want an attitude to cost her her dinner, though she wasn’t optimistic that anything but her stomach would be warm. She looked at her watch. Seven o’clock.

Mrs. McCrea shook out her slicker on the porch before going in, but Mel wasn’t wearing a raincoat. Nor did she have an umbrella. Her jacket was now drenched and she smelled like wet sheep.

Once inside, she was rather pleasantly surprised. It was dark and woody with a fire ablaze in a big stone hearth. The polished wood floors were shiny clean and something smelled good, edible. Over a long bar, above rows of shelved liquor bottles, was a huge mounted fish; on another wall, a bearskin so big it covered half the wall. Over the door, a stag’s head. Whew. A hunting lodge? There were about a dozen tables sans tablecloths and only one customer at the bar; the old man who had pulled her out of the mud sat slumped over a drink.

Behind the bar stood a tall man in a plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, polishing a glass with a towel. He looked to be in his late thirties and wore his brown hair cropped close. He lifted expressive brows and his chin in greeting as they entered. Then his lips curved in a smile.

“Sit here,” Hope McCrea said, indicating a table near the fire. “I’ll get you something.”

Mel took off her coat and hung it over the chair back near the fire to dry. She warmed herself, vigorously rubbing her icy hands together in front of the flames. This was more what she had expected—a cozy, clean cabin, a blazing fire, a meal ready on the stove. She could do without the dead animals, but this is what you get in hunting country.

“Here,” the old woman said, pressing a small glass of amber liquid into her hand. “This’ll warm you up. Jack’s got some stew on the stove and bread in the warmer. We’ll fix you up.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Brandy. You gonna be able to get that down?”

“Damn right,” she said, taking a grateful sip and feeling it burn its way down to her empty belly. She let her eyes drift closed for a moment, appreciating the unexpected fine quality. She looked back at the bar, but the bartender had disappeared. “That guy,” she finally said, indicating the only customer. “He pulled me out of the ditch.”

“Doc Mullins,” she explained. “You might as well meet him right now, if you’re okay to leave the fire.”

“Why bother?” Mel said. “I told you—I’m not staying.”

“Fine,” the old woman said tiredly. “Then you can say hello and goodbye all at once. Come on.” She turned and walked toward the old doctor and with a weary sigh, Mel followed. “Doc, this is Melinda Monroe, in case you didn’t catch the name before. Miss Monroe, meet Doc Mullins.”

He looked up from his drink with rheumy eyes and regarded her, but his arthritic hands never left his glass. He gave another single nod.

“Thanks again,” Mel said. “For pulling me out.”

The old doctor gave a nod, looking back to his drink.

So much for the friendly small-town atmosphere, she thought. Mrs. McCrea was walking back to the fireplace. She plunked herself down at the table.

“Excuse me,” Mel said to the doctor. He turned his gaze toward her, but his bushy white brows were drawn together in a definite scowl, peering over the top of his glasses. His white hair was so thin over his freckled scalp that it almost appeared he had more hair on his brows than his head. “Pleasure to meet you. So, you wanted help up here?” He just seemed to glare at her. “You didn’t want help? Which is it?”

“I don’t much need any help,” he told her gruffly. “But that old woman’s been trying to get a doc to replace me for years. She’s driven.”

“And why is that?” Mel bravely asked.

“Couldn’t imagine.” He looked back into his glass. “Maybe she just doesn’t like me. Since I don’t like her that much, makes no difference.”

The bartender, and presumably proprietor, was carrying a steaming bowl out of the back, but he paused at the end of the bar and watched as Mel conversed with the old doctor.

“Well, no worries, mate,” Mel responded, “I’m not staying. It was grossly misrepresented. I’ll be leaving in the morning, as soon as the rain lets up.”

“Wasted your time, did you?” he asked, not looking at her.

“Apparently. It’s bad enough the place isn’t what I was told it would be, but how about the complication that you have no use for a practitioner or midwife?”

“There you go,” he said.

Mel sighed. She hoped she could find a decent job in Colorado.

A young man, a teenager, brought a rack of glasses from the kitchen into the bar. He sported much the same look as the bartender with his short cropped, thick brown hair, flannel shirt and jeans. Handsome kid, she thought, taking in his strong jaw, straight nose, heavy brows. As he was about to put the rack under the bar, he stopped short, staring at Mel in surprise. His eyes grew wide; his mouth dropped open for a second. She tilted her head slightly and treated him to a smile. He closed his mouth slowly, but stood frozen, holding the glasses.

Mel turned away from the boy and the doctor. She headed for Mrs. McCrea’s table. The bartender set down a bowl along with a napkin and utensils, then stood there awaiting her. He held the chair for her. Close up, she saw how big a guy he was—over six feet and broad-shouldered. “Miserable weather for your first night in Virgin River,” he said pleasantly.

“Miss Melinda Monroe, this is Jack Sheridan. Jack, Miss Monroe.”

Mel felt the urge to correct them—tell them it was Mrs. But she didn’t because she didn’t want to explain that there was no longer a Mr. Monroe, a Dr. Monroe in fact. So she said, “Pleased to meet you. Thank you,” she added, accepting the stew.

“This is a beautiful place, when the weather cooperates,” he said.

“I’m sure it is,” she muttered, not looking at him.

“You should give it a day or two,” he suggested.

She dipped her spoon into the stew and gave it a taste. He hovered near the table for a moment. Then she looked up at him and said in some surprise, “This is delicious.”

“Squirrel,” he said.

She choked.

“Just kidding,” he said, grinning at her. “Beef. Corn fed.”

“Forgive me if my sense of humor is a bit off,” she replied irritably. “It’s been a long and rather arduous day.”

“Has it now?” he said. “Good thing I got the cork out of the Remy, then.” He went back behind the bar and she looked over her shoulder at him. He seemed to confer briefly and quietly with the young man, who continued to stare at her. His son, Mel decided.

“I don’t know that you have to be quite so pissy,” Mrs. McCrea said. “I didn’t sense any of this attitude when we talked on the phone.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She shook one out and lit it—this explained the gravelly voice.

“Do you have to smoke?” Mel asked her.

“Unfortunately, I do,” Mrs. McCrea said, taking a long drag.

Mel just shook her head in frustration. She held her tongue. It was settled, she was leaving in the morning and would have to sleep in the car, so why exacerbate things by continuing to complain? Hope McCrea had certainly gotten the message by now. Mel ate the delicious stew, sipped the brandy, and felt a bit more secure once her belly was full and her head a tad light. There, she thought. That is better. I can make it through the night in this dump. God knows, I’ve been through worse.

It had been nine months since her husband, Mark, had stopped off at a convenience store after working a long night shift in the emergency room. He had wanted milk for his cereal. But what he got was three bullets, point-blank to the chest, killing him instantly. There had been a robbery in progress, right in a store he and Mel dropped into at least three times a week. It had ended the life she loved.

Spending the night in her car, in the rain, would be nothing by comparison.

***

Jack delivered a second Remy Martin to Miss Monroe, but she had declined a second serving of stew. He stayed behind the bar while she ate, drank and seemed to glower at Hope as she smoked. It caused him to chuckle to himself. The girl had a little spirit. What she also had was looks. Petite, blond, flashing blue eyes, a small heart-shaped mouth, and a backside in a pair of jeans that was just awesome. When the women left, he said to Doc Mullins, “Thanks a lot. You could have cut the girl some slack. We haven’t had anything pretty to look at around here since Bradley’s old golden retriever died last fall.”

“Humph,” the doctor said.

Ricky came behind the bar and stood next to Jack. “Yeah,” he heartily agreed. “Holy God, Doc. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you think of the rest of us sometimes?”

“Down boy,” Jack laughed, draping an arm over his shoulders. “She’s outta your league.”

“Yeah? She’s outta yours, too,” Rick said, grinning.

“You can shove off anytime. There isn’t going to be anyone out tonight,” Jack told Rick. “Take a little of that stew home to your grandma.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

When Rick had gone, Jack hovered over Doc and said, “If you had a little help, you could do more fishing.”

“Don’t need help, thanks,” he said.

“Oh, there’s that again,” Jack said with a smile. Any suggestion Hope had made of getting Doc some help was stubbornly rebuffed. Doc might be the most obstinate and pigheaded man in town. He was also old, arthritic and seemed to be slowing down more each year.

“Hit me again,” the doctor said.

“I thought we had a deal,” Jack said.

“Half, then. This goddamn rain is killing me. My bones are cold.” He looked up at Jack. “I did pull that little strumpet out of the ditch in the freezing rain.”

“She’s probably not a strumpet,” Jack said. “I could never be that lucky.” Jack tipped the bottle of bourbon over the old man’s glass and gave him a shot. But then he put the bottle on the shelf. It was his habit to look out for Doc and left unchecked, he might have a bit too much. He didn’t feel like going out in the rain to be sure Doc got across the street all right. Doc didn’t keep a supply at home, doing his drinking only at Jack’s, which kept it under control.

Couldn’t blame the old boy—he was overworked and lonely. Not to mention prickly.

“You could’ve offered the girl a warm place to sleep,” Jack said. “It’s pretty clear Hope didn’t get that old cabin straight for her.”

“Don’t feel up to company,” he said. Then Doc lifted his gaze to Jack’s face. “Seems you’re more interested than me, anyway.”

“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.

The fire was lit. The room, though brighter than the night before, was just as welcoming. It was large and comfortable—even with the animal trophies on the walls. Then she was startled to see a huge bald man with an earring glittering in one ear come from the back to stand behind the bar. He wore a black T-shirt stretched tight over his massive chest, the bottom of a big blue tattoo peeking out beneath one of the snug sleeves. If she hadn’t gasped from the sheer size of him, she might’ve from the unpleasant expression on his face. His dark bushy brows were drawn together and he braced two hands on the bar. “Help you?” he asked.

“Um… Coffee?” she asked.

He turned around to grab a mug. He put it on the bar and poured from a handy pot. She thought about grabbing it and fleeing to a table, but she frankly didn’t like the look of him, didn’t want to insult him, so she went to the bar and sat up on the stool where her coffee waited. “Thanks,” she said meekly.

He just gave a nod and backed away from the bar a bit, leaning against the counter behind him with his huge arms crossed over his chest. He reminded her of a nightclub bouncer or bodyguard. Jesse Ventura with attitude.

She took a sip of the rich, hot brew. Her appreciation for a dynamite cup of coffee surpassed any other comfort in her life and she said, “Ah. Delicious.” No comment from the big man. Just as well, she thought. She didn’t feel like talking anyway.

A few minutes passed in what seemed like oddly companionable silence when the side door to the bar opened and in came Jack, his arms laden with firewood. When he saw her, he grinned, showing a nice batch of even, white teeth. Under the weight of the wood his biceps strained against his blue denim shirt, the width of his shoulders accentuated a narrow waist. A little light brown chest hair peeked out of the opened collar and his clean-shaven face made her realize that the night before his cheeks and chin had been slightly shadowed by the day’s growth of beard.

“Well, now,” he said. “Good morning.” He took the firewood to the hearth and when he stooped to stack it there, she couldn’t help but notice a broad, muscular back and a perfect male butt. Men around here must get a pretty good workout just getting through the rugged days of rural living.

The big bald man lifted the pot to refill her cup when Jack said, “I got that, Preacher.”

Jack came behind the bar and “Preacher” went through the door to the kitchen. Jack filled her cup.

“Preacher?” she asked in a near whisper.

“His name is actually John Middleton, but he got that nickname way back. If you called out to John, he wouldn’t even turn around.”

