sure he’d end up with maggots on his clothes. He was about halfway to his truck when the rancher said, “Good luck there, buddy.”
“Yeah,” Noah grumbled. “Thanks.”
Dr. Nathaniel Jensen proved to be a friendly guy just a little younger than Noah and he was far more helpful than the old rancher had been. He looked the dog over for about sixty seconds before he said, “This looks like it could be Lucy. Her owner was a local rancher, killed in an accident up north, near Redding, months ago now. He was hauling a gelding; killed him and the horse. They never found his dog, a border collie. She might’ve been thrown and injured. Or maybe she got scared and bolted. Oh, man, if this is Lucy, I bet she was trying to find her way home.”
“Does she have family who will take care of her?”
“That’s the thing—old Silas was a widower. He had one daughter and she married a serviceman, moved away more than twenty years ago. Silas’s ranch and stable sold immediately. The remaining animals—horses and dogs—were sold or placed. I don’t think the daughter was even back here for the sale. I could call around, see if anyone knows where she is. But that could take time old Lucy doesn’t have. She didn’t take on any of her father’s other animals. And we don’t even know if this is—”
“Old Lucy?” Noah asked.
“I didn’t mean it like that. She’s not that old. Three or four, maybe. Silas had a pack of ranch dogs. Herders. But Lucy was a favorite and went everywhere with him. She’s a mess.”
“Can you do anything for her?”
“Listen, I can start an IV, treat her for a possible head injury, find the source of bleeding, clean her up, sedate her if she needs it, run some antibiotics, transfuse her if necessary—but you’re looking at a big expense that Silas’s only daughter might not be willing to pick up. People around here—farmers and ranchers—most of ‘em aren’t real sentimental about their dogs. They wouldn’t spend more than the animal’s worth.”
“I’m beginning to understand that,” Noah said, pulling out his wallet. He extracted a credit card and said, “I don’t have a phone yet—I just got here and there’s no reception for the cell. I’ll call in or stop by. Just do what you can do.”
“Nothing wrong with just letting her go, Noah,” he said gently. “As banged up as she is, that’s what most people would do. Even if she pulls through, there’s no guarantee she’ll be much of a dog.”
He stroked the dog’s head and thought, No guarantee any of us will be much of anything, but we still try. “Be sure to give her something good for pain, all right? I don’t want her to be in pain while you see what can be done.”
“You sure about this?” Nathaniel asked.
Noah smiled at him. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow afternoon. And thanks.”
The next day, Noah learned that Lucy had a few cracked ribs, a couple of lacerations and scrapes, was malnourished and infested with tics and maggots, and had a systemic infection. She might recover, Dr. Jensen said, but her condition was poor. If she did get stronger, Dr. Jensen insisted she should be spayed. So on top of everything else, poor Lucy was going to have a hysterectomy. He gave Nathaniel Jensen the phone number for the bar next door to the church, in case something came up. It turned out Doc Jensen knew the owner, Jack.
Noah soon discovered that Virgin River’s Communication Central was located right next door to the church—at Jack’s Bar. Jack was a very nice guy who seemed to know everyone and everything. He quizzed Noah briefly about his denomination, education, what plans he had for the church, and that was all it took for the entire town to be informed. Noah had expected some rude jokes and at the very least some good-natured ribbing about being the pastor who bought an old church on eBay, and he hadn’t been disappointed. But it also seemed the people in town were relieved to learn he was an ordained minister, since he looked pretty much like an out-of-work lumberjack; all the thin white scars on his hands and forearms from work on the boats and docks undoubtedly set him up as a man who did hard, physical labor.
Noah explained that the building officially belonged to the church but that it would be governed by a group of church elders once they were functional and had a congregation. Ownership would hopefully, in time, pass to the congregants, as they amassed and grew and gathered the funds to support it. His plans? “How about a low-key, friendly place for people to gather, support each other, worship together?” Noah had answered. “No revivals or animal sacrifices till we’re all better acquainted.” And then he had grinned.
Not only did Jack give him good press, which Noah appreciated, but in short order Jack began to feel like a friend. Noah checked in daily at Jack’s, usually having at least a cup of coffee, and through Jack he met many of the locals. And Jack’s phone was the hotline to the veterinarian. “Nate called in, Noah,” Jack reported. “That dog of yours is still hanging in there. Doing better.”
“She worth more than my truck yet?” Noah asked.
Jack laughed. “I saw that old truck, Noah. I suspect she was worth more than that when you scraped her off the road.”
“Funny,” Noah said. “That truck gets me where I’m going. Most of the time.”
Jack’s partner and cook, known as Preacher, invited Noah to jump on their satellite wireless-Internet connection so Noah could use his laptop for e-mails and research on the Net, but cautioned him against buying anything else Hope McCrea might be selling.
When he wasn’t cleaning out the church or getting himself settled in town, every other day Noah visited Lucy at Jensen’s Stables and Vet Clinic. Since the weather was warm, Nate was keeping her in an empty stall and Noah would spend an hour or so just sitting on the ground beside her, talking to her, petting her. By the time she’d been there a week it was apparent she was going to pull through. After ten days she was walking around, if slowly. “Don’t show me the bill,” Noah said to Nate Jensen during one of his visits. “I don’t want to cry in front of you.”
There was no parsonage for Noah to call home, but he was comfortable in the RV and he had the truck for getting around the mountains. He did a little door-knocking, letting the folks know he was new to town and planned to get that church going. He had hoped some volunteers would materialize to help with the cleanup, but he refrained from asking and so far no one had offered. People seemed extremely friendly, but Noah thought they might be holding off a little to see what kind of minister he stacked up to be. There was a good chance he wasn’t what they were looking for at all, but only time would tell.
He’d collected enough cakes and cookies for a bake sale. The women in town had been dropping by, bearing sweets and welcoming him to the neighborhood. Even though Noah had a scary-powerful sweet tooth, he was getting a little tired of feasting on desserts. He even gave a passing thought to holding a bake sale.
Another thing Noah did was visit the nearest hospital—Valley Hospital. He called on the sick and bereaved. Preaching might be his job, but bringing comfort was his calling.
Since there was no hospital chaplain, they relied on the local clergy to visit, so Noah just asked a hospital volunteer to point him toward anyone who might need a friendly visit. She looked him up and down doubtfully; he was dressed as usual in his jeans, boots and flannel shirt … He wore the T-shirt without holes. If he hadn’t had a Bible in his hand, he had the impression the volunteer would have seriously questioned him. Clearly, the pastors hereabouts must spruce up a bit before visiting the patients.
His
