seasons, and the fishing is just starting to pick up. Deer hunting starts in the fall and then there’s water fowl through January. Salmon is great from late summer to December and then slows way down. Summer people start showing up in a couple of months, so from June through January we’re busy. I try to do repairs and upgrades these winter months.”
“Pretty wet around here,” Conner observed.
“The rain will let up in April. If we get a dry day, you’re welcome to use my grill anytime. It’s right in the storage shed. Also in the shed—rods and reels. Help yourself.”
Conner almost smiled. “Full-service lodge.”
“Not even close, my friend. We take care of the linens after you check out, but since you might be here awhile, you’ll have to make use of that little washer and dryer in the cabin. We have a man, Art, who will do some cleaning in there if you feel like a little help. You know—bathroom, floor, shower, that sort of thing. There’s a sign you can hang on the door if you want cleaning. He’s challenged—he has Down syndrome—but he’s smart and very competent. Good guy.”
“Thanks, but I’ve been cleaning for myself for quite a while. I’ll be fine.”
“Let me help you unload a few things,” Luke offered.
“I guess I’ll move in and go have a beer and some dinner.”
“Sounds like a good plan. You gonna be able to find your way back here?”
“I think so. Left turn at the dead sequoia?”
Luke laughed. “That’ll get you home.”
Home. It was a memory. But Conner said, “Thanks.”
Luke helped him move a couple of duffels and boxes into the cabin, shook his hand and went back to his house, his family. Alone once more, Conner unpacked some clothes into the one and only chest of drawers in the room. He plugged in his laptop to recharge it—he and Katie had changed all their accounts, user names and passwords. Although Brie hadn’t said anything, the D.A. had told him they could keep in touch by internet but recommended they not use their names or previously used ID’s, and they should resist the urge to Skype, just on the off chance their internet access was compromised.
What remained of the hardware store had been razed, and all that was left was the lot, but it was in a prime location. Conner had insurance money for rebuilding; it had been put in an investment account under his new identity and would be there for him when this nightmare ended. With his share of the sale of the lot and insurance on the building and stock, he could start over. But not in Sacramento, where he’d spent his entire life except for two years in the army.
He got to that little Virgin River bar just before six and damn near smiled in appreciation. Conner was a custom builder at the heart of things and this establishment was put together real nice. The bar itself was a fine piece of furniture. Someone here favored beeswax as a buffer and shiner, and he could almost smell it. The place was cozy, hospitable and clean as a whistle. He found himself a spot at the end of the bar where he could observe.
“Hey, pardner, what can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll take a light beer and how about a menu?”
“No problem on the beer, but I’m afraid we don’t have a menu. Our cook fixes up whatever he’s in the mood for. You lucked out there if you like fish—the trout are jumping and Preacher, that’s the cook, has been spending some time out at the river. He has a stuffed trout that will just bring you to your knees.”
“Sounds good to me,” Conner said.
He was immediately served up a beer, and the bartender said, “I’m Jack. This is my place. You passing through?”
“I hope so,” he said, lifting the beer to his lips.
Jack smiled. “Don’t be in such a hurry. This place is about to get real pretty, soon as the rain lets up. And when you see what the melting snowpack does to that river, you’ll just fall in love. No wonder our fish get so big.”
And then Jack was gone, wandering down the bar to take care of other patrons, serving a few plates, picking up a few. The atmosphere was real friendly; everyone seemed acquainted, and there was a small part of Conner that wondered, Can I make a life here? For a while? Imagine checking into a hotel and having the manager offer housekeeping if you were in the mood, no extra charge. Imagine a bar and grill that served up only what the cook felt like.
Jack returned a little later to ask, “How you doing on that beer? Dinner’s ready whenever you are.”
“Sure,” Conner said. “I’m ready. I’m good on the beer.”
While Jack was back getting his dinner, a young woman came into the bar. She pushed down the collar of her jacket and shook out her dark blond hair—lots of loose curls reached her shoulders. She was a little on the thin side but pretty. The thing that got to him, she looked so clean. Or pure, like some Sunday-school teacher or something. Girl-next-door decent. Her complexion was peachy, her eyes dark, her lips full and pink. There was every reason why that sort of thing would appeal to Conner, after his experience with his ex-wife.
But then, Samantha had come across as squeaky clean, too, even classy. There hadn’t been a hint of cheap in her. Appearances meant nothing.
Even so, Conner had been a long time without a woman, and it was wearing on him. All he wanted was to get his life back, take care of his sister and nephews, never be vulnerable to a woman again. He wasn’t the least worried about dying a lonely old man; he, Katie and the boys were very close. Even if Katie found a perfect second husband, he’d always be Uncle Danny.... Well, Uncle Conner now. And that was good enough for him.
Jack put the fish in front of him but quickly headed for the other end of the bar where the Sunday-school teacher waited. Before long a man came into the bar, put an arm around the Sunday-school teacher’s shoulders and gave her a kiss on the temple.
Well, that was that. Temptation eliminated, as far as Conner was concerned.
Two
Leslie Petruso pulled up to the little bar in town, parked and went inside. She immediately felt a little better, a little safer. She liked the look of the place, as though it welcomed her to a simpler life. That’s all she wanted, really—something that was less complicated. She didn’t have to wait long at the bar before a big, good-looking bartender was there, grinning. “What can I get you, miss?”
“How about a glass of Merlot? I’m meeting someone, but I see he’s not here yet.”
She was instantly served the wine. “Anyone I know?” the bartender asked.
“Maybe. Paul Haggerty?”
He smiled. “One of my best friends. We served in Iraq together a long time ago. I’m Jack,” he said, putting out his hand.
“Leslie. How do you do?”
“Paul’s a friend of yours?”
“I hope so,” she said. “He was once my boss in Grants Pass. One of several bosses, I should say. I was the office manager for Haggerty Construction.”