“Why do you call him that?” she asked.

“Ah, he’s pretty straight-laced. Hardly ever swears, never see him drunk, doesn’t bother women.”

“He’s a little frightening looking,” she said, still keeping her voice low.

“Nah. He’s a pussycat,” Jack said. “How was your night?”

“Passable,” she said with a shrug. “I didn’t think I could make it out of town without a cup of coffee.”

“You must be ready to kill Hope. She didn’t even have coffee for you?”

“‘Fraid not.”

“I’m sorry about this, Miss Monroe. You should’ve had a better welcome than this. I don’t blame you for thinking the worst of this place. How about some eggs?” He gestured over his shoulder. “He’s a fine cook.”

“I won’t say no,” she said. She felt that odd sensation of a smile on her lips. “And call me Mel.”

“Short for Melinda,” he said.

Jack hollered through the door to the kitchen. “Preacher. How about some breakfast for the lady?” Back at the bar, he said, “Well, the least we can do is send you off with a good meal—if you can’t be convinced to stay a couple of days.”

“Sorry,” she said. “That cabin. It’s uninhabitable. Mrs. McCrea said something about someone who was supposed to clean it—but she’s drinking? I think I got that right.”

“That would be Cheryl. Has a bit of a problem that way, I’m afraid. She should’ve called someone else. Plenty of women around here who’d take a little work.”

“Well, it’s irrelevant now,” Mel said, sipping again. “Jack, this is the best coffee I’ve ever had. Either that, or I had a bad couple of days and am easily impressed by some creature comforts.”

“No, it’s really that good.” He frowned and reached out, lifting a lock of her hair off her shoulder. “Do you have mud in your hair?”

“Probably,” she said. “I was standing on the porch, appreciating the beauty of this nice spring morning when one end gave way and spilled me right into a big, nasty mud puddle. And I wasn’t brave enough to try out the shower—it’s beyond filthy. But I thought I got it all off.”

“Oh, man,” he said, surprising her with a big laugh. “Could you have had a worse day? If you’d like, I have a shower in my quarters—clean as a whistle.” He grinned again. “Towels even smell like Downy.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll just move on. When I get closer to the coast, I’m going to get a hotel room and have a quiet, warm, clean evening. Maybe rent a movie.”

“Sounds nice,” he said. “Then back to Los Angeles?”

She shrugged. “No,” she said. She couldn’t do that. Everything from the hospital to the house would conjure sweet memories and bring her grief to the surface. She just couldn’t move on as long as she stayed in L.A. Besides, now there was nothing there for her anymore. “It’s time for a change. But it turns out this was too big a change. Have you lived here all your life?”

“Me? No. Only a little while. I grew up in Sacramento. I was looking for a good place to fish and stayed on. I converted this cabin into a bar and grill and built on an addition to live in. Small, but comfortable. Preacher has a room upstairs, over the kitchen.”

“What in the world made you stay on? I’m not trying to be flip—there doesn’t seem to be that much of a town here.”

“If you had the time, I’d show you. This is incredible country. Over six hundred people live in and around town. Lots of people from the cities have cabins up and down the Virgin River—it’s peaceful and the fishing is excellent. We don’t have much tourist traffic through town, but fishermen come in here pretty regularly and some hunters pass through during the season. Preacher is known for his cooking, and it’s the only place in town to get a beer. We’re right up against some redwoods—awesome. Majestic. Lots of campers and hikers around the national forests all through the summer. And the sky and air out here—you just can’t find anything like it in a city.”

“And your son works here with you?”

“Son? Oh,” he laughed. “Ricky? He’s a kid from town. He works around the bar after school most days. Good kid.”

“You have family?” she asked.

“Sisters and nieces in Sacramento. My dad is still there, but I lost my mother a few years back.”

Preacher came out of the kitchen holding a steaming plate with a napkin. As he sat it before Mel, Jack reached beneath the bar and produced silverware and a napkin. On the plate was a luscious-looking cheese omelet with peppers, sausage patties, fruit, home fries, wheat toast. Ice water appeared; her coffee was refilled.

Mel dipped into the omelet and brought it to her mouth. It melted there, rich and delicious. “Mmmm,” she said, letting her eyes close. After she swallowed she said, “I’ve eaten here twice, and I have to say the food is some of the best I’ve ever had.”

“Me and Preacher—we can whip up some good food, sometimes. Preacher has a real gift. And he wasn’t a cook until he got up here.”

She took another bite. Apparently Jack was going to stand there through her meal and watch her devour every bite. “So,” she said, “what’s the story on the doctor and Mrs. McCrea?”

“Well, let’s see,” he said, leaning his back on the counter behind the bar, his arms wide, big hands braced on either side of him. “They tend to bicker. Two opinionated, stubborn old farts who can’t agree on anything. The fact of the matter is, I think Doc could use help—but I imagine you gathered he’s a bit on the obstinate side.”

She made an affirmative noise, her mouth full of the most wonderful eggs she’d ever eaten.

“The thing about this little town is—sometimes days go by without anyone needing medical attention. Then there will be weeks when everyone needs to see Doc— a flu going around while three women are about to give birth, and right then someone will fall off a horse or roof. So it goes. And although he doesn’t like to admit it, he is seventy.” Jack gave a shrug. “Next town doctor is at least a half hour away and for rural people out on farms and ranches, over an hour. The hospital is farther yet. Then, we have to think about what will happen when Doc dies, which hopefully won’t be too soon.”

She swallowed and took a drink of water. “Why has Mrs. McCrea taken on this project?” she asked. “Is she really trying to replace him, as he says?”

“Nah. But because of his age, it’s about time for some kind of protégé, I would think. Hope’s husband left her enough so she’ll be comfortable—she’s been widowed a long time now, I gather. And she seems to do whatever she can to keep the town together. She’s also looking for a preacher, a town cop and a schoolteacher, grades one through eight, so the little ones don’t have to bus two towns over. She hasn’t had much success.”

“Doctor Mullins doesn’t seem to appreciate her efforts,” Mel said, blotting her lips with the napkin.

“He’s territorial. He’s in no way ready for retirement. Maybe he’s worried that someone will show up and take over, leaving him with nothing to do. Man like Doc, never married and in service to a town all his life, would balk at that. But… see… There was an incident a few years ago, just before I got here. Two emergencies at the same time. A truck went off the road and the driver was critically injured, and a kid with a bad case of flu that turned to pneumonia stopped breathing. Doc stopped the bleeding on the truck driver, but by the time he got across the river to the kid, he was too late.”

“God,” she said. “Bet that leaves some hard feelings.”

“I don’t think anyone really blames him. He’s saved some lives in his time here. But the feeling he could use some help gets more support.” He smiled. “You’re the first one to show up.”

“Hmm,” she said, taking a last sip of coffee. She heard the door open behind her and a couple of men walked in.

“Harv. Ron,” Jack said. The men said hello and sat at a table by the window. Jack looked back at Mel. “What made you come up here?” he asked.

“Burnout,” she said. “I got sick of being on a firstname basis with cops and homicide detectives.”

“Jesus, just what kind of work did you do?”

“Ever been to war?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact,” he replied with a nod.

“Well, big-city hospitals and trauma centers get like that. I spent years in the emergency room in downtown L.A. while I was doing my post-grad work to become a family nurse practitioner, and there were days it felt like a battle zone. Felons transported to E.R. after incurring injuries during arrest—people who were still so out of control and impossible to subdue that three or four cops had to hold them down while one of the nurses tried to start an IV. Addicts with so much junk in them, three hits with an officer’s Taser wouldn’t even slow ‘em down, much less a dose of Narcan. O.D.s, victims of violent crimes and, given it was the biggest trauma center in L.A., some of the ugliest MVAs and GSWs… Sorry. Motor vehicle accidents and gunshot wounds. And crazy people with no supervision, nowhere to go, off their meds and… Don’t get me wrong, we did some good work. Excellent work. I’m real proud of what we got done. Best staff in, maybe, America.”

She gazed off for a second, thinking. The environment was wild and chaotic, yet while she was working with and falling in love with her husband, it was exciting and fulfilling. She gave her head a little shake and went on.

“I transferred out of E.R. to women’s health, which I found was what I’d been looking for. Labor and delivery. I went to work on my certification in midwifery. That turned out to be my true calling, but it wasn’t always a sweeter experience.” She laughed sadly and shook her head. “My first patient was brought in by the police and I had to fight them like a bulldog to get the cuffs off. They wanted me to deliver her while she was handcuffed to the bed.”

He smiled. “Well, you’re in luck. I don’t think there’s a pair of handcuffs in town.”

“It wasn’t like that every day, but it was like that often. I supervised the nurses on the L&D ward for a couple of years. The excitement and unpredictability zooped me up for a long time, but I finally hit a wall. I love women’s health, but I can’t do city medicine like that anymore. God, I need a slower pace. I’m wiped out.”

“That’s an awful lot of adrenaline to leave behind,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve been accused of being an adrenaline junky. Emergency nurses often are.” She smiled at him. “I’m trying to quit.”

“Ever live in a small town?” he asked, refilling her coffee.

She shook her head. “Smallest town I’ve ever lived in had at least a million people in it. I grew up in Seattle and went to Southern California for college.”

“Small towns can be nice. And they can have their own brand of drama. And danger.”

“Like?” she asked, sipping.

“Flood. Fire. Wildlife. Hunters who don’t follow the rules. The occasional criminal. Lotta pot growers out here, but not in Virgin River that I know of. Humboldt Homegrown, it’s called around here. They’re a tight-knit group and usually keep to themselves—don’t want to draw attention. Once in a while, though, there’ll be crime associated with drugs.” He grinned. “But you never had any of that in the city, right?”

“When I was looking for change, I shouldn’t have made such a drastic one. This is kind of like going cold turkey. I might have to downsize a little more gradually. Maybe try out a town with a couple hundred thousand people and a Starbucks.”

“You aren’t going to tell me Starbucks can beat that coffee you’re drinking,” he said, nodding at her cup.

She gave a short laugh. “Coffee’s great.” She favored him with a pleasant smile, deciding that this guy was okay. “I should’ve considered the roads. To think I left the terror of Los Angeles freeways for the heart-stopping curves and cliffs in these hills… Whew.” A tremor ran through her. “If I did stay in a place like this, it would be for your food.”

He leaned toward her, bracing hands on the bar. Rich brown eyes glowed warm under serious hooded brows. “I can get that cabin put right for you in no time,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” She put out a hand and he took it. She felt his calluses as he gently squeezed her hand; he was a man who did hard, physical work. “Thanks, Jack. Your bar was the only part of this experiment I enjoyed.” She stood and began fishing for her wallet in her purse. “What do I owe you?”

“On the house. The least I could do.”

“Come on, Jack—none of this was your doing.”

“Fine. I’ll send Hope a bill.”

At that moment Preacher came out of the kitchen with a covered dish wrapped in a towel. He handed it to Jack.

“Doc’s breakfast. I’ll walk out with you.”

“All right,” she said.

At her car, he said, “No kidding. I wish you’d think about it.”

“Sorry, Jack. This isn’t for me.”

“Well, damn. There’s a real dearth of beautiful young women around here. Have a safe drive.” He gave her elbow a little squeeze, balancing the covered dish in his other hand. And all she could think was, what a peach of a guy. Lots of sex appeal in his dark eyes, strong jaw, small cleft in his chin and the gracious, laid-back manner that suggested he didn’t know he was good-looking. Someone should snap him up before he figured it out. Probably someone had.

