Shelter Mountain. Robyn Carr

indicating he should come behind the counter. Her eyes were so troubled and angry, he went toward them. Mel glanced back at the computer screen.

      Jack had never done anything like this before; Mel had never pulled him into her medical business, even though confidentiality was as safe with Jack as with either of them. She didn’t confide medical issues with her husband because that was an ethic she was firm about.

      There on the screen were the pictures from the digital. Paige’s battered body was on display in many different angles. The bruises were astonishingly bad. If he saw bruises like that on Mel, it would be impossible for him to keep from killing someone.

      “Good God,” he said in a breath. He wondered if Preacher knew there was a lot more to his houseguest than a little bruise on her cheek.

      Mel looked up at her husband and saw the grim set of his jaw, the pulsing of a vein in his temple. His narrow eyes. “This goes no further,” she said.

      “Of course not.”

      “Do you understand why you’re standing here, looking at this with us?”

      “I think so. She’s at the bar. Preacher wants her to stay.”

      “Well, you should know, I told her she could stay with us if she wanted to. I think she feels okay at your bar, especially since I vouched for Preacher. We have to get her some help or this beast will kill her.”

      “Of course. You think Preach knows how bad this is?”

      “I have no idea. I’m not sharing this with him, but you need to know what’s going on if she’s under your roof.”

      “Our roof,” he said. Mel and the baby—they were his life. He couldn’t imagine laying anything but a loving hand on her. “You know anything about her? Because I don’t want Preacher getting used. Or hurt.”

      Mel shrugged. “I don’t even know where she came from. But I don’t think Preacher’s the one you have to worry about at the moment.”

      “He’s already caught up in this. Taking it on.”

      “Well, good for him. She needs someone to take this on. And Preacher can take care of himself.”

      “Yeah, we just went over that.”

      Mel leaned against Jack and he put his arm around her. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen a lot,” she said in a breath. “This is one dangerous son of a bitch.”

      “I don’t want you in over your head, either,” he said.

      “Save it. I have a job to do.”

      “This is really bad, Mel,” he said.

      “Even more reason why I’d better do my job.”

      Preacher was surprised that Paige came back from Mel deciding to stay a couple of days. She seemed so hell-bent to take off. She took Christopher upstairs in the morning and there hadn’t been a sound from up there. They missed lunch altogether. But, he reasoned, if the kid didn’t feel good, maybe he’d sleep extra long, which would give his banged-up mother a needed rest.

      During the quiet of the afternoon was when he usually got dinner ready, but today he got out one of his older cookbooks. He had great admiration for Martha Stewart, even though most of her recipes were too fussy for a bar. But he liked the real old-fashioned ones—old Betty Crocker, Julia Child—before everyone started eating light and watching their cholesterol.

      He looked up cookies.

      Preacher didn’t know a lot about kids, and there wasn’t much call for cookies in a bar, but he had tender memories of his mother making cookies. She had been a little tiny thing. Tiny, high-principled, soft-spoken but stern, and real shy—he’d inherited the shy part, probably. His dad had died when he was young, but he hadn’t been a big guy, either—just average. And here came Preacher. More than nine pounds at birth, almost six feet by the seventh grade.

      He didn’t have cookie stuff on hand. But he had flour, sugar, butter and peanut butter—a good thing. Those ingredients would make the soft, sweet kind of cookies, anyway. While he was mixing the dough and rolling little brown balls he found himself thinking about the sight of his mother and him sitting together in mass—her narrow shoulders, high-buttoned dress, graying hair pulled into a proper bun at the nape of her neck. And he, beside her, taking two spaces in the pew by the time he was fifteen. While he was gently pressing the little balls flat with a fork, he chuckled to himself, remembering when she taught him to drive. It was one of the only times he heard her raise her voice, get all flustered and upset. His feet were so big and his legs so long, he was rugged on the accelerator, the brakes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, John! You have to be gentler! Slower, more graceful! I should have sent you to ballet lessons instead of football! It was a surprise she didn’t die of a heart attack, riding with him.

      She did die of a heart attack a little while later, the summer before Preacher’s senior year in high school. She didn’t look like the kind of woman with a weak heart, but how would anyone know? She never went to the doctor.

      Preacher was working on his second tray when he glanced up and saw that little blond head, peeking at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Hi,” Preacher said. “You sleep?” Christopher nodded. “Good,” he said. “Feel better?” Chris nodded again.

      Watching the boy’s face, Preacher slowly pushed a fresh-baked cookie across the counter with one finger until it was at the edge. It was a good minute before Chris took one step toward the cookie. Almost another full minute before his little hand touched it, but he didn’t take it. Just touched it, looking up at Preacher. “Go ahead. Tell me if it’s any good.”

      Chris slowly pulled the cookie off the counter and to his mouth, taking a very small, careful bite.

      “Good?” Preacher asked. And he nodded.

      So Preacher set him up a glass of milk right where the cookie had been. The boy nibbled that cookie in tiny bites; it took him so long to finish it that Preacher was pulling out the second cookie sheet and taking off the cookies before he was done. There was a stool on the other side of the counter near the milk and eventually Chris started trying to get up. But he had some stuffed toy in his grip and couldn’t make the climb, so Preacher went around and lifted him up. Then he went back to his side of the counter and pushed another cookie toward him. “Don’t pick it up yet,” Preacher said. “It’s kind of hot. Try the milk.”

      Preacher started rolling peanut butter dough into balls, placing them on the cookie sheet. “Who you got there?” he asked, nodding toward the stuffed toy.

      “Bear,” Christopher said. He reached his hand toward the cookie.

      Preacher said, “Make sure it’s not too hot for your mouth. So—his name’s just Bear?” Christopher nodded. “Seems like maybe he’s missing a leg, there.”

      Again the boy nodded. “Doesn’t hurt him, though.”

      “That’s a break. He ought to have one, anyway. I mean, it wouldn’t be the same as his own, but it would help him get by. When he has to go for a long walk.”

      The kid laughed. “He don’t walk. I walk.”

      “He doesn’t, huh? He should have one for looks, then.” He lifted one of his bushy black brows. “Think so?”

      Christopher lifted the small, worn brown bear. “Hmm,” he replied thoughtfully. He bit the cookie and immediately opened his mouth wide and let the sloppy mouthful fall onto the counter. For a second his look was stricken. Maybe terrified.

      “Hot, huh?” Preacher asked, not reacting. He reached behind him, ripped off a paper towel and whisked away the spit-out. “Might want to give it about one more minute. Have a drink of milk there. Cool down the mouth.”

      They communed in silence for a while—Preacher, Chris, the three-legged bear. When Preacher had all his little balls rolled, he began mashing them with his fork, perfect lines left,