Robyn Carr - Shelter Mountain

Then there was that guilt—she didn’t want to put these people in Wes’s path, in danger. But her reality was that wherever she went, whether to family, a shelter, into hiding—the people who helped her were at risk. Sometimes it was unbearable to think about.

She dressed quietly, without waking Chris, and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. Preacher was standing at the counter, slicing and dicing for his morning omelets. When he saw her at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the knife froze and he waited.

“I’m going to need to borrow your washer and dryer,” she said. “We didn’t bring too much.”

“Sure.”

“I guess it makes more sense to stay here. A little while. I’ll be glad to help out. If you’re sure.”

He began to dice again, slowly. “We can do that easy. How about minimum wage plus the room and meals. Keep track of your own hours. Jack’ll pay you when you want him to—doesn’t matter. Daily, weekly, monthly. Doesn’t matter.”

“That’s too much, John. I should help for just the room and meals.”

“We open by six, stay open past nine, there are two of us plus Rick after school. Two days and you’re going to be complaining it’s slave labor.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m not ready for the rest—the restraining order, the custody thing. Court documents like that have to reveal where I am, and I’m not up to that.”

“Understandable,” he said.

“Eventually, he’s going to come after me. File charges, have police looking, maybe hire a detective. But he’s going to try to find me. He won’t let me walk away.”

“One thing at a time, Paige,” Preacher said.

“Just so you know…”

“I’m not worried about that. We’ll be ready.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. Where’s that washer?” she asked.

“In my apartment. The door’s never locked.” He stopped chopping again and, looking at her, asked, “What made you decide?”

“Bear’s new leg. That old blue plaid flannel…”

“Old?” Preacher asked, smiling slightly. “That was a perfectly good shirt.”

Preacher took breakfast to Ron and Harv in the bar, and on his way back to the kitchen, glanced out the window to see Jack at the stump with the ax. He heard the sound of the washing machine start up in his apartment.

He poured two cups of coffee and walked out back. When Jack saw him coming, he left the ax stuck in the stump. Preacher passed him a cup.

“Delivery service,” Jack said. “Guess you have something on your mind.” He took a sip, watching Preacher over the rim of the cup.

“I was just thinking, we could probably use a little help around the bar.”

“That so?”

“Paige mentioned she’s looking for something. The kid’s no trouble.”

“Hmm.”

“Seems like a good idea to me,” Preacher said. “Don’t have any use for that bedroom over the kitchen, anyway. You can pay her out of my check.”

“The bar makes money, Preach. It can take on an employee. She doesn’t want fifty grand and a 401(k) or anything, does she?”

Preacher made a face. Jack thought he was funny. “It’ll probably be temporary.”

“My responsibilities are changing,” Jack said. “Growing,” he added with a proud smile. “Be nice to have a little help in there, in case I have other things to do.”

“Good, then. I’ll let her know.” He turned as if to leave.

“Ah, Preacher,” Jack said, and the man turned back. Jack held out his cup for Preacher to take back into the kitchen. “You already let her know, didn’t you?”

“Might’ve let slip I thought we could use her.”

“Yeah. One question. She cover her tracks on her way into town?”

“No one knows she’s here, Jack. Not that it’s any of our business…”

“I’m not nosy, Preacher. I’m prepared.”

“Good,” Preacher said. “That’s good, I like that. Anything changes on that, I’ll let you know.”

There were things about being in Virgin River that gave Paige peace of mind. Small things, like her car sitting behind the bar between two big, extended-cab trucks, a car she had no reason to take out for a drive. The sound of logsplitting in the early dawn hours that coincided almost exactly with the smell of coffee. And the work—she liked the work. It started with bussing tables and doing dishes, but before even a couple of days had passed, John was showing her how he made his soup, bread, pies.

“The real challenge here is making use of what we have,” he told her. “One of the reasons this bar does well and we can get by like we do—we cook what we kill or catch, we make use of Doc and Mel’s patient fees that come in produce and meat and we concentrate on making sure our people are taken care of. Jack says, if we think first about making sure the town is taken care of, we’ll do just fine. And we do.”

“How do you take care of a town?” she asked, confused.

“Aw, it’s real easy,” he said. “We put out three good meals a day, on their budget, and the sharp folks know about the leftovers. When we shop, since we go all the way to the coastal towns and big stores and have our trucks, we check with people who don’t drive so far—old folks, infirm, maybe new mothers—see if we can get them anything. They appreciate that—take a meal or two at the bar. For special occasions we just open up the place, the women bring in the 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.”