Mel watched him walk across the street to the doctor’s house, then got into her car. She made a wide U-turn on the deserted street and headed back the way she had come. As she drove by Doc’s house, she slowed. Jack was crouched on the porch, looking at something. The covered dish was still balanced on one hand and he lifted the other, signaling her to stop. As he looked toward her car, his expression was one of shock. Disbelief.

Mel stopped the car and got out. “You okay?” she asked.

He stood up. “No,” he said. “Can you come here a sec?”

She left the car running, the door open, and went up on the porch. It was a box, sitting there in front of the doctor’s door, and the look on Jack’s face remained stunned. She crouched down and looked within and there, swaddled and squirming around, was a baby. “Jesus,” she said.

“Nah,” Jack said. “I don’t think it’s Jesus.”

“This baby was not here when I passed his house earlier.”

Mel lifted the box and asked Jack to park and turn off her car. She rang the doctor’s bell and after a few tense moments, he opened it wearing a plaid flannel bathrobe, loosely tied over his big belly and barely covering a nightshirt, his skinny legs sticking out of the bottom.

“Ah, it’s you. Never know when to quit, do you? You bring my breakfast?”

“More than breakfast,” she said. “This was left on your doorstep. Have any idea who would do that?”

He pulled at the receiving blanket and revealed the baby. “It’s a newborn,” he said. “Probably only hours old. Bring it in. Ain’t yours, is it?”

“Come on,” she said in aggravation, as though the doctor hadn’t even noticed that she was not only too thin to have been pregnant, but also too lively to have just given birth. “Believe me, if it were mine, I wouldn’t have left it here.”

She walked past him into his house. She found herself not in a home, but a clinic—waiting room on her right, reception area complete with computer and filing cabinets behind a counter on her left. She went straight back on instinct and when she found an exam room, turned into it. Her only concern at the moment was making sure the infant wasn’t ill or in need of emergency medical assistance. She put the box on the exam table, shed her coat and washed her hands. There was a stethoscope on the counter, so she found cotton and rubbing alcohol. She cleaned the earpieces with the alcohol—her own stethoscope was packed in the car. She listened to the baby’s heart. Further inspection revealed it was a little girl, her umbilicus tied off with string. Gently, tenderly, she lifted the baby from the box and cooing, lay her on the baby scale.

By this time the doctor was in the room. “Six pounds, nine ounces,” she reported. “Full term. Heartbeat and respirations normal. Color is good.” The baby started to wail. “Strong lungs. Somebody threw away a perfectly good baby. You need to get Social Services right out here.”

Doc gave a short laugh just as Jack came up behind him, looking into the room. “Yup, I’m sure they’ll be right out.”

“Well, what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I guess I’m going to rustle up some formula,” he said. “Sounds hungry.” He turned around and left the exam room.

“For the love of God,” Mel said, rewrapping and jiggling the baby in her arms.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Jack said. “This isn’t L.A. We don’t put in a call to Social Services and get an immediate house call. We’re kind of on our own out here.”

“What about the police?” she asked.

“There’s no local police. County sheriff’s department is pretty good,” he said. “Not exactly what you’re looking for, either, I bet.”

“Why is that?”

“If there’s not a serious crime, they would probably take their time,” he said. “They have an awful lot of ground to cover. The deputy might just come out and write a report and put their own call in to Social Services, which will get a response when they’re not overworked, underpaid, and can rustle up a social worker or foster family to take over this little…” He cleared his throat. “Problem.”

“God,” she said. “Don’t call her a problem,” she admonished. She started opening cupboard doors, unsatisfied. “Where’s the kitchen?” she asked him.

“That way,” he said, pointing left.

“Find me towels,” she instructed. “Preferably soft towels.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to wash her.” She left the exam room with the baby in her arms.

Mel found the kitchen, which was large and clean. If Jack was delivering the doctor’s meals, it probably wasn’t used that much. She tossed the dish rack onto the floor in the corner and gently laid the baby on the drain board. Under the sink she found cleanser and gave the sink a quick scrub and rinse. Then she tested the temperature and filled the sink with water while the baby, most annoyed at the moment, filled the kitchen with the noise of her unhappiness. Fortuitously, there was a bar of Ivory soap on the sink, which Mel rinsed off as thoroughly as possible.

Rolling up her sleeves, she lifted the naked little creature into her arms and lowered her into the warm water. The cries stopped. “Aw,” she said. “You like the bath? Does it feel like home?”

Doc Mullins came into the kitchen, dressed now, with a canister of powdered formula. Behind him trailed Jack, bearing the towels he was asked to fetch.

Mel gently rubbed the soap over the baby, rinsing off the muck of birth, the warmth of the water hopefully bringing the baby’s temperature up. “This umbilicus is going to need some attention,” she said. “Any idea who gave birth?”

“None whatsoever,” Doc said, pouring bottled water into a measuring bowl.

“Who’s pregnant? That would be a logical place to start.”

“The pregnant women in Virgin River who have been coming here for prenatal visits wouldn’t give birth alone. Maybe someone came from another town. Maybe I’ve got a patient out there who gave birth without the benefit of medical assistance, and that could be the second crisis of the day. As I’m sure you know,” he added, somewhat smugly.

“As I’m sure I do,” she returned, with equal smugness. “So, what’s your plan?”

“I imagine I will diaper and feed and become irritable.”

“I think you mean more irritable.”

“I don’t see many options,” he said.

“Aren’t there any women in town who could help out?”

“Perhaps on a limited basis.” He filled a bottle and popped it in the microwave. “I’ll manage, don’t you worry.” Then he added, somewhat absently, “Might not hear her in the night, but she’ll live through it.”

“You have to find a home for this baby,” she said.

“You came here looking for work. Why don’t you offer to help?”

She took a deep breath and, lifting the baby from the sink, laid her in the towel being held by Jack. She cocked her head in appreciation as Jack took the infant confidently, wrapping her snugly and cuddling her close. “You’re pretty good at that,” she said.

“The nieces,” he said, jiggling the baby against his broad chest. “I’ve held a baby or two. You going to stay on a bit?” he asked.

“Well, there are problems with that idea. I have nowhere to stay. That cabin is not only unacceptable for me, it’s more unacceptable for this infant. The porch collapsed, remember? And there are no steps to the back door. The only way in is to literally crawl.”

“There’s a room upstairs,” Doc said. “If you stay and help out, you’ll be paid.” Then he looked at her over the rims of his reading glasses and sternly added, “Don’t get attached to her. Her mother will turn up and want her back.”

Jack went back to the bar and placed a call from the kitchen. A groggy, thick voice answered. “Hello?”

“Cheryl? You up?”

“Jack,” the woman said. “That you?”

“It’s me. I need a favor. Right away.”

“What is it, Jack?”

“Weren’t you asked to clean that McCrea cabin for the nurse coming to town?”

“Uh… Yeah. Didn’t get to it though. I had… I think it was the flu.”

It was the Smirnoff flu, he thought. Or even more likely, the Everclear flu—that really evil 190-proof pure grain alcohol. “Can you do it today? I’m going out there to repair the porch and I need that place cleaned. I mean, really cleaned. She’s here and is staying with Doc for now—but that place has to be whipped into shape. So?”

“You’re going to be there?”

“Most of the day. I can call someone else. I thought I’d give you a crack at it first, but you have to be sober.”

“I’m sober,” she insisted. “Totally.”

He doubted it. He expected she would have a flask with her as she cleaned. But the risk he was taking, and it was not a pleasant risk, was that she would do it for him, and do it very well if it was for him. Cheryl had had a crush on him since he hit town and found excuses to be around him. He tried very hard never to give her any encouragement. But despite her struggle with alcohol, she was a strong woman and good at cleaning when she put her mind to it.

“The door’s open. Get started and I’ll be out later.”

He hung up the phone and Preacher said, “Need a hand, man?”

“I do,” he said. “Let’s close up and get the cabin fixed up. She might be persuaded to stay.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what the town needs,” he said.

“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Sure.”

If Mel practiced any other kind of medicine, she might’ve put the baby in the old doctor’s arthritic hands and gotten in her car to leave. But a midwife would never do that—couldn’t turn her back on an abandoned newborn. For that matter, she couldn’t shake a profound concern for the baby’s mother. It was settled within seconds; she couldn’t leave the baby to an old doctor who might not hear her cry in the night. And she had to be close by if the mother sought medical attention because women in childbirth and postpartum were her specialty.

During the rest of the day, Mel had ample opportunity to check out the rest of Doc’s house. The spare room he provided turned out to be more than something for overnight guests—it was furnished with two hospital beds, an IV stand, tray table, bedside bureau and oxygen canister. The only chair in the room happened to be a rocking chair, and Mel was sure that was by design, for the use of a new mother and baby. The baby was provided with a Plexiglas incubator from the downstairs exam room.

The doctor’s house was completely functional as a clinic and hospital. The downstairs living room was a waiting room, the dining room was fronted by a counter for check-in. There was an exam room, treatment room, both small, and the doctor’s office. In the kitchen there was a small table where he no doubt ate his meals when he wasn’t at Jack’s. No ordinary kitchen, this one had an autoclave for sterilizing and a locked medicine chest for narcotic drugs kept on hand. In the refrigerator, a few units of blood and plasma, as well as food. More blood than food.

The upstairs had two bedrooms only—the one with the hospital beds and Doc Mullins’s. Her accommodations were not the most comfortable, though better than the filthy cabin. But the room was cold and stark; hardwood floors, small rug, rough sheets with a plastic mattress protector that crinkled noisily. She already missed her down comforter, four hundred count sheets, soft Egyptian towels and thick, plush carpet. It had occurred to her that she would be leaving behind creature comforts, but she thought it might be good for her, thought she was ready for a big change.

Mel’s friends and sister had tried to talk her out of this, but unfortunately they had failed. She had barely gotten over the traumatic experience of giving away all of Mark’s clothes and personal items. She’d kept his picture, his watch, the cuff links she had given him on his last birthday—platinum—and his wedding ring. When the job in Virgin River came available, she’d sold all the furniture in their house then put it on the market. There was an offer in three days, even at those ridiculous L.A. prices. She’d packed three boxes of little treasures—favorite books, CDs, pictures, bric-a-brac. The desktop computer was given away to a friend, but she’d brought the laptop and her digital camera. As far as clothes, she’d filled three suitcases and an overnight and gave the rest away. No more strapless dresses for fancy charity events; no more sexy nighties for those nights that Mark didn’t have to work late.

Mel was going to be starting over no matter what. She had nothing to go back to; she hadn’t wanted anything to tie her to L.A. Now that things in Virgin River were not going as planned, Mel decided to stay and help out for a couple of days and then head out to Colorado. Well, she thought, it’ll be good to be near Joey, Bill and the kids. I can start over there as well as anywhere.

It had been just Mel and Joey for a long time now. Joey was four years her senior and had been married to Bill for fifteen years. Their mother had died when Mel was only four—she could barely remember her. And their father, considerably older than their mother had been, had passed peacefully in his La-Z-boy at the age of seventy, ten years ago.

Mark’s parents were still alive and well in L.A., but she had never warmed to them. They had always been stuffy and cool toward her. Mark’s death had brought them briefly closer, but it took only a few months for her to realize that they never called her. She checked on them, asked after their grief, but it seemed they’d let her drift out of sight. She was not surprised to note that she didn’t miss them. She hadn’t even told them she was leaving town.

