Kitabı oku: «A Virgin River Novel»

Robyn Carr is an award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than sixty novels, including highly praised women’s fiction such as Four Friends, The Summer That Made Us and The View from Alameda Island, as well as the critically acclaimed Virgin River, Thunder Point and Sullivan's Crossing series. Virgin River is now a Netflix original series. Robyn lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. You can visit her website at robyncarr.com

PRAISE FOR #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR ROBYN CARR

‘The Virgin River books are so compelling—I connected instantly with the characters and just wanted more and more and more.’

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

‘Insightfully realized central figures, a strong supporting cast, family issues, and uncommon emotional complexity make this uplifting story a heart-grabber that won’t let readers go until the very end…. A rewarding (happy) story that will appeal across the board and might require a hanky or two.’

—Library Journal

‘Robyn Carr has done it again.… What We Find is complex, inspirational, and well-written. A romance that truly inspires readers as life hits them the hardest.’ —San Francisco Review Journal

‘With this tale of the soothing splendour of the land and our vulnerability, Carr sets the bar for contemporary romance. The well-paced plot, engaging and well-defined characters, and an inviting setting make Carr’s latest an enhancement not only to the romance shelves but to any fiction collection.’

—Booklist

‘A satisfying reinvention story that handles painful issues with a light and uplifting touch.’

—Kirkus Reviews on The Life She Wants

‘Carr’s new novel demonstrates that classic women’s fiction, illuminating the power of women’s friendships, is still alive and well.’

—Booklist on Four Friends

‘A thought-provoking look at women…and the choices they make.’

—Kirkus Reviews on Four Friends

Also available from Robyn Carr

Sullivan’s Crossing

ANY DAY NOW

WHAT WE FIND

THE FAMILY GATHERING

THE BEST OF US

Virgin River

VIRGIN RIVER

SHELTER MOUNTAIN

WHISPERING ROCK

A VIRGIN RIVER CHRISTMAS

SECOND CHANCE PASS

TEMPTATION RIDGE

PARADISE VALLEY

FORBIDDEN FALLS

ANGEL’S PEAK

MOONLIGHT ROAD

PROMISE CANYON

WILD MAN CREEK

HARVEST MOON

BRING ME HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

HIDDEN SUMMIT

REDWOOD BEND

SUNRISE POINT

MY KIND OF CHRISTMAS

SHELTER MOUNTAIN

ROBYN CARR

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Karen Garris, another precious daughter,

with love

One

A fierce and unseasonably cold September wind blew chilly rain against the windows. Preacher wiped down the bar, and while it was only seven-thirty, it was already dark. No one in Virgin River would be out on a night like this. After the dinner hour was past, people tended to stay in on cold, wet nights. 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 bar while she ate. She shoveled the soup in, smeared the bread with butter and ate it ravenously. Halfway through with her meal she gave him a sheepish, almost apologetic smile. It tore through him, that bruised face, split lip. Her hunger.

When she’d sopped up the last of her soup with the last of her bread, he returned to her table. “I’ll get you some more.”

“No. No, it’s okay. I think I’ll have some of this brandy now. I sure appreciate it. I’ll be on my way in a—”

“Relax,” he said, and hoped he didn’t sound harsh. It took a while for people to warm up to him. He transferred her dishes to the bar, clearing her place. “There isn’t anywhere around here to get a room,” he said when he returned to the table. He sat down across from her, leaned toward her. “The roads aren’t so good out this way, especially in the rain. Really, you don’t want to head back out there. You’re kinda stuck.”

“Oh, no! Listen, if you’ll just tell me the closest place… I have to find something….”

“Take it easy,” he said. “I got an extra room. No problem. It’s a bad night.” Predictably, her eyes widened. “It’s okay. It’s got a lock.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay. I’m kind of scary-looking. I know it.”

“No. It’s just—”

“Don’t worry about it. I know how I look. Works great on guys. They back right off.” He gave her a small smile, not showing any teeth.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said. “I have a car….”

