The campers and fishermen in the area would be locked down tight against the storm. It was bear-and-deer hunting season, but it was unlikely any hunters would pass en route to or from lodges and blinds at this hour in such weather. Jack, his partner and the owner of the bar and grill, knowing there would be little if any business, was tucked away with his new wife at their cabin in the woods. Preacher had also sent home their seventeen-year-old helper, Rick. As soon as the fire burned down a little more, Preacher planned to switch off the Open sign and lock the door.
He poured himself a shot of whiskey and took it over to the table nearest the fire, then turned a chair toward the hearth and propped up his feet. Quiet nights like this were to his liking. He was a solitary kind of guy.
But the peace was not to be. Someone pulled on the door, causing him to frown. It opened a little bit. The wind caught the door and it flew open with a bang, bringing him instantly to his feet. Entering and then struggling to close the door was a young woman holding a child. The woman wore a ball cap and had a heavy quilted bag slung over her shoulder. Preacher went to get the door. She turned, looked up at him and they both jumped back in surprise. She was likely startled because Preacher looked intimidating—he was six foot four, bald with bushy black eyebrows, a diamond stud earring and shoulders about as broad as an ax handle was long.
Under the bill of the baseball cap, Preacher saw a pretty young woman’s face bearing a bruise on her cheek and a split lower lip.
“I’m… I’m sorry. I saw the sign….”
“Yeah, come on in. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out tonight.”
“Are you closing?” she asked, hoisting up her burden, a little boy, not more than three or four years old. He was asleep on her shoulder, his long legs dangling limply. “Because I… Are you closing?”
“Come on,” he said, stepping back for her to pass. “It’s okay. I don’t have anyplace better to go.” He extended an arm toward a table. “Sit by the fire there. Warm up. Dry off.”
“Thanks,” she said meekly. She went to the table by the fire, and when she saw the drink, said, “Is this where you’re sitting?”
“Go ahead. Take it,” he said. “I was having a shot before calling it a night. But there’s no hurry. We don’t usually close this early, anyway, but with the rain…”
“Did you want to get home?” she asked him.
He smiled at her. “I live here. Makes me real flexible on the hours.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure,” he said. “If the weather’s decent, we usually stay open till at least nine.”
She took the chair facing the fire, the boy’s gangly legs straddling her lap. She let her quilted shoulder bag drop to the floor and pulled the child closer, hugging him tight, stroking his back.
Preacher disappeared into the back, leaving her to warm herself for a minute. He came back with a couple of pillows from his bed and the throw from his couch. He put the pillows on the table next to her and said, “Here. Lay the kid down. He’s probably heavy.”
She looked up at him with eyes that seemed to want to cry. Oh, he hoped she wouldn’t do that. He hated when women cried. He had no idea what to do. Jack could handle it. He was chivalrous; he knew exactly what to do with a woman under any circumstance. Preacher was uncomfortable around women until he got to know them. When you got down to it, he was inexperienced. Although it wasn’t intentional, he tended to scare women and children simply because of how he looked. But they didn’t know that underneath his sometimes grim countenance he was shy.
“Thanks,” she said again. She transferred the child to the pillows on the table. He immediately curled into a ball and put a thumb in his mouth. Preacher stood there, lamely holding the throw. She didn’t take it from him so he put it over the boy and tucked it around him. He noticed the boy’s cheeks were rosy and his lips bright pink.
When she reclaimed her chair, she looked around. She saw the stag’s head over the front door and flinched. She turned full circle, noting the bear skin on the wall, the sturgeon over the bar. “Is this some kind of hunting place?” she asked.
“Not really, but a lot of hunters and fishermen pass this way,” he said. “My partner shot the bear in self-defense, but he caught the fish on purpose. One of the biggest sturgeons in the river. I got the buck, but I’d rather fish than hunt. I like the quiet.” He shrugged. “I’m the cook here. If I kill it, we eat it.”
“You can eat deer,” she said.
“And we did. We had a great winter of venison. Maybe you should have a drink,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft and nonthreatening.
“I have to find a place to stay. Where am I, anyway?”
“Virgin River. Kind of out of the way. How’d you find us?”
“I…” She shook her head and a small laugh escaped. “I got off the highway, looking for a town with a hotel…”
“You got off the highway a while ago.”
“There aren’t many places wide enough to turn around,” she said. “Then I saw this place, your sign. My son… I think he has a fever. We shouldn’t drive anymore.”
Preacher knew there wasn’t anyplace to get a room nearby. This was a woman in trouble; it didn’t take a genius to figure that out. “I’ll fix you up with something,” he said. “But first—you want something to drink? Eat? I’ve got a good soup tonight. Bean and ham. And bread. I made the bread today. I like to do that when it’s cold and rainy. How about a brandy to warm you up first?”
“Brandy?”
“Or whatever you feel like…”
“That would be good. Soup would be good, too. I haven’t eaten in hours. Thanks.”
“Sit tight.”
He went to the bar and poured a Remy into a snifter—fancy stuff for this place. He hardly ever used the snifters on the usual crowd—but he wanted to do something special for the girl. For sure she was down on her luck. He took her the brandy and then went back to the kitchen.
The soup was put away for the night, but he took it out of the refrigerator, ladled out a scoop and put it in the microwave. While it warmed, he took her a napkin and some utensils. By the time he got back to the kitchen, the soup was ready and he got out the bread—some of his best: soft, sweet and hearty—and nuked it for a few seconds. He put that and some butter on a plate. When he came out of the kitchen he saw her struggling out of her jacket, like maybe she was stiff or sore. The sight of it stopped him briefly and made him frown. She threw a look over her shoulder, as if she was caught doing something bad.
Preacher put the food in front of her, his mind spinning. She was maybe five foot five and slight. She wore jeans and her curly brown hair was tucked through the back of the ball cap like a ponytail. She looked like a girl, but he guessed she was at least in her twenties. Maybe she’d been in a car accident, but it was more likely someone had smacked her around. The thought alone got him a little hot inside.
“That looks great,” she said, accepting the soup.
He went back behind the