She had wonderful friends, true. Girlfriends from nursing school and from the hospital. They called with regularity. Got her out of the house. Let her talk about him and cry about him. But after a while, though she loved them, she began to associate them with Mark’s death. Every time she saw them, the pitying looks in their eyes was enough to bring out her pain. It was as if everything had been rolled up into one big miserable ball. She just wanted to start over so badly. Someplace where no one knew how empty her life had become.

Late in the day, Mel handed off the baby to Doc while she took a badly needed shower, scrubbing from head to toe. After she had bathed and dried her hair and donned her long flannel nightgown and big furry slippers, she went downstairs to Doc’s office to collect the infant and a bottle. He gave her such a look, seeing her like that. It startled his eyes open. “I’ll feed her, rock her, and put her down,” she said. “Unless you have something else in mind for her.”

“By all means,” he said, handing the baby over.

Up in her room, Mel rocked and fed the baby. And of course, the tears began to well in her eyes.

The other thing no one in this town knew was that she couldn’t have children. She and Mark had been seeking help for their infertility. Because she was twenty-eight and he thirty-four when they married, and they’d already been together for two years, they didn’t want to wait. She had never used birth control and after one year of no results they went to see the specialists.

Nothing appeared to be wrong with Mark, but she’d had to have her tubes blown out and her endometriosis scraped off the outside of her uterus. But still, nothing. She’d taken hormones and stood on her head after intercourse. She took her temperature every day to see when she was ovulating. She went through so many home pregnancy tests, she should have bought stock in the company. Nothing. They had just completed their first fifteen-thousand-dollar attempt at in vitro fertilization when Mark was killed. Somewhere in a freezer in L.A. were more fertilized ovum—if she ever became desperate enough to try to go it alone.

Alone. That was the operative word. She had wanted a baby so badly. And now she held in her arms an abandoned little girl. A beautiful baby girl with pink skin and a sheer cap of brown hair. It made her literally weep with longing.

The baby was healthy and strong, eating with gusto, belching with strength. She slept soundly despite the crying that went on in the bed right beside her.

That night Doc Mullins sat up in bed, book in his lap, listening. So—she was in pain. Desperate pain. And she covered it with that flip wit and sarcasm.

Nothing is ever what it seems, he thought, flicking off his light.




Three


Mel woke to the ringing of the phone. She checked the baby; she had only awoken twice in the night and still slept soundly. She found her slippers and went downstairs to see if she could rustle up some coffee. Doc Mullins was already in the kitchen, dressed.

“Going out to the Driscolls’—sounds like Jeananne might be having an asthma attack. There’s the key to the drug box. I wrote down the number for my pager— cell phones aren’t worth a damn out here. If any patients wander in while I’m gone, you can take care of them.”

“I thought you just wanted me to babysit,” she said.

“You came here to work, didn’t you?”

“You said you didn’t want me,” she pointed out to him.

“You said you didn’t want us, either, but here we are. Let’s see what you got.” He shrugged on his jacket and picked up his bag. Then jutted his chin toward her, lifted his eyebrows as if to say, Well?

“Do you have appointments today?”

“I only make appointments on Wednesdays—the rest are walk-ins. Or call-outs, like this one.”

“I wouldn’t even know what to charge,” she argued.

“Neither do I,” he said. “Hardly matters—these people aren’t made of money and damn few have insurance. Just make sure you keep good records and I’ll work it out. It’s probably beyond you, anyway. You don’t look all that bright.”

“You know,” she said, “I’ve worked with some legendary assholes, but you’re competing for first place here.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said gruffly.

“That figures,” she answered tiredly. “Incidentally, the night was fine.”

No comment from the old goat. He started for the door and on his way out, grabbed a cane. “Are you limping?” Mel asked him.

“Arthritis,” he said. He dug an antacid out of his pocket and popped it in his mouth. “And heartburn. Got any more questions?”

“God, no!”

“Good.”

Mel got a bottle ready and while it was in the microwave, she went upstairs to dress. By the time that was accomplished, the baby started to stir. She changed her and picked her up and found herself saying, “Sweet Chloe, sweet baby…” If she and Mark had had a girl, she was to be Chloe. A boy would be Adam. What was she doing?

“But you have to be someone, don’t you?” she told the baby.

When she was coming down the stairs, the baby swaddled and held against her shoulder, Jack was opening the front door. He was balancing a covered dish on his hand, a thermos tucked under his arm. “Sorry, Jack—you just missed him.”

“This is for you. Doc stopped by the bar and said I’d better get you some breakfast, that you were pretty cranky.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “I’m cranky, huh? He’s a giant pain in the ass! How do you put up with him?”

“He reminds me of my grandfather. How’d it go last night? She sleep?”

“She did very well. Only woke up a couple of times. I’m just about to feed her.”

“Why don’t I give her a bottle while you eat. I brought coffee.”

“Really, I didn’t know they made men like you,” she said, letting him follow her into the kitchen. When he put down the plate and thermos, she handed over the baby and tested the bottle. “You seem very comfortable with a newborn. For a man. A man with some nieces in Sacramento.” He just smiled at her. She passed him the bottle and got out two coffee mugs. “Ever married?” she asked him, then instantly regretted it. It was going to lead to him asking her.

“I was married to the Marine Corps,” he said. “And she was a real bitch.”

“How many years?” she asked, pouring coffee.

“Just over twenty years. I went in as a kid. How about you?”

“I was never in the marines,” she said with a smile.

He grinned at her. “Married?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes and lie, so she concentrated on the coffee mug. “I was married to a hospital, and my bitch was as mean as your bitch.” That wasn’t a total lie. Mark used to complain about the schedules they kept—grueling. He was in emergency medicine.

He’d just finished a thirty-six hour shift when he stopped at the convenience store, interrupting the robbery. She shuddered involuntarily. She pushed a mug toward him. “Did you see a lot of combat?” she asked.

“A lot of combat,” he answered, directing the bottle into the baby’s mouth expertly. “Somalia, Bosnia, Afghanistan, Iraq. Twice.”

“No wonder you just want to fish.”

“Twenty years in the marines will make a fisherman out of just about anyone.”

“You seem too young to have retired.”

“I’m forty. I decided it was time to get out when I got shot in the butt.”

“Ouch. Complete recovery?” she asked, then surprised herself by feeling her cheeks grow warm.

He lifted a corner of his mouth. “Except for the dimple. Wanna see?”

“Thanks, no. So, Doc left me in charge and I have no idea what to expect. Maybe you should tell me where the nearest hospital is—and do they provide ambulance service to the town?”

“That would be Valley Hospital—and they have ambulance service, but it takes so long to get here, Doc usually fires up his old truck and makes the run himself. If you’re desperate and have about an hour to spare, the Grace Valley doctors have an ambulance, but I don’t think I’ve seen an ambulance in this town since I’ve been here. I heard the helicopter came for the guy who almost died in the truck accident. I think the helicopter got as much notice as the accident.”

“God, I hope these people are healthy until he gets back,” she said. Mel dug into the eggs. This seemed to be a Spanish omelet, and it was just as delicious as the one she’d eaten the day before. “Mmm,” she said appreciatively. “Here’s another thing—I can’t get any cell phone reception here. I should let my family know I’m here safely. More or less.”

“The pines are too tall, the mountains too steep. Use the land line—and don’t worry about the long distance cost. You have to be in touch with your family. Who is your family?”

“Just an older married sister in Colorado Springs. She and her husband put up a collective and huge fuss about this—as if I was going into the Peace Corps or something. I should’ve listened.”

“There will be a lot of people around here glad you didn’t,” he said.

“I’m stubborn that way.”

He smiled appreciatively.

It made her instantly think, don’t get any ideas, buster. I’m married to someone. Just because he isn’t here, doesn’t mean it’s over.

However, there was something about a guy—at least six foot two and two hundred pounds of rock-hard muscle—holding a newborn with gentle deftness and skill. Then she saw him lower his lips to the baby’s head and inhale her scent, and some of the ice around Mel’s broken heart started to melt.

“I’m going into Eureka today for supplies,” he said. “Need anything?”

“Disposable diapers. Newborn. And since you know everyone, could you ask around if anyone can help out with the baby? Either full-time, part-time, whatever. It would be better for her to be in a family home than here at Doc’s with me.”

“Besides,” he said, “you want to get out of here.”

“I’ll help out with the baby for a couple of days, but I don’t want to stretch it out. I can’t stay here, Jack.”

“I’ll ask around,” he said. And decided he might just forget to do that. Because, yes, she could.

Little baby Chloe had only been asleep thirty minutes after her morning bottle when the first patient of the day arrived. A healthy and scrubbed looking young farm girl wearing overalls in the middle of which protruded a very large pregnant tummy, carrying two large jars of what appeared to be preserved blackberries. She put the berries on the floor just inside the door. “I heard there was a new lady doctor in town,” she said.

“Not exactly,” Mel said. “I’m a nurse practitioner.”

Her face fell in disappointment. “Oh,” she said. “I thought it would be so nice to have a woman doctor around when it’s time.”

“Time?” Mel asked. “To deliver?”

“Uh-huh. I like Doc, don’t get me wrong. But—”

“When are you due?” Mel asked.

She rubbed her swollen belly. “I think about a month, but I’m not really sure,” she said. She wore laced-up work boots, a yellow sweater underneath the overalls and her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She looked twenty years old, at most. “It’s my first.”

“I’m a midwife, as well,” Mel said, and the young woman’s face lit up in a beautiful smile. “But I have to warn you—I’m only here temporarily. I’m planning to leave as soon as—” She thought about what she should say. Then, instead of explaining about the baby, she said, “Have you had a checkup recently? Blood pressure, weight, et cetera?”

“It’s been a few weeks,” she said. “I guess I’m about due.”

“Why don’t we do that since you’re here, if I can find what I need,” Mel said. “What’s your name?”

“Polly Fishburn.”

“I bet you have a chart around here somewhere,” Mel said. She went behind the counter and started opening file drawers. A brief search turned up a chart. She went in search of litmus, and other obstetric supplies in the exam room. “Come on back, Polly,” she called. “When was the last time you had an internal exam?”

“Not since the very first,” she said. She made a face. “I was dreading the next one.”

Mel smiled, thinking about Doc’s bent and arthritic fingers. That couldn’t be pleasant. “Want me to have a look? See if you’re doing anything, like dilating or effacing? It might save you having Doc do it later. Just get undressed, put on this little gown, and I’ll be right back.”

Mel checked on the baby, who was napping in the kitchen, then went back to her patient. Polly appeared to be in excellent health with normal weight gain, good blood pressure, and… “Oh, boy, Polly. Baby’s head is down.” Mel stood and pressed down on her tummy while her fingers stretched toward the young woman’s cervix. “And… You’re just barely dilated and effaced about fifty percent. You’re having a small contraction right now. Can you feel that tightening? Braxton Hicks contractions.” She smiled at her patient. “Where are you having the baby?”

“Here—I think.”

Mel laughed. “If you do that anytime soon, we’re going to be roommates. I’m staying upstairs.”

“When do you think it’ll come?” Polly asked.

“One to four weeks, and that’s just a guess,” she said. She stepped back and snapped off her gloves.

“Will you deliver the baby?” Polly asked.

“I’ll be honest with you, Polly—I’m planning to leave as soon as it’s reasonable. But if I’m still here when you go into labor, and if Doc says it’s okay, I’d be more than happy to.” She put out a hand to help Polly sit up. “Get dressed. I’ll see you out front.”

When she walked out of the exam room and back toward the front of the house, she found the waiting room was full of people.

By the end of the day Mel had seen over thirty patients, at least twenty-eight of whom just wanted a look at “the new lady doctor.” They wanted to visit, ask her questions about herself, bring her welcome gifts.