“Jesus, I couldn’t stand to think of you sleeping in a car!” he said. “Sorry. Sometimes I sound as bad as I look. But no kidding—if the kid’s not feeling so good…”

“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know you….”

“Yeah, I know. Probably makes you wonder, huh? But I’m way safer than I look. You’d be okay here. Better here than at some hotel on the freeway, guaranteed. A whole lot more okay than out in that storm, trying to deal with those mountain roads.”

She looked at him hard for a minute. Then she said, “No. I’m just going to press on. If you’ll tell me how much—”

“Pretty rough-looking bruise you have there,” Preacher said. “Can I get you anything for that lip? I have a first aid kit in the kitchen.”

“I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head. “How about if we settle up and—”

“I don’t have anything for a kid’s fever. Except a room. With a lock on the door so you feel safe. You don’t want to pass up an offer like that in this weather, with a kid who might be coming down with something. I look big and mean, but I’m about as safe as you get. Unless you’re wildlife.” He grinned at her.

“You don’t look mean,” she said timidly.

“It can make women and little kids real nervous—and I hate that part. You on the run?” he asked her.

She lowered her eyes.

“What d’you think? I’m gonna call the cops? Who did that to you?”

She immediately started to cry.

“Aw. Hey. Don’t.”

She put her head down on folded arms on the tabletop and sobbed.

“Aw. Come on. Don’t do that. I never know what to do.” Hesitatingly, squeamishly, he touched her back and she jumped. He touched one of her hands, very lightly. “Come on, don’t cry. Maybe I can help.”

“No. You can’t.”

“Never know,” he said, lightly patting her hand.

She lifted her head. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m exhausted, I guess. It was an accident. It was really stupid, but I was struggling with Chris—” She stopped suddenly and looked around nervously, as though worried about being overheard. She licked her lower lip. “I was trying to get Christopher in the car, hanging on to stuff, and I opened the door right into my face. Hard. You shouldn’t be in a hurry, you know? It was just a little accident. It’s fine.” She lifted the napkin to her nose.

“Right,” Preacher said. “Sure. Too bad about that. Looks sore.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Sure it will. So—what’s your name?” When she didn’t answer for a long moment, he said, “It’s okay. I’m not going to repeat it. If anyone came looking for you, I’d never mention seeing you.” Her eyes grew round and her mouth stood open slightly. “Oh, damn, that was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?” he said. “All I mean is, if you’re hiding or running, it’s okay. You can hide or run here. I won’t give you up. What’s your name?”

She reached out and ran her fingers gently through the boy’s hair. Silent.

Preacher got up and flipped off the Open sign and threw the latch on the door. “There,” he said, sitting down with her again, the little boy taking up much of the table beside them. “Try to take it easy,” he said softly. “No one here’s gonna hurt you. I can be a friend. I’m sure not scared of the weak dick who’d do that to a woman. Sorry.”

She looked down to avoid eye contact. “It was the car door…”

“Not afraid of any mean old car door, either,” he said.

She gave a little huff of laughter, but had trouble looking him in the eye. She picked up her brandy with a slightly trembling hand and lifted it to her mouth.

“Yeah, there you go,” Preacher said. “If you think the boy needs a doctor tonight, there’s one right across the street. I could go get him. Or take you over.”

“I think he’s just coming down with a cold. I’m keeping a close eye on him.”

“If he needs medicine or something…”

“I think he’s okay….”

“My buddy, the guy who owns this place, his wife is a nurse. A special nurse—she can give medicine, see patients…. She takes real good care of the women around here. She’d come in ten minutes. If a woman makes a difference, under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” she asked, a panicked look floating across her features.

“Car door, and all that…”

“No. Really. It’s just been a long day. You know.”

“Yeah, must’ve been. And the last hour or so off the freeway, that must’ve been pretty awful. If you’re not used to those roads.”

“A little scary,” she admitted softly. “And not having any idea where I am…”

“You’re in Virgin River now, that’s what matters. It’s just a little crimp in the road, but the people are good. Help out where they can. You know?”

She gave him a small, shy smile, but her eyes were downcast again.

