scalp felt hot under his short hair and he really wanted to swear. When he turned back to Shelby and Doc, he found her smiling behind her hand and Doc’s eyes twinkling. “You got a little splatter on your back there, Luke,” she said, trying to keep control of her lips.
Doc’s face was the same—cranky and impatient, but for the glittering eyes. “Molly’s been slinging that big yellow tube around these mountains for thirty years now, and ain’t nobody knows these roads better. Guess she didn’t see a pothole this once.”
“It’s not even September yet!” Luke protested.
“She drives year-round,” Doc said. “Summer school, special programs, athletics. Always something going on. She’s a saint—you couldn’t pay me enough to do that job. What’s a mud puddle here and there?” Then the old doctor put his truck noisily in gear. “Our turn coming up.”
Shelby jogged back toward her Jeep. Luke started to walk back toward his truck, which pulled a camper. Then he heard Doc, shouting at his back, “Welcome to Virgin River, son. Enjoy yourself.” And it was followed by a cackle.
Shelby McIntyre had been fixing up her deceased mother’s house for months, but she’d been able to drive up to Virgin River from Bodega Bay nearly every weekend through the summer to ride. And her Uncle Walt had paid many a visit to her to oversee renovation work that he’d personally contracted. By the end of summer Shelby had roses on her cheeks. She had rolled up her shorts and her legs were tanned. Her thighs and butt had developed firm riding muscles and her eyes sparkled with health. It had been years since she’d benefited from that type of regular exercise.
But when she pulled up in front of Walt’s house now, in mid-August, it was a completely different feeling. The house was sold, her belongings were in the back of her Jeep, and at the age of twenty-five, she was embarking on a brand-new life. She gave the horn a toot, got out of her Jeep and stretched. In just moments, Uncle Walt came out the front door, stood there with his hands on his hips, a big grin on his face. “Welcome back,” he said. “Or should I say, welcome home?”
“Hey there,” she said, walking into his arms. Walt was six feet with thick, silver hair, dark bushy brows and shoulders and arms like a wrestler’s. He was a powerfully built man for just over sixty.
He hugged her tight. “I was just about to go to the stable and saddle up. You too tired? You hungry or anything?”
“I’m dying to get on a horse, but I think I’ll pass after riding in a Jeep for over four hours,” she said.
He laughed. “Backside pretty well broken in?”
“Ohhh,” she said, rubbing her butt.
“I’m just riding down along the river for an hour or so. Vanni’s down at the new construction, getting in Paul’s business, but she’s going to be back in time to cook you a nice welcome-home dinner.”
Shelby looked at her watch. It was only three-thirty. “Tell you what—I’m going to run into town while you go for your ride and Vanni inspects her new house. I’ll say hi to Mel Sheridan and see if I can talk her into a beer to celebrate my change of residence. I’ll be back in time to help with the horses before dinner. Should I get this stuff out of the Jeep first? Take it inside?” she asked.
“Honey, leave it be, no one’s gonna bother it. Paul and I will unload you before supper.”
She grinned at him. “Let’s make a date for tomorrow morning. We’ll have that ride together.”
“Good deal. No trouble closing on the house?”
“It was a little more emotional than I expected. I thought I was ready.”
“Regrets?”
She turned her large hazel eyes up to his face. “I cried for the first fifty miles,” she said. “And then I started to get excited. I’m sure about this.”
“Good,” he said, giving her a squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Just for a few months. Then I’m going to travel a little and get a head start on school. It’s been so long since I’ve been a student.”
“Life here is usually pretty laid-back. Take advantage of it.”
“Yeah—” she laughed “—when you’re not having shoot-outs or forest fires.”
“Well, hell, girl, we want to keep things interesting!” He walked her to her Jeep.
“Wait for me to get back to muck the stalls and feed the horses.”
“Enjoy a little girlfriend time,” he said. “It’s something you haven’t had enough of the past few years. You’ll have plenty of horseshit to muck while you’re here.”
“Thanks, Uncle Walt,” she said and laughed. “I won’t be too long.”
He kissed her forehead. “I said, take your time. You took good care of my sister. You’ve earned piles of it.”
“See you in a couple of hours,” Shelby said, heading for town.
Luke Riordan pulled into Virgin River, his Harley strapped into the back of his extended-cab truck, pulling his small camper. It had been seven years since he’d seen this town and there had been a few changes. The church was now boarded up, but what he remembered as an old, abandoned cabin in the center of town was renovated, had cars and trucks parked around the front porch, and an Open sign in the window. It looked like some construction was under way behind the cabin; it was framed for an add-on. Since he was considering a renovation project of his own, he wouldn’t mind having a look at what had been done to this place. He parked off to the side, out of the way, and got out of the truck. He went into the camper and changed out of his muddy shirt before going inside.
The August afternoon was warm, with a cool, refreshing breeze; the night would be chilly in the mountains. He hadn’t been out to the house he planned to live in, which had been vacant for a year. If it was uninhabitable, he had his camper. He took a deep breath. The air was so damn clean, it stung the lungs. Such a huge change from the deserts of Iraq and El Paso. Just what he’d been needing.
He walked into the renovated cabin and found himself in a good-looking little country bar. He stood just inside the door and looked around appreciatively. The hardwood floors gleamed, hot embers glowed in the hearth, hunting and fishing trophies hung mounted on the walls. There were about a dozen tables and a long, shiny bar behind which there were shelves full of liquor and glasses surrounding a stuffed king salmon that must have weighed about forty pounds at the catch. A television, mounted high in a corner, was tuned to national news, the volume turned down. A couple of fishermen, identifiable by their khaki vests and hats, sat at one end of the bar playing cribbage. A few men in work shirts and jeans were having drinks at a nearby table. Luke looked at his watch: 4:00 p.m. He walked up to the bar.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“A cold draft, thanks. This place wasn’t here the last time I was through town.”
“You’ve been away a while then. I’ve been open more than four years now. I bought it and turned it into this.”
“Well, you did a helluva job,” he said, accepting the beer.