It was at once a huge surprise to her, and also what she had secretly expected when she took the job.

By six o’clock, Mel was exhausted, but the day had flown. She held the baby on her shoulder, gently jiggling her. “Have you had anything to eat?” she asked Doc Mullins.

“When, during our open house, would I have eaten?” he shot back. But it was not nearly as sarcastic as Mel imagined he wished it to be.

“Would you like to walk across the street while I feed the baby?” she asked. “Because after you and little Chloe have eaten, I really need some fresh air. No, make that—I’m desperate for a change of scenery. And I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

He put out his old, gnarled hands. “Chloe?” he asked.

She shrugged. “She has to be called something.”

“Go,” he said. “I’ll see that she’s fed. Then I’ll poke around here for something.”

She handed over the baby with a smile. “I know you’re trying to act miserable and just can’t pull it off,” she said. “But thank you—I’d really like to get out of here for an hour.”

She grabbed her jacket off the peg by the front door and stepped out into the spring night. Out here, away from the smog and industry of city life, there were at least a million more stars. She took a deep breath. She wondered if a person actually got used to air like this—so much cleaner than the smog of L.A., it shocked the lungs.

There were quite a few people at Jack’s—unlike that stormy night when she’d arrived. Two women she’d met earlier in the day were there with their husbands— Connie and Ron of the corner store, and Connie’s best friend Joy and husband Bruce. Bruce, she learned, delivered the mail and was also the person who would take any specimens to the lab at Valley Hospital, if needed. They introduced her to Carrie and Fish Bristol and Doug and Sue Carpenter. There were a couple of guys at the bar and another two at a table playing cribbage—by their canvas vests she took them for fishermen.

Mel hung up her jacket, gave her sweater a little tug to bring it over the waist of her jeans, and popped up on a bar stool. She did not realize she was wearing a smile. That her eyes shone. They had all come out to see her, welcome her, tell her about themselves, ask her for advice. When the day was full of people who needed her—even those who weren’t necessarily sick—it filled her up inside. Passed for happiness, if she dared go that far.

“Lot of action across the street today, I hear,” Jack said, giving the bar a wipe at her place.

“You were closed,” she said.

“I had things to do—and so did Preacher. We stay open most of the time, but if something comes up, we put up a sign and try to get back by dinner.”

“If something comes up?” she asked.

“Like fishing,” Preacher said, putting a rack of glasses under the bar, then he went back to the kitchen. Out of the back came the kid, Ricky, bussing tables. When he spied Mel he grinned hugely and came over to the bar with his tray of dishes. “Miss Monroe—you still here? Awesome.” Then he went to the kitchen.

“He is too cute.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Jack advised. “He’s at the crush age. A very dangerous sixteen. What do you feel like?”

“You know—I wouldn’t mind a cold beer,” she said. And it instantly appeared before her. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.

“Meat loaf,” he said. “And the best mashed potatoes you’ll ever experience.”

“You don’t have anything like a menu, do you?”

“Nope. We get whatever Preacher’s in the mood to fix. You wanna enjoy that beer for a minute? Or, you want your supper fast?”

She took a pull. “Give me a minute.” She took another sip and said, “Ahhh.” It made Jack smile. “I think I met half the town today.”

“Not even close. But the ones who came out today will spread the word about you. Have any real patients, or were they all just checking you out?”

“I had a couple. You know, I really didn’t have to come over here—the house is full of food. When they come, they bring food, whether they’re really sick or not. Pies, cakes, sliced meat, fresh bread. It’s very… country.”

He laughed. “Careful,” he said. “We’ll grow on you.”

“You have any use for a couple of jars of canned berries? I think it was a patient fee.”

“You bet. Preacher makes the best pies in the county. Any news about the baby’s mother?”

“I call the baby Chloe,” she said, expecting a sting of tears that, remarkably, didn’t come. “No. Nothing. I hope the woman who gave birth isn’t sick somewhere.”

“With the way everyone around here knows everyone’s business, if there were a sick woman out there, word would get out.”

“Maybe she did come from another town.”

“You look almost happy,” he said.

“I almost am,” she returned. “The young woman who brought the berries asked me to deliver her baby. That was nice. The only problem seems to be that she’s going to be having her baby in my bedroom. And she could be doing that pretty soon, too.”

“Ah,” he said. “Polly. She looks like that baby’s ready to fall out of her.”

“How did you know? Oh, never mind—everyone knows everything.”

“There aren’t that many pregnant women around,” he laughed.

She turned on her stool and looked around. Two old women were eating meat loaf at a table by the fire and the couples she had met, all in their forties or fifties, seemed to be socializing; laughing and gossiping. There were perhaps a dozen patrons. “Business is pretty good tonight, huh?”

“They don’t come out in the rain so much. Busy putting buckets under the leaks, I suppose. So—still feel like getting the hell out of here?”

She drank a little of her beer, noting that on an empty stomach the effects were instantaneous. And, actually, delightful. “I’m going to have to leave, if for no other reason than there’s nowhere around here to get highlights put in my hair.”

“There are beauty shops around here. In Virgin River, Dot Schuman does hair in her garage.”

“That sounds intriguing.” She lifted her eyes to his face and said, “I’m getting a buzz. Maybe I better do that meat loaf.” She hiccupped and they both laughed.

By seven, Hope McCrea had wandered in and took the stool next to her. “Heard you had a lot of company today,” she said. She pulled her cigarettes out of her purse and as she was going to shake one out, Mel grabbed her wrist.

“You have to wait until I’m done with dinner, at least.”

“Oh, foo—you’re a killjoy.” She put the pack down. “The usual,” she ordered. And to Mel, “So—how was it? Your first real day? Doc scare you off yet?”

“He was absolutely manageable. He even let me put in a couple of stitches. Of course, he didn’t compliment my work, but he didn’t tell me it was bad, either.” She leaned closer to Hope and said, “I think he’s taking credit for me. You might want to stand up for yourself.”

“You’re staying now?”

“I’m staying a few days, at least. Until we get a couple of things that need attention ironed out.”

“I heard. Newborn, they say.”

Jack put a drink down in front of Hope. “Jack Daniel’s, neat,” he said.

“Have any ideas on the mother?” Mel asked Hope.

“No. But everyone is looking at everyone else strangely. If she’s around here, she’ll turn up. You done pushing food around that plate yet? Because I’m ready for a smoke.”

“You shouldn’t, you know.”

Hope McCrea looked at Mel in impatience, grimacing. She pushed her too-big glasses up on her nose. “What the hell do I care now? I’ve already lived longer than I expected to.”

“That’s nonsense. You have many good years left.”

“Oh, God. I hope not!”

Jack laughed and in spite of herself, so did Mel.

Hope, acting like a woman with a million things to do, had her drink and cigarette, put money on the bar, hopped off the stool and said, “I’ll be in touch. I can help out with the little one, if you need me.”

“You can’t smoke around the baby,” Mel informed her.

“I didn’t say I could help out for hours and hours,” she answered. “Keep that in mind.” And off she went, stopping at a couple of tables to pass the time on her way out.

“How late do you stay open?” Mel asked Jack.

“Why? You thinking about a nightcap?”

“Not tonight. I’m bushed. For future reference.”

“I usually close around nine—but if someone asks me to stay open, I will.”

“This is the most accommodating restaurant I’ve ever frequented,” she laughed. She looked at her watch. “I better spell Doc. I don’t know how patient he is with an infant. I’ll see you at breakfast, unless Doc’s out on a house call.”

“We’ll be here,” he offered.

Mel said goodbye and on her way to her coat, stopped at a couple of the tables to say good night to people she had just met. “Think she’ll stay on awhile?” Preacher quietly asked Jack.

Jack was frowning. “I think what she does to a pair of jeans ought to be against the law.” He looked at Preacher. “You okay here? I’m thinking of having a beer in Clear River.”

It was code. There was a woman in Clear River. “I’m okay here,” Preacher said.

As Jack drove the half hour to Clear River, he wasn’t thinking about Charmaine, which gave him a twinge of guilt. Tonight he was thinking about another woman. A very beautiful young blond woman who could just about bring a man to his knees with what she looked like in boots and jeans.

Jack had gone to a tavern in Clear River for a beer a couple of years ago and struck up a conversation with the waitress there—Charmaine. She was the divorced mother of a couple of grown kids. A good woman; hardworking. Fun-loving and flirtatious. After several visits and as many beers, she took him home with her and he fell into her as if she were a feather bed. Then he told her what he always made sure women understood about him—that he was not the kind of man who could ever be tied down to a woman, and if she began to have those designs, he’d be gone.

“What makes you think all women want to be run by some man?” she had asked. “I just got rid of one. Not about to get myself hooked up to another one.” Then she smiled and said, “Just the same, everyone gets a little lonely sometimes.”

They started an affair that had sustained Jack for a couple of years now. Jack didn’t see her that often— every week, maybe couple of weeks. Sometimes a month would go by. He wasn’t sure what she did when he wasn’t around—maybe there were other men— though he’d never seen any evidence of that. He never caught her making time in the bar with anyone else; never saw any men’s things around her house. He kept a box of condoms in her bedside drawer that didn’t disappear on him, and he’d let it slip that he liked being the only man she entertained.

As for Jack—he had a personal ethic about one woman at a time. Sometimes that woman could last a year, sometimes a night—but he didn’t have a collection he roved between. Although he wasn’t exactly breaking that rule tonight, he wasn’t quite sticking to it, either.

He never spent the night in Clear River and Charmaine was not invited to Virgin River. She had only called him and asked him to come to her twice—and it seemed a small thing to ask. After all, he wasn’t the only one who needed to be with someone once in a while.

He liked that when he walked in the tavern and she saw him, it showed all over her that she was happy he’d come. He suspected she had stronger feelings for him than she let show. He owed her—she’d been a real sport about it—but he knew he’d have to leave the relationship before it got any more entangled. So sometimes, to demonstrate he had a few gentlemanly skills, he’d drop in for just a beer. Sometimes he’d bring her something, like a scarf or earrings.

He sat down at the bar and she brought him a beer. She fluffed her hair; she was a big blonde. Bleached blonde. At about five foot eight, she’d kept her figure, mostly. He didn’t know her exact age, but he suspected late forties, early fifties. She always wore very tight-fitting clothes and tops that accentuated her full breasts. At first sight you’d think—cheap. Not so much tawdry or low-class as simple. Unrefined. But once you got to know Charmaine and how kind and deep down earnest she was, those thoughts fled. Jack imagined that in younger years she was quite the looker with her ample chest and full lips. She hadn’t really lost those good looks, but she had a little extra weight around the hips and there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

“Hiya, bub,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“It’s only been a couple of weeks, I think.”

“More like four.”

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

“Busy. Working. Went over to Eureka to see my daughter last week. She’s having herself a lousy marriage—but what should we expect? I raised her in one.”

“She getting divorced?” he asked politely, though in truth he didn’t care that much. He didn’t know her kids.

“No. But she should. Let me get this table. I’ll be back.”

She left him to make sure the other customers were served. There were only a few and once Jack showed up the owner, Butch, knew that Charmaine would want to leave a little early. He saw her take a tray of glasses back behind the bar and talk quietly with her boss, who nodded. Then Charmaine was back.

“I just wanted to have a beer and say hello,” Jack said. “Then I have to get back. I have a big project going on.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“I’m fixing up a cabin for one of the women in town. I put on a new porch today and tomorrow I’m going to paint it and build back steps.”

“That so? Pretty woman?”