“What’s your name?” he asked again. She pursed her lips tight, shaking her head. Her eyes welled up again. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Really.”

“Paige,” she whispered, a tear running down her cheek. “Paige,” she repeated in a small voice.

“Yeah, that’s good. That’s a pretty name. You can say your name around here without being afraid.”

“Your name?”

“John,” he said, then wondered why he had done that. Something about her, he guessed. “John Middleton. No one calls me John, though. I’m known as Preacher.”

“You’re a preacher?”

“No,” he said with a short laugh. “Way far from it. The only one ever to call me John was my mother.”

“What did your father call you?” she asked him.

“Kid,” he said, and smiled. “Hey, kid,” he emphasized.

“Why do they call you Preacher?”

“Aw,” he said, ducking shyly. “I don’t know. I got the nickname way back, when I was just a kid in the Marine Corps. The boys said I was kinda straitlaced and uptight.”

“Really? Are you?”

“Nah, not really,” he said. “I never used to curse at all. I used to go to mass, when there was a mass. I grew up around priests and nuns—my mother was real devout. None of the boys ever went to mass, that I remember. And I kind of hung back when they went out to get drunk and look for women. I don’t know… I never felt like doing that. I’m not good with women.” He smiled suddenly. “That should be obvious right away, huh? And getting drunk never really appealed to me.”

“But you have a bar?” she asked.

“It’s Jack’s bar. He watches over people real good. We don’t let anybody out of here if they’re not safe, you know? I like a shot at the end of the day, but no reason to get a headache over it, right?” He grinned at her.

“Should I call you John?” she asked him. “Or Preacher?”

“Whatever you want.”

“John,” she said. “Okay?”

“If you want. Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I like that. Been a while since anyone called me that.”

She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them again. “I really appreciate this, John. You staying open and everything.”

“It’s not a big deal. Most nights we’re open later than this.” Preacher inclined his head toward the boy. “He going to wake up hungry?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I had some peanut butter and jelly in the car, and he went through that pretty fast.”

“Okay, there’s an extra room upstairs, right above the kitchen. You help yourself in the kitchen—I’ll leave a light on for you. Anything you want. There’s milk in the refrigerator. And orange juice. Cereal, bread, peanut butter, more of that soup in the fridge and a microwave. Okay?”

“That’s very nice of you, but—”

“Paige, you look like you could use some rest, and if the boy’s coming down with something, you don’t want to take him out in that cold, wet mess.”

She thought about it for a second and then said, “How much?”

He laughed in spite of himself, then sobered quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that—it’s my old room. It’s not a hotel room or anything. I lived up there for two years, but then Jack and Mel got married and I got his apartment out back. That room over the kitchen—smells a little like bacon and coffee in the morning, but it’s a good size, with a big bathroom. It would do for a night.” He shrugged. “Just being a good neighbor. Okay?”

“That’s generous,” she said.

“I’m not putting myself out any—it’s an empty room. Glad to help out.” He cleared his throat. “Got a suitcase I can get for you or anything?”

“Only one, on the backseat.”

“I’ll get it for you. You get your brandy there,” he said. “Give yourself another shot if you need it. If I were you, I’d need it, after driving through these hills in the rain.” He stood up. “Bring it with you and I’ll show you the room. Upstairs. Um—you want me to carry the kid up for you?”

She stood, as well. “Thanks.” She stretched her shoulders—as if stiff from a long drive. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not a problem,” he said. “Listen, so you don’t worry, your room and my apartment aren’t even connected—we’re separated by the kitchen and stairs. You just lock your door and rest easy.” He gently and clumsily lifted the little boy into his arms. His head went onto Preacher’s shoulder and it felt odd. Preacher didn’t have a lot of experience with carrying around children, but he liked the way it felt. He gave the boy’s back a few long, slow strokes. “This way.”

He led the way through the kitchen and up the back staircase. He opened the door and said, “Sorry. It’s kind of a mess. I left some things up here, like my weights. But the sheets are clean.”

