that church. That wreck of a church in that peaceful, uncomplicated mountain town.
Several weeks later Noah was in his fifteen-year-old RV, which would be his home for a good long time, towing his twenty-year-old faded-blue Ford truck. En route to Northern California, he called George’s office, placing the call from his cell phone before the signal was lost in the mountains and tall trees. “I’m on my way into Virgin River, George.”
“Well, boy—how does it feel?” George asked with a deep chuckle in his voice. “Like you pulled off the sweetheart deal of the century, or like you’ll be dead broke and out in the street before you know what hit you?”
Noah laughed. “Not sure. I’ll be tapped out by the time the church is presentable. If I can’t drum up a congregation, I could be back in Seattle throwing fish before you know it,” he said, referring to an old job of his working the fish market on Seattle’s downtown wharf. He’d literally thrown large fish across the market. It had been like theater and it was where George had discovered him. “I’ll get started on the improvements right away and trust the presbytery won’t leave me out in the cold if no one shows up to services. I mean, if you can’t trust the church …”
That comment was answered with George’s hearty laughter. “They’re the last ones I’d trust. Those Presbyterians think too much! I know I wasn’t keen on this idea at first, Noah, but I wish you well,” George said. “I’m proud of you for taking a chance.”
“Thanks, George. I’ll keep in touch.”
“Noah,” George said soberly. “Good luck, son. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
It was the first of July when Noah rattled into Virgin River and pulled right up to the church. Parked there was a big old Suburban with the wheels jacked up and covered with mud. Standing beside it was a tiny old woman with wiry white hair and big glasses, a cigarette hanging from her lips. She wore great big tennis shoes that didn’t look as if they’d ever been white and, although it was summer, she had on a jacket with torn pockets. When he parked and got out of his RV, she tossed the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. One of Virgin River’s stunning beauties, he thought wryly.
“Reverend Kincaid, I presume?” she said.
From the look on her face, Noah assumed she was expecting someone a bit more refined. Maybe someone who dressed in khakis and a crisp white button-down? Shiny loafers? Neatly trimmed hair? Clean shaven at least? His hair was shaggy, his whiskers itchy, and he had a healthy bit of motor oil on his jeans, a result of a stop a hundred miles back when he’d had to work on the RV. “Mrs. McCrea,” he answered, putting out his hand.
She shook it briefly, then put the keys in his palm. “Welcome. Would you like a tour?”
“Do I need keys?” he asked. “The building wasn’t locked the last time I was here. I looked it over pretty thoroughly.”
“You’ve seen it?” she asked, clearly startled.
“Sure did. I took a run down here before placing a bid on behalf of the Presbyterian church. The door wasn’t locked so I helped myself. All the presbytery really needed from you was the engineer’s report on the building’s structural competence. I gave them lots of pictures.”
She pushed her oversize glasses up on her nose. “What are you, a minister or some kind of secret agent?”
He grinned at her. “Did you think the presbytery bought it on faith?”
“I guess I didn’t see any other possibility. Well, if you’re all set, let’s go in to Jack’s—it’s time for my drink. Doctor’s orders. I’ll front you one.”
“Did the doctor order the smokes, too?” he asked with a smile.
“You’re damn straight, sonny. Don’t start on me.”
“I gotta meet this doctor,” Noah muttered, following her.
Hope stopped abruptly, looked at him over her shoulder as she adjusted her jacket and said, “He’s dead.” And with that she turned and stomped into Jack’s bar.
Noah had only been in town a couple of days before the need for cleaning supplies sent him in the direction of Fortuna. The narrow, winding mountain roads led him toward the freeway, and he marveled that he had managed to get his RV to Virgin River at all, especially while towing his truck. He wasn’t quite halfway to Fortuna before he had his first lesson in how dramatically different mountain life was from life in the city, the campus and the Seattle wharf.
He spied a motionless animal by the side of the road and by pure coincidence there was a wide space on the shoulder just ahead. He pulled over and got out of his truck. When he was within a few feet, he realized it was a dog; perhaps some family pet. He went closer. Flies were buzzing around the animal and some of its fur looked shiny with blood, but Noah detected a slight movement. He crouched near the dog, whose eyes were open and tongue hanging out of its parted mouth. The animal was breathing, but clearly near death. The condition of the poor beast tore at his heart.
Just then, an old truck pulled up and parked behind Noah’s vehicle and a man got out. Noah took him for a farmer or rancher; he wore jeans, boots, a cowboy hat, and walked with a hitch that suggested a sore back. “Got a problem there, bud?” the man asked.
Noah looked at him over his shoulder. “Dog,” he said. “Hit by a car, I guess. And a while ago. But it’s alive.”
The rancher crouched and took a closer look. “Hmmph,” he grunted. He stood. “Okay then. I’ll take care of it.”
Noah waved away the flies and gave the dog’s head and neck a stroke. “Easy now—help’s on the way.” He was still stroking the dog’s neck when the man’s boots came into view beside him, as well as the business end of a rifle, aimed at the dog’s chest. “Might want to move back, son,” the man said.
“Hey!” Noah shouted, pushing the rifle away. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to put that poor creature out of its misery,” the man said in a tone that indicated he found the question ludicrous. “What else you gonna do?”
“Take it to a vet,” Noah said, standing. “Maybe it can be helped!”
“Buddy, look at that dog. It’s emaciated, pretty much starved. That animal was half-dead before a car hit it. Wouldn’t be right to leave it to lie here, dying.” He aimed again.
Again Noah pushed the rifle away. “Where’s the nearest vet?” he asked. “I’ll take it. If the vet can’t help it, he can euthanize the dog without blowing it apart.”
The rancher scratched his chin and shook his head. “Nathaniel Jensen is off 36, just this side of Fortuna, but he’s a large-animal vet. He’s got dogs, though. If he can’t help, he can give you the name of someone who can. Or put it down for you. But, buddy, that dog isn’t going to make it to the vet.”
“How do I get there?” Noah asked.
“Turn left off 36 on Waycliff Road. You’ll see a sign for Jensen Stables and Vet Clinic, and Dr. Jensen. It’s only a few minutes down the hill.” He shook his head again. “This could all be over in thirty seconds.”
Noah ignored him and went back to his truck, opening