“I guess you could say she’s pretty. For seventy-six years old.”

She laughed loudly. Charmaine had a big laugh. It was a good laugh that came from deep inside her. “Well, then, I guess I won’t bother being jealous. But do you think you can spare the time to walk me home?”

“I can,” he said, draining his beer. “But I’m not coming in tonight.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll get my coat.”

When they were outside, she looped her arm through his and began to talk about her last couple of weeks, as she always did. He liked the sound of her voice, deep and a little raspy, what they called a whiskey voice though she wasn’t much of a drinker. She could go on and on about next to nothing but in a pleasant way, not an irritating way. She would talk about the bar, the people in the town, her kids, what she’d bought lately, what she’d read. News items fascinated her—she would spend the mornings before work watching CNN, and she liked to tell him her opinion of breaking stories. She always had some project going on in her little house— wallpaper or paint or new appliances. The house was paid for; an inheritance of some kind. So the money she made, she spent on herself and her kids.

When they got to the door he said, “I’ll shove off, Charmaine. But I’ll see you before long.”

“Okay, Jack,” she said. She tilted her head up for a kiss and he obliged. “That wasn’t much of a kiss,” she said.

“I don’t want to come in tonight,” he said.

“You must be awful tired,” she said. “Think you have enough energy to give me a kiss that I’ll remember for an hour or two?”

He tried again. This time he covered her mouth with his, allowed his tongue to do a little exploring, held her close against him. And she grabbed his butt. Damn! he thought. She ground against him a little bit, sucked on his tongue. Then she hooked her hand into the front of his jeans and pulled him forward, letting her fingers drift lower against his belly.

“Okay,” he said weakly, a little vulnerable, stirred up. “I’ll come in for a few minutes.”

“That’s my boy,” she said, smiling at him. She pushed open the door and he followed her inside. “Just think of it as a little sleeping pill.”

He dropped his jacket on the chair. Charmaine wasn’t even out of hers when he grabbed her around the waist, pulled her against him and devoured her with a kiss that was sudden, hot and needy. He pushed her jacket off her shoulders and walked her backwards toward the bedroom and dropped with her onto the bed. He pulled at her top and freed her breasts, filling his mouth with one and then the other. Then off came her pants, and down came his. He ran his hands over her lush body, down over her shoulders, hips, thighs. He reached over to the bedside table, retrieved one of the condoms kept there for him, and ripped the package open. He put it on and was inside her so quickly, it startled even him. He thrust and plunged and drove and she said, “Oh! Oh! Oh, my God!”

He was ready to explode, but held himself back while her legs came around his waist and she bucked. Something happened to him—he went a little out of his mind. Didn’t know where he was or with whom. When she finally tightened around him, he let himself go with a loud groan. She panted beneath him, the sound that told him she was completely satisfied.

“My God,” she said when she finally caught her breath. “What’s got you so hot?”

“Huh?”

“Jack, you don’t even have your boots off!”

He was shocked for a moment, then rolled off of her. Jesus, he thought. You can’t treat a woman like that. He might not have been thinking, but at least he wasn’t thinking about anyone else, he consoled himself. He had no brain power involved in that at all—it was all visceral. His body, reaching out.

“I’m sorry, Charmaine. You okay?”

“I’m way more than okay. But please, take your boots off and hold me.”

It was on his mind to say he had to go, he wanted to go, but he couldn’t do that to her after this. He sat up and got rid of the boots and pants and shirt, everything hitting the floor. After a quick visit to the bathroom he was back, scooped her up in his arms and held her. Her heavy, soft body was cushiony against his.

He stroked her, kissed her and eventually made love to her again, as opposed to what he’d done before. This time sanely, but no less satisfactorily. At one in the morning he was searching around the floor for his pants.

“I thought you might be staying the night this time,” she said from the bed.

He pulled on his pants and sat on the bed to put on his boots. He twisted around and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I can’t,” he said. “But you’ll be fine now.” He smiled at her. “Think of it as a little sleeping pill.”

As he drove back to Virgin River he thought, it’s over now. I have to end it. I can’t do that anymore, not with a clear conscience. Not when something else has my attention.




Four


Jack drove out to the cabin, the truck bed loaded with supplies. It was his third day in a row. When he pulled up, Cheryl came out of the house, onto the new porch. “Hey, Cheryl,” he called. “How’s it going? Almost done in there?”

She had a rag in her hands. “I need the rest of the day. It was a real pigsty. Will you be here tomorrow, too?”

He would. But he said, “Nah. I’m about done. I want to paint the porch this morning—can you get out the back door? I haven’t built steps yet.”

“I can jump down. Whatcha got?” She came down the porch steps.

“Just stuff for the cabin,” he said, unloading a big Adirondack chair for the porch, its twin in the truck bed.

“Wow. You really went all out,” she said.

“It has to be done.”

“She must be some nurse.”

“She says she’s not staying, but the place has to be fixed up anyway. I told Hope I’d make sure it was taken care of.”

“Not everyone would go to so much trouble. You’re really a good guy, Jack,” she said. She peeked into the truck. He had a new double-size mattress inside a large plastic bag lying flat in the bed. On top of that, a large rolled-up rug for the living room, bags from Target full of linens and towels that were new as opposed to the graying, used ones borrowed from Hope’s linen closet, potted geraniums for the front porch, lumber for the back step, paint, a box full of new kitchen things. “This is a lot more than repair stuff,” she said. She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped her clip around her ear. When he chanced a glance at her, he saw those sad eyes filled with longing. He looked away quickly.

“Why go halfway?” he said. “It ought to be nice. When she leaves, maybe Hope can rent it out to summer people.”

“Yeah,” she said.

Jack continued unloading while Cheryl just stood around. He tried to ignore her; he didn’t even make small talk.

Cheryl was a tall, big-boned woman of just thirty, but she didn’t look so good—she’d been drinking pretty hard since she was a teenager. Her complexion was ruddy, her hair thin and listless, her eyes red-rimmed and droopy. She had a lot of extra weight around the middle from the booze. Every now and then she’d sober up for a couple of weeks or months, but invariably she’d fall back into the bottle. She still lived with her parents, who were at their wits’ end with her drinking. But what to do? She’d get her hands on booze regardless. Jack never served her, but every time he happened upon her, like now, there was usually a telltale odor and half-mast eyes. She was holding it together pretty good today. She must not have had much.

There had been a bad incident a couple of years ago that Cheryl and Jack had had to get beyond. She had a little too much one night and went to his living quarters behind the bar, banging on his door in the middle of the night. When he opened the door, she flung herself on him, groping him and declaring her tragic love for him. Sadly for her, she remembered every bit of it. He caught her sober a few days later and said, “Never. It is never going to happen. Get over it and don’t do that again.” And it made her cry.

He moved on as best he could and was grateful that she did her drinking at home, not in his bar and grill. She liked straight vodka, probably right out of the bottle and, if she could get her hands on it, Everclear— that really mean, potent stuff. It was illegal in most states, but liquor store owners usually had a little under the counter.

“I wish I could be a nurse,” Cheryl said.

“Have you ever thought about going back to school?” he asked as he worked. He was careful not to give her the impression he was too interested. He hauled the rug out of the back of the truck, hefted it over his shoulder and carried it to the house.

To his back she said, “I couldn’t afford it.”

“You could if you got a job. You need a bigger town. Throw your net a little wider. Stop relying on odd jobs.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said, following him. “But I like it here.”

“Do you? You don’t seem that happy.”

“Oh, I’m happy sometimes.”

“That’s good,” he said. He threw the rolled rug down in the living room. He’d spread it out later. “If you have the time, could you wash up those new linens I bought and put them away? Fix up the bed when I get the new mattress on it?”

“Sure. Let me help you with the mattress.”

“Thanks,” he said, and together they hauled it into the house. He leaned it against the wall and grabbed the old one off the bed. “I’ll go by the dump on the way home.”

“I heard there was a baby at Doc’s. Like a baby that was just left there.”

Jack froze. Oh, man, he thought. Cheryl? Could it be Cheryl’s? Without meaning to, he looked her up and down. She was big, but not obese. Yet fat around the middle and her shirt loose and baggy. But she’d been out here cleaning that very day—she couldn’t do that, could she? Maybe it wasn’t the Smirnoff flu. Wouldn’t she be bleeding and leaking milk? Weak and tired?

“Yeah,” he finally said. “You hear of anyone who could have done that?”

“No. Is it an Indian baby? Because there’s reservations around here—women on hard times. You know.”

“White,” he answered.

“You know, when I’m done here, I could help out with the baby.”

“Uh, I think that’s covered, Cheryl. But thanks. I’ll tell Doc.” He carried the old mattress out and leaned it against the truck bed. God, that was an awful-looking thing. Mel was completely right—that cabin was horrific. What had Hope been thinking? She’d been thinking it would be cleaned up—but had she expected the new nurse to sleep on that thing? Sometimes Hope could be oblivious to details like these. She was pretty much just a crusty old broad.

He reached into the truck and hauled out the bags of linens. “Here you go,” he said to Cheryl. “Now get inside—I have to start painting. I want to get back to the bar by dinner.”

“Okay,” she said, accepting the bags. “Let me know if Doc needs me. Okay?”

“Sure, Cheryl.” Never, he thought. Too risky.

Jack was back at the bar by midafternoon with time enough to do an inventory of bar stock before people started turning out for dinner. The bar was empty, as it often was at this time of day. Preacher was in the back getting started on his evening meal and Ricky wasn’t due for another hour at least.

A man came into the bar alone. He wasn’t dressed as a fisherman; he wore jeans, a tan T-shirt under a denim vest, his hair was on the long side and he had a ball cap on his head. He was a big guy with a stubble of beard about a week old. He sat several stools down from where Jack stood with his clipboard and inventory paperwork, a good indication he didn’t want to talk.

Jack walked down to him. “Hi. Passing through?” he asked, slapping a napkin down in front of him.

“Hmm,” the man answered. “How about a beer and a shot. Heineken and Beam.”

“You got it,” Jack said, setting him up.

The man threw back the shot right away, then lifted the beer, all without making any eye contact with Jack. Fine, we won’t talk, Jack thought. I have things to do anyway. So Jack went back to counting bottles.

About ten minutes had passed when he heard, “Hey, buddy. Once more, huh?”

“You bet,” Jack said, serving him another round. Again silence prevailed. The man took a little longer on his beer, time enough for Jack to get a good bit of his inventory done. While he was crouched behind the bar, a shadow fell over him and he looked up to see the man standing right on the other side of the bar, ready to settle up.

Jack stood just as the man was reaching into his pocket. He noticed a bit of tattoo sneaking out from the sleeve of his shirt—the recognizable feet of a bulldog—the Devil Dog. Jack was close to remarking on it—the man wore an unmistakable United States Marine Corps tattoo. But then the man pulled a thick wad of bills out, peeled off a hundred and said, “Can you change this?”

Jack didn’t even have to touch the bill; the skunklike odor of green cannabis wafted toward him. The man had just done some cutting—pruning or harvesting and, from the stinky cash, had made a sale. Jack could change the bill, but he didn’t want to advertise how much cash he kept on hand and he didn’t want that money on the premises. There were plenty of growers out there—some with prescriptions for legal use, conscious of the medical benefits. There were those who thought of marijuana as just any old plant, like corn. Agriculture. A way to make money. And some who dealt drugs because the drugs would offer a big profit. This part of the country was often referred to as the Emerald Triangle for the three counties most known for the cannabis trade. Lots of nice, new, half-ton trucks being driven by people on a busboy’s salary.