“It looks fine,” she said. “I’ll get out first thing in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about it. If you need a couple of days, we can work it out. Like I said, it’s not exactly for rent or anything. Just sits empty. I mean, if the kid’s got a little bug or something…”

He laid the boy gently on the bed, strangely reluctant to put him down. The warmth of the child against his chest was comforting. He couldn’t resist touching his floppy blond hair. Beautiful little kid. “How about some car keys? Might as well go get that suitcase….”

She dug around in her quilted bag, which looked kind of like a diaper bag, although the boy was too big for diapers. She passed him the keys.

“Just be a minute,” he said.

Preacher went to her car, a little Honda, and got in. He had to put the seat all the way back and his knees still rubbed against the steering wheel. He pulled it around to the back of the building and parked it beside his truck where it couldn’t be seen from the main street in case someone was looking for her. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain that—he wouldn’t want her to be afraid.

He plucked the suitcase out of the back; it was way too small for someone who was taking a trip. It was the right size for someone getting out with the clothes on her back.

When he was back in the upstairs room, she was sitting tensely on the edge of the bed, her son behind her. He put down the suitcase, placed the keys on the bureau right inside the door and shuffled a little in the doorway. She stood up and faced him. “Look. Ah. I moved your car—put it right out back by my truck. Off the street. It’s out of sight from the road now. So if you get up or look out, you’re not confused about that—it’s right out back. I recommend you sit tight, wait out this rain, travel in dry daylight. But if you get—you know—nervous, the bar only locks on the inside and here are your keys. It’s no big deal if you. Like if you can’t relax and have to leave, it’s no big deal if the bar door’s left unlocked—this is a real quiet, safe place. Sometimes we forget to lock up, anyway. I’ll get it locked for sure tonight, you and the kid being here. Um… Paige… you don’t have to be worried or anything. I’m a pretty reliable guy. Or else Jack wouldn’t leave me with the bar. Okay? Just get some rest.”

“Thank you,” she said, and it was barely a sound.

He pulled the door closed. He heard her move the dead bolt, protecting herself. For the first time since coming to this little town, he wondered why that dead bolt had ever been installed.

He stood there a minute. It had taken him about five seconds to conclude someone—ninety-eight-percent chance a boyfriend or husband—had belted her in the face and she was on the run with her kid. It wasn’t like he didn’t know that stuff happened. It happened all the time. He just never understood what satisfaction a man could get out of hitting a woman. It made no sense to him. If you have a pretty young woman like that, you treat her right. Hold her safe against you and protect her.

He went to the bar, turned off the lights, checked the kitchen, leaving a light on in case she came downstairs, then went to his apartment behind the kitchen. He was only there a few minutes when it occurred to him that there were no longer clean towels up there—he’d emptied the bathroom and moved all his downstairs. He went to the bathroom, gathered up a stack of clean white towels and went back upstairs.

The door was open a crack, like maybe she’d already been down to the kitchen. He could see a glass of orange juice sitting on the bureau inside the door and it pleased him that she’d helped herself. Through that space of an inch, he saw her reflection in the bureau mirror. Her back faced the mirror and she had pulled her bulky sweatshirt up over her head and shoulders, trying to get a glimpse of her back and upper arms in the mirror. She was covered with bruises. Lots of big bruises on her back, one on her shoulder and upper arms.

Preacher was mesmerized. For a moment his eyes were locked on those purple splotches. “Aw, Jesus,” he whispered in a breath.

He quickly backed away from the slit in the door and got up against the wall outside, out of sight. It took him a moment to collect himself; he was stricken. Horrified. All he could think was, what kind of animal does something like that? His mouth hung open because he couldn’t imagine this. He was a warrior, a trained fighter, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t done that much damage to a man equal to him in size, in a fair fight.

Some instinct kicked in that told him he shouldn’t let on that he’d seen. She was already afraid of everything, including him. But there was also the reality that this wasn’t a woman who’d been smacked. She’d been pummeled. He didn’t even know the girl, yet all he wanted was to kill the son of a bitch who’d done that to her. After five or eleven months of beatings, then death for the sorry bastard.

She shouldn’t know he was feeling that; it would scare her to death. He took a few deep breaths, composed himