a shock of surprise, Paige answered, “I am. Who would’ve guessed? This has been a good…” She paused. “Break,” she finally said. “I guess I can make this work for a while, at least. Until I start to…” Again she paused. “Show,” she said, looking down at her middle.
“Does John know?” Mel asked.
She nodded. “It was the only decent thing to do—to tell him, when he made the offer.”
“Well, even though hardly anyone knows the circumstances that brought you here, I think it’s fair to say everyone around here understands you must have had another life. Before Virgin River. I mean, you do have a son.”
“There’s that,” Paige agreed.
“Besides,” Mel said, sitting back, running two hands over her small tummy. “Lotsa people are starting to ‘show.’ Did you know I’m four months now?”
“That looks about right,” Paige said, smiling.
“Uh-huh. And I’ve been in this town seven months. Married to Jack less than one. I was married before Jack. I was widowed, and according to the experts, completely incapable of conceiving a child.” Paige’s eyes grew round, her mouth forming an O. Mel laughed. “Obviously, I need better experts. Oh, you think you’re the only one who came to this place by way of a wrong turn.”
“There’s more to this story,” Paige said, lifting one brow.
“Just the details, sister. We have plenty of time.” And then Mel laughed brightly.
Paige had been in the little room over the kitchen for ten days, the first four of which she’d been planning her departure. Preacher told her he thought it was working out pretty well. They had a nice little routine. Right after Chris had his breakfast and Paige was showered and primped, she plunged into kitchen work, cleaning up after breakfast. While Chris was with John, either coloring, playing War with a deck of cards, sweeping or doing other chores, Paige would take care of her room and their things. Because she didn’t have much with her, there was frequent laundry in John’s laundry room—so while the washer and dryer hummed along, Paige did a few things she hoped would help him out—cleaning his bathroom, dusting, making up his bed, running the sweeper around his room. “Can I throw in a load of clothes for you?” she asked.
“I’ll take care of that. Listen, you don’t have to clean up after me.”
She laughed at him. “John, I spend all day in the kitchen, collecting your pots, pans and dishes. It’s becoming a habit.” She laughed at his shocked expression. “You look after my child all day long—you’re pretty much helpless, since he won’t leave you alone. The least I can do is help out.”
“I’m not looking after him,” John said. “We’re buddies.”
“Yeah,” she said. And thought, yeah—buddies.
Lunch was usually busy, and Paige served and bussed. Dinner, from five to eight, was also busy, especially this time of year—fall, hunting season with fishing getting good. After eight there were occasionally lingerers, hanging out over beer or drinks, but the cooking was over for the night. That’s when Paige would take Chris upstairs for his bath and bed, and after that she’d only check in to see if anything needed to be done before she called it a night. Occasionally, she’d have a cup of tea with John.
Preacher liked that time of night, when there was no more dinner to be served, when the kitchen was cleaned, when he could hear Paige running water upstairs. Sometimes he could hear her singing play songs with Chris. Before pouring that last shot for the day, he’d look at his cookbooks, planning dinner for the next day or maybe the next week, making supply lists. The process made him feel he had everything managed efficiently. Preacher was very well organized.
It was about eight-thirty and there were a few hunters in the bar. Jack was handling the front. Buck Anderson had brought Mel a couple of nice-size lamb shanks, which came straight to Preacher. He was reading about lamb shanks hestia with cucumber raita when he heard a small shuffle. He looked over the counter to see Christopher standing at the bottom of the stairs, stark naked, book under one arm, Bear under the other.
Preacher lifted one bushy brow. “Forget something there, pardner?” he asked.
Chris picked at his left butt cheek while hanging on to the bear. “You read to me now?”
“Um… Have you had your bath?” Preacher asked. The boy shook his head. “You look like you’re ready for your bath.” He listened upward to the running water.
Chris nodded, then said again, “You read it?”
“C’mere,” Preacher said.
Chris ran around the counter, happy, raising his arms to be lifted up.
“Wait a second,” Preacher said. “I don’t want little boy butt on my clean counter. Just a sec.” He pulled a clean dish towel out of the drawer, spread it on the counter, then lifted him up, sitting him on it. He looked down at the little boy, frowned slightly, then pulled another dish towel out of the drawer. He shook it out and draped it across Chris’s naked lap. “There. Better. Now, what you got here?”
“Horton,” he said, presenting the book.
“There’s a good chance your mother isn’t going to go for this idea,” he said. But he opened the book and began to read. They hadn’t gotten far when he heard the water stop, heard heavy footfalls racing around the upstairs bedroom, heard Paige yell, “Christopher!”
“We better get our story straight,” Preacher said to him.
“Our story,” Chris said, pointing at the page in front of him.
Momentarily there were feet coming down the stairs, fast. When she got to the bottom, she stopped suddenly. “He got away from me while I was running the tub,” she said.
“Yeah. In fact, he’s dressed like he barely escaped.”
“I’m sorry, John. Christopher, get over here. We’ll read after your bath.”
He started to whine and wiggle. “I want John!”
Paige came impatiently around the counter and plucked him, squirming, into her arms.
“I want John,” he complained.
“John’s busy, Chris. Now, you behave.”
“Uh—Paige? I’m not all that busy. If you’ll tell Jack I’m not in the kitchen for a bit, I could do the bath. Tell Jack, so he knows to lock up if everyone leaves.”
She turned around at the foot of the stairs. “You know how to give a child a bath?” she asked.
“Well, no. But is it hard? Harder than scrubbing up a broiler?”
She chuckled in spite of herself. She put Chris down on his feet. “You might want to go a little easier than that. No Brillo pads, no scraping. No soap in the eyes, if you can help it.”
“I can do that,” Preacher said, coming around the counter. “How many times you dunk him?” She gasped and Preacher showed her a smile. “Kidding. I know you only dunk him twice.”
She