Some of the towns around these parts catered to them, selling supplies illegal growers needed—irrigation tubing, grow lights, camouflage tarps, plastic sheeting, shears in various sizes for harvesting and pruning. Scales, generators, ATVs for getting off-road and back into secretive hideaways buried in the forest. There were merchants around who displayed signs in their windows that said, CAMP Not Served Here. CAMP being the Campaign Against Marijuana Planting that was a joint operation between the County Sheriff’s Department and the state of California. Clear River was a town that didn’t like CAMP and didn’t mind taking the growers’ money, of which there was a lot. Charmaine didn’t approve of the illegal growing, but Butch wouldn’t turn down a stinky bill.

Virgin River was not that kind of town.

Growers usually maintained low profiles and didn’t cause problems, not wanting to be raided. But sometimes there were territorial conflicts between them or booby-trapped grows, either one of which could hurt an innocent citizen. There were drug-related crimes ranging from burglary or robbery to murder. Not so long ago they found the body of a grower’s partner buried in the woods near Garberville; he’d been missing for over two years and the grower himself had always been a suspect.

You couldn’t find anything in Virgin River that would encourage an illegal crop, one means of keeping them away. If there were any growers in town, they were real, real secret. Virgin River tended to push this sort away. But this wasn’t the first one to pass by.

“Tell you what,” Jack said to the man, making long and serious eye contact. “On the house this time.”

“Thanks,” he said, folding his bill back onto the wad and stuffing it in his pocket. He turned to go.

“And buddy?” Jack called as the man reached the door to leave. He turned and Jack said, “Sheriff’s deputy and California Highway Patrol eat and drink on the house in my place.”

The man’s shoulders rose once with a silent huff of laughter. He was on notice. He touched the brim of his hat and left.

Jack walked around the bar and looked out the window to see the man get into a black late model Range Rover, supercharged, big wheels jacked up real high, windows tinted, lights on the roof. That model would go for nearly a hundred grand. This guy was no hobbyist. He memorized the license plate.

Preacher was rolling out pie dough when Jack went into the kitchen. “I just served a guy who tried to pay for his drinks with a wad of stinky Bens as big as my fist,” Jack told him.

“Crap.”

“He’s driving a new Range Rover, loaded, jacked up and lit up. Big guy.”

“You think he’s growing around town here?”

“Have no idea,” Jack said. “We better pay attention. Next time the deputy’s in town, I’ll mention it. But it’s not against the law to have stinky money or drive a big truck.”

“If he’s rich, it’s probably not a small operation,” Preacher said.

“He’s got a bulldog tattoo on his upper right arm.”

Preacher frowned. “You kind of hate to see a brother go that way.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Maybe he’s not in business around here. He could have been just scoping out the town to see if this is a good place to set up. I think I sent the message that it’s not. I told him law enforcement eats and drinks on the house.”

Preacher smiled. “We should start doing that, then,” he said.

“How about a discount, to start? We don’t want to get crazy.”

Mel got her sister Joey on the phone.

“Oh, Jesus, Mel! You scared me to death! Where have you been? Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I’ve been in Virgin River where I have no phone and my cell doesn’t work. And I’ve been pretty busy.”

“I was about to call out the National Guard!”

“Yeah? Well, don’t bother. They’d never be able to find the place.”

“You’re all right?”

“Well… This will probably make you perversely happy,” Mel told her. “You were right. I shouldn’t have done this. I was nuts. As usual.”

“Is it terrible?”

“Well, it definitely started out terrible—the free housing turned out to be a falling-down hovel and the doctor is a mean old coot who doesn’t want any help in his practice. I was on my way out of town when— you’ll never believe this—someone left an abandoned newborn on the doctor’s porch. But things have improved, if slightly. I’m staying for at least a few more days to help with the baby. The old doc wouldn’t wake up to those middle-of-the-night hunger cries. Oh, Joey, my first impression of him is that he was the poorest excuse for a town doctor I’d ever met. Mean as a snake, rude as sour milk. Fortunately, working with those L.A. medical residents, especially those dicky surgeons, prepared me nicely.”

“Okay, that was your first impression. How has it changed?”

“He proves tractable. Since my housing was uninhabitable, I’m staying in the guest room in his house. It’s actually set up to be the only hospital room in town. This house is fine—clean and functional. There could be a slight inconvenience at any moment—a young woman who asked me to deliver her first baby will be having it here—in my bedroom, which I share with the abandoned baby. Picture this—a post-partum patient and a full nursery.”

“And you will sleep where?”

“I’ll probably hang myself up in a corner and sleep standing up. But that’s only if she delivers within the next week, while I’m still here. Surely a family will turn up to foster this baby soon. Although, I wouldn’t mind a birth. A sweet, happy birth to loving, excited, healthy parents…”

“You don’t have to stay for that,” Joey said firmly. “It’s not as though they don’t have a doctor.”

“I know—but she’s so young. And she was so happy, thinking there was a woman doctor here who could deliver her rather than this ornery old man.”

“Mel, I want you to get in your car and drive. Come to us. Where we can look after you for a while.”

“I don’t need looking after,” she said with a laugh. “Work helps. I need to work. Whole hours go by without thinking about Mark.”

“How are you doing with that?”

She sighed deeply. “That’s another thing. No one here knows, so no one looks at me with those sad, pitying eyes. And since they don’t look at me that way, I don’t crumble so often. At least, not where anyone can see.”

“Oh, Mel, I wish I could comfort you somehow…”

“But Joey, I have to grieve this, it’s the only way. And I have to live with the fact that I might never be over it.”

“I hope that’s not true, Mel. I know widows. I know widows who have remarried and are happy.”

“We’re not going there,” she said. Then Mel told Joey about what she knew of the town, about all the people who’d been drifting into Doc’s house just to get a look at her, about Jack and Preacher. And about how many more stars there were out here. The mountains; the air, so clean and sharp it almost took you by surprise. About the people who came to the doctor bringing things, like tons of food, a lot of which went right across the street to the bar where Preacher used it in his creations; about how Jack refused to take a dime from either Doc or Mel for food or drink. Anyone who cared for the town had a free meal ticket over there.

“But it’s very rural. Doc put in a call to the county social services agency, but I gather we’re on a waiting list—they may not figure out foster care for who knows how long. Frankly, I don’t know how the old doc made it without any help all these years.”

“People nice?” Joey asked. “Other than the doctor?”

“The ones I’ve met—very. But the main reason I called, besides letting you know that I’m safe, is to tell you I’m on the old doc’s phone—the cell just isn’t going to work out here. I’ll give you the number.”

“Well,” Joey said. “At least you sound okay. In fact, you sound better than you have in a long time.”

“Like I said, there are patients. Challenges. I’m a little keyed up. The very first day, I was left alone here with the baby and the key to the drug cabinet and told to see any patients who wandered in. No training, nothing. About thirty people came—just to say hello and visit. That’s what you hear in my voice. Adrenaline.”

“Adrenaline again. I thought you swore off.”

Mel laughed. “It’s a completely different brand.”

“So—when you wrap it up there, you’ll come to Colorado Springs?”

“I don’t have any better ideas,” Mel said.

“When?”

“Not sure. In a few days, hopefully. Couple of weeks at the outside. But I’ll call you and let you know when I’m on my way. Okay?”

“Okay. But you really do sound… up.”

“There’s nowhere around here to get highlights. Some woman in town does hair in her garage, and that’s it,” Mel said.

“Oh, my God,” Joey said. “You’d better wrap it up before you get some ugly roots.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”

Wednesday, Appointment Day, came and Mel watched the baby and saw a few patients with only minor complaints. One sprained ankle, a bad cold, another prenatal exam, a well-baby check and immunizations. After that there were a couple of walk-ins— she stitched up a laceration on a ten-year-old’s head and Doc said, “Not bad.” Doc made two house calls. They traded off babysitting to walk across the street to Jack’s to eat. The people she met at the bar and those who came into the doctor’s office were pleasant and welcoming. “But this is just temporary,” she was careful to explain. “Doc doesn’t really need any help.”

Mel put in an order for more diapers with Connie at the corner store. The store was no bigger than a minimart and Mel learned that the locals usually went to the nearest large town for their staples and feed for animals, using the store merely to grab those occasional missing items. There were sometimes hunters or fishermen looking for something. They had a little of everything—from bottled water to socks. But only a few items of each.

“I heard no one’s turned up for that baby yet,” Connie said. “I can’t think of anyone around here who’d have a baby and give it up.”

“Can you think of anyone who’d have a baby without any medical intervention of any kind? Especially since there’s a doctor in town?”

Connie, a cute little woman probably in her fifties, shrugged. “Women have their babies at home all the time, but Doc’s usually there. We have some isolated families out in the woods—hardly ever show their faces for anything.” She leaned close and whispered. “Strange people. But I’ve lived here all my life and have never heard of them giving up their children.”

“How long do you expect the social services intervention to take?”

Connie laughed. “I wouldn’t have the first idea. We run into a problem, we usually all pitch in. It’s not like we ask for a lot of outside help.”

“Okay, then, how long before you get in a new supply of disposable diapers?”

“Ron makes his supply run once a week, and he’ll do that tomorrow morning. So, by tomorrow afternoon, you should be fixed up.”

A teenage girl came into the store carrying her book bag—the school bus must have just dropped off. “Ah, my Lizzie,” Connie said. “Mel, this is my niece, Liz. She just got here—she’s going to stay with me for a while.”

“How do you do?” Mel said.

“Hey,” Liz said, smiling. Her full, long brown hair was teased up high and falling seductively to her shoulders, eyebrows beautifully arched over bright blue eyes, eye makeup thick, her glossy lips full and pouty. Little sex queen, Mel found herself thinking, in her short denim skirt, leather knee-high boots with heels, sweater tugged over full breasts and not meeting her waist. Belly-button ring, hmm. “Need me to work awhile?” Liz asked Connie.

“No, honey. Go to the back and start your homework. Your first day was good?”

“Okay, I guess.” She shrugged. “Nice to meet you,” she said, disappearing into the store’s back room.

“She’s beautiful,” Mel said.

Connie was frowning slightly. “She’s fourteen.”

Mel’s eyes grew wide as she mouthed the words silently. Fourteen? “Wow,” she whispered to Connie. The girl looked at least sixteen or even seventeen. She could pass for eighteen.

“Yeah. That’s why she’s here. Her mother, my sister, is at the end of her rope with the little hot bottom. She’s a wild one. But that was in Eureka. Not so many places to go wild around here.” She smiled. “If I could just get her to cover her naked body, I would feel so much better.”

“I hear ya,” Mel laughed. “May the force be with you.” But I’d consider birth control, Mel thought.

When Mel had her meals at the bar, if there was no one around she knew, like Connie or her best friend Joy, or Ron or Hope, she would sit up at the bar and talk to Jack while she ate. Sometimes he ate with her. During these meals she learned more about the town, about summer visitors who came for hiking and camping, the hunters and fishermen who passed through during the season—the Virgin was great for fly fishing, a comment that made her giggle. And there was kayaking, which sounded like fun to her.

Ricky introduced her to his grandmother who made a rare dinner appearance. Lydie Sudder was over seventy and had that uncomfortable gait of one who suffered arthritis. “You have a very nice grandson,” Mel observed. “Is it just the two of you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I lost my son and daughter-in-law in an accident when he was just a little thing. I’d sure worry about him if it weren’t for Jack. He’s been looking out for Ricky since he came to town. He looks after a lot of people.”

“I can sense that about him,” Mel said.

