Shelter Mountain. Робин Карр

casseroles and the only thing we sell are mixed drinks. We put out a donation jar for the space, sodas, beer—and we make out better than you’d think. We lay in good liquors for the hunters and maybe fly fishermen out this way for contests, but we charge the same prices and they duke us up, real nice.” To her perplexed expression he said, “Tip us, Paige. They know what Johnny Walker Black costs. They like how we try to have what they’re gonna want—they have money. They leave it on the tables and bar.” He grinned.

      “Brilliant,” she said.

      “Nah. Jack and me—we’ve been hunters, we fish. It’s good to take care of the people that put up with us. Maybe the most important thing is remembering them when they come in—makes ‘em feel welcome. Jack’s good at that. But then there’s the food. We’re small and not very experienced, but the food’s getting a good reputation,” he said, sticking out his chest.

      “Yeah,” she said. “Fattening, but good.”

      Paige felt that staying in this dinky country bar was like a cocoon, sheltering her from the outside world. Rick and Jack were good about having her there, both of them giving her things to do. It didn’t seem that her minor contributions were so much, but they went on about her as if they didn’t know how they’d gotten by before. Then there were the customers who came in almost daily, sometimes twice a day. It took no time at all for them to regard Paige as someone who’d been there a long time.

      “We’re sure getting lots more cookies around here these days,” Connie said. “It took a woman in the kitchen to get it right.”

      Paige didn’t bother to explain that it was all John’s doing, for Christopher. It was not for the folks in the bar who’d come to like cookies with their coffee.

      “What’d he cook tonight, Paige?” Doc asked.

      “Bouillabaisse,” she said. “It’s wonderful.”

      “Ach, I hate that crap.” Doc leaned close. “He hide any of yesterday’s stuffed trout back there?”

      “I’ll look,” she said, grinning, already feeling a part of something.

      Mel was in the bar at least twice a day, sometimes more often. When the place was quiet and she didn’t have patients, she’d sit and talk awhile. Mel knew more about Paige’s special circumstances than anyone, and it was Mel who asked about her recovery. “Better,” Paige said. “Everything’s better. No more spotting.”

      “Looks like this was a good idea of yours,” Mel said, looking around and indicating the bar.

      “It wasn’t my idea,” Paige said. “John said I could stay, help out around here a little. If I wanted to.”

      “It looks like you might be enjoying it,” Mel said. “You’re smiling a lot.”

      With a shock of surprise, Paige answered, “I am. Who would’ve guessed? This has been a good…” She paused. “Break,” she finally said. “I guess I can make this work for a while, at least. Until I start to…” Again she paused. “Show,” she said, looking down at her middle.

      “Does John know?” Mel asked.

      She nodded. “It was the only decent thing to do—to tell him, when he made the offer.”

      “Well, even though hardly anyone knows the circumstances that brought you here, I think it’s fair to say everyone around here understands you must have had another life. Before Virgin River. I mean, you do have a son.”

      “There’s that,” Paige agreed.

      “Besides,” Mel said, sitting back, running two hands over her small tummy. “Lotsa people are starting to ‘show.’ Did you know I’m four months now?”

      “That looks about right,” Paige said, smiling.

      “Uh-huh. And I’ve been in this town seven months. Married to Jack less than one. I was married before Jack. I was widowed, and according to the experts, completely incapable of conceiving a child.” Paige’s eyes grew round, her mouth forming an O. Mel laughed. “Obviously, I need better experts. Oh, you think you’re the only one who came to this place by way of a wrong turn.”

      “There’s more to this story,” Paige said, lifting one brow.

      “Just the details, sister. We have plenty of time.” And then Mel laughed brightly.

      Paige had been in the little room over the kitchen for ten days, the first four of which she’d been planning her departure. Preacher told her he thought it was working out pretty well. They had a nice little routine. Right after Chris had his breakfast and Paige was showered and primped, she plunged into kitchen work, cleaning up after breakfast. While Chris was with John, either coloring, playing War with a deck of cards, sweeping or doing other chores, Paige would take care of her room and their things. Because she didn’t have much with her, there was frequent laundry in John’s laundry room—so while the washer and dryer hummed along, Paige did a few things she hoped would help him out—cleaning his bathroom, dusting, making up his bed, running the sweeper around his room. “Can I throw in a load of clothes for you?” she asked.

      “I’ll take care of that. Listen, you don’t have to clean up after me.”

      She laughed at him. “John, I spend all day in the kitchen, collecting your pots, pans and dishes. It’s becoming a habit.” She laughed at his shocked expression. “You look after my child all day long—you’re pretty much helpless, since he won’t leave you alone. The least I can do is help out.”

      “I’m not looking after him,” John said. “We’re buddies.”

      “Yeah,” she said. And thought, yeah—buddies.

      Lunch was usually busy, and Paige served and bussed. Dinner, from five to eight, was also busy, especially this time of year—fall, hunting season with fishing getting good. After eight there were occasionally lingerers, hanging out over beer or drinks, but the cooking was over for the night. That’s when Paige would take Chris upstairs for his bath and bed, and after that she’d only check in to see if anything needed to be done before she called it a night. Occasionally, she’d have a cup of tea with John.

      Preacher liked that time of night, when there was no more dinner to be served, when the kitchen was cleaned, when he could hear Paige running water upstairs. Sometimes he could hear her singing play songs with Chris. Before pouring that last shot for the day, he’d look at his cookbooks, planning dinner for the next day or maybe the next week, making supply lists. The process made him feel he had everything managed efficiently. Preacher was very well organized.

      It was about eight-thirty and there were a few hunters in the bar. Jack was handling the front. Buck Anderson had brought Mel a couple of nice-size lamb shanks, which came straight to Preacher. He was reading about lamb shanks hestia with cucumber raita when he heard a small shuffle. He looked over the counter to see Christopher standing at the bottom of the stairs, stark naked, book under one arm, Bear under the other.

      Preacher lifted one bushy brow. “Forget something there, pardner?” he asked.

      Chris picked at his left butt cheek while hanging on to the bear. “You read to me now?”

      “Um… Have you had your bath?” Preacher asked. The boy shook his head. “You look like you’re ready for your bath.” He listened upward to the running water.

      Chris nodded, then said again, “You read it?”

      “C’mere,” Preacher said.

      Chris ran around the counter, happy, raising his arms to be lifted up.

      “Wait a second,” Preacher said. “I don’t want little boy butt on my clean counter. Just a sec.” He pulled a clean dish towel out of the drawer, spread it on the counter, then lifted him up, sitting him on it. He looked down at the little boy, frowned slightly, then pulled another dish towel out of the drawer. He shook it out and draped it across Chris’s naked lap. “There. Better. Now,