The March sun had warmed the land and brought out the buds. Mel had a fleeting thought that seeing this place in full bloom would be glorious, but then reminded herself that she would miss it. The baby— little Chloe—was thriving and several different women from town had stopped by to offer babysitting services.

She realized that she’d been here over a week—and it had passed like minutes. Of course, never getting more than four hours of sleep at a stretch tended to speed up time. She’d found living with Doc Mullins to be more bearable than she would’ve thought. He could be a cantankerous old goat, but she could give it back to him just as well, something he seemed to secretly enjoy.

One day, when the baby was asleep and there were no patients or calls, Doc got out a deck of cards. He shuffled them in his hand and said, “Come on. Let’s see what you got.” He sat down at the kitchen table and dealt the cards. “Gin,” he said.

“All I know about gin is that you mix it with tonic,” she told him.

“Good. We’ll play for money,” he said.

She sat down at the table. “You plan to take advantage of me,” she said.

“Oh, yes,” he confirmed. And then with a smile so rare, he began to tell her how to play. Pennies for points, he told her. And within an hour she was laughing, winning, and Doc’s expression was getting more sour by the minute, which only made her laugh harder. “Come on,” she said, dealing. “Let’s see what you got.”

The sound of someone coming through the front door temporarily stopped the game and Mel said, “Sit tight, I’ll see who it is.” She patted his hand. “Give you time to stack the deck.”

Standing just inside the front door was a skinny man with a long graying beard. His overalls were dirty and the bottoms frayed around filthy boots. The edge of his shirt sleeves and collar were also frayed, as though he’d been in these particular clothes a very long time. He didn’t come into the house, probably because of the mud he tracked, but stood just inside the door twisting a very worn felt hat.

“Can I help you?” she asked him.

“Doc here?”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Let me get him for you.”

She fetched Doc to the front door and while he was chatting with the man, she checked on Chloe. When Doc finally came back to the kitchen, he was wearing a very unpleasant expression. “We have to make a call. See if you can rustle up someone to keep an eye on the baby.”

“You need my assistance?” she asked, perhaps more hopefully than she wished.

“No,” he said, “but I think you should tag along. See what’s on the other side of the tree line.”

Chloe stirred in her bed and Mel picked her up. “Who was that man?”

“Clifford Paulis. Lives out in the woods with some people. His daughter and her man joined them a while back. They have regular problems. I’d rather you just see.”

“Okay,” she said, perplexed.

After a few phone calls had been placed with no success, the best they could do for the baby was take her across the street to Jack’s with a few diapers and a bottle. Mel carried her little bed while Doc managed the baby in one arm and his cane in the other hand, though Mel had offered to make two trips.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” she asked Jack. “You might have to change her and everything.”

“Nieces,” he said again. “I’m all checked out.”

“How many nieces, exactly?” she asked.

“Eight, at last count. Four sisters and eight nieces. Apparently they can’t breed sons. Where are you off to?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Paulises’,” Doc said. And Jack whistled.

As they drove out of town, Mel said, “I don’t have a good feeling about this. Seems everyone knows about this family except me.”

“I guess you deserve to be prepared. The Paulises live in a small compound of shacks and trailers with a few others—a camp. They stay out of sight and drink a lot, wander into town very rarely. They keep a supply of pure grain alcohol on hand. They’re dirt-poor, miserable folk, but they haven’t given Virgin River any trouble. Clifford says there was a fight last night and there’s some patching up to do.”

“What kind of fight?”

“They’re pretty gritty folk. If they sent for me, it must’ve been a good one.”

They drove a long way into the woods, the dirt road a narrow, bumpy, one lane before it finally broke open into a clearing around which were, as Doc had said, two shacks and a couple of trailers. Not mobile homes, but camper shells and an itty bitty trailer that had seen better days, along with an old wheelless pickup truck up on blocks. They circled an open area in the middle of which was a crude brick oven of sorts. There were tarps stretched out from the campers and shacks with actual furniture under them. Not outdoor furniture but household—tables and chairs, old sofas with the stuffing popping out. Plus old tires, a couple of small trucks, unidentifiable junk, a wringer washer lying on its side. Mel peered into the trees and blinked to clear her vision. There appeared to be a semitrailer, half buried in the ground with camouflage tarps over the top. Beside it was, unmistakably, a gas-powered generator.

Mel said, “Holy shit.”

“Help if you can,” Doc said. “But try not to talk.” He peered at her. “That’ll be hard for you.”

Doc got out of the truck, hefting his bag. People started to drift into the clearing—not from within their homes, such as they were, but more like from behind them. There were just a few men. It was impossible to tell their ages; they all looked like vagrants with their dirty and worn dungarees and overalls. They were bearded, their hair long and matted, like real sad hillbillies. Everyone was thin with sallow complexions; they were not enjoying good health out here. There was a very bad smell and Mel thought about bathroom facilities. They would be using the forest; and it smelled as if they didn’t get far enough from the camp. Their facilities were minimal. It was like a little third-world country.

Doc nodded to people as he pressed forward, getting nods back. He’d obviously been here before. Mel followed more slowly. Doc ended up in front of a shack outside of which Clifford Paulis stood. Doc turned to make sure Mel was with him, then entered.

She felt their eyes on her, but they kept their distance. She wasn’t exactly afraid, but she was nervous and unsure and hurried behind Doc to enter the shack with him.

There was a small table inside with a lantern on it. Sitting on short stools at the table were a man and a woman. Mel had to stifle a gasp. Their faces were swollen, cut and bruised. The man was perhaps thirty, his dirty blond hair short and spiky, and he twitched and jittered, unable to sit still. The woman, maybe the same age, was holding her arm at an odd angle. Broken.

Doc put his bag on the table and opened it. He pulled out and put on his latex gloves. Mel followed suit, but slowly, her pulse picking up. She had never worked as a visiting nurse, but knew a few who had. There were nasty hovels all around the poorer sections of L.A. where paramedics might be called, but in the city if you had a situation like this, you’d notify the police. The patients would be brought to the emergency room. And in the event of domestic violence, which this clearly was, these two would both be booked into jail right out of the E.R. When there’s an injury in a domestic, no one has to press charges besides the police.

“Whatcha got, Maxine?” he said, reaching out for her arm, which she extended toward him. He examined it briefly. “Clifford,” he called. “I’m gonna need a bucket of water.” Then to Mel he said, “Get to work on cleaning up Calvin’s face, see if sutures are required, and I’ll attempt to set this ulna.”

“Do you want a hypo?” she asked.

“I don’t think we’ll need that,” he said.

Mel got out some peroxide and cotton and approached the young man warily. He lifted his eyes to her face and grinned at her with a mouth full of dirty teeth, some of which appeared to be rotting. In his eyes she saw that his pupils were very small—he was full of amphetamine, higher than a kite. He kept grinning at her and she tried not to make eye contact with him. She cleaned some of the cuts on his face and finally said, “Wipe that look off your face or I’ll let Doc do this.” It made him giggle stupidly.

“I’m going to need something for the pain,” he said.

“You already had something for the pain,” she told him. And he giggled again. But in his eyes there was menace and she decided not to make any more eye contact.

Doc made a sudden movement that slammed Calvin’s arm onto the table, hard, gripped by Doc’s arthritic hand. “You never do that, you hear me?” Doc said in a voice more threatening than Mel had heard before, then slowly released Calvin’s forearm while boring through him with angry eyes. Then Doc immediately turned his attention back to Maxine. “I’m going to have to put this bone right, Maxine. Then I’ll cast it for you.”

Mel had no idea what had just happened. “You don’t want an X-ray?” she heard herself ask Doc. And her answer was a glare from the doctor who’d asked her to try not to talk. She went back to the man’s face.

There was a cut over his eye that she could repair with tape, no stitches required. Standing above him as she was, she noticed a huge purple bump through the thinning hair on the top of his head. Maxine must have hit him over the head with something, right before he broke her arm. She glanced at his shoulders and arms through the thin fabric of his shirt and saw that he had some heft to him—he was probably strong. Strong enough at least break a bone.

The bucket of water arrived—the bucket rusty and dirty—and momentarily she heard Maxine give out a yelp of pain as Doc used sudden and powerful force to put her ulna back into place.

Old Doc Mullins worked silently, wrapping an Ace bandage around her arm, then dipping casting material into the bucket, soaking it, and applying it to the broken arm. Finished with her assignment, Mel moved away from Calvin and watched Doc. He was strong and fast for his age, skilled for a man with hands twisted by arthritis, but then this had been his life’s work. Casting done, he pulled a sling out of his bag.

Job done, he snapped off his gloves, threw them in his bag, closed it, picked it up and, looking down, went back to the truck. Again, Mel followed.

When they were out of the compound she said, “All right—what’s going on there?”

“What do you think’s going on?” he asked. “It isn’t complicated.”

“Looks pretty awful to me,” she said.

“It is awful. But not complicated. Just a few dirt-poor alcoholics. Homeless, living in the woods. Clifford wandered away from his family to live out here years ago and over time a few others joined his camp. Then Calvin Thompson and Maxine showed up not so long ago, and added weed to the agenda—they’re growing in that semitrailer. Biggest mystery to me is how they got it back in here. You can bet Calvin couldn’t get that done. I figure Calvin’s connected to someone, told ‘em he could sit back here and watch over a grow. Calvin’s a caretaker. That’s what the generator is about—grow lights. They irrigate out of the river. Calvin’s jitters don’t come from pot—pot would level him out and slow him down. He’s gotta be on something like meth. Maybe he skims a little marijuana, cheats the boss, and trades it for something else. Thing is, I don’t think Clifford and those old men have anything to do with the pot. They never had a grow out there before that I know of. But I could be wrong.”

“Amazing,” she said.

“There are lots of little marijuana camps hidden back in these woods—some of ‘em pretty good size—but you can’t grow it outside in winter months. It’s still the biggest cash crop in California. But even if you gave Clifford and those old boys a million dollars, that’s how they’re going to live.” He took a breath. “Not all local growers look like vagrants. A lot of ‘em look like millionaires.”

“What happened when you grabbed his arm like that?” she asked.

“You didn’t see? He was raising it like he was going to touch you. Familiarly.”

She shuddered. “Thanks. I guess. Why’d you want me to see that?”

“Two reasons—so you’d know what some of this country medicine is about. Some places where they’re growing are booby-trapped, but not this one. You should never go out to one of those places alone. Not even if a baby’s coming. You better hear me on that.”

“Don’t worry,” she said with a shudder. “You should tell someone, Doc. You should tell the sheriff or someone.”

He laughed. “For all I know, the sheriff’s department’s aware—there are growers all over this part of the world. For the most part, they stay invisible—it’s not like they want to be found out. More to the point, I’m in medicine, not law enforcement. I don’t talk about the patients. I assume that’s your ethic, as well.”

“They live in filth! They’re hungry and probably sick! Their water is undoubtedly contaminated by the awful, dirty containers they keep it in. They’re beating each other up and dying of drink and…whatever.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Doesn’t make my day, either.”

She found it devastating, the acceptance of such hopelessness. “How do you do it?” she asked him, her voice quiet.

“I just do the best I can,” he said. “I help where I can. That’s all anyone can do.”

She shook her head. “This really isn’t for me,” she said. “I can handle stuff like this when it comes into the hospital, but I’m no country practitioner. It’s like the Peace Corps.”

“There are bright spots in my doctoring, too,” he said. “Just happens that isn’t one of them.”

She was completely down in the dumps when she went back to the grill to collect the baby. “Not pretty out there, is it?” Jack said.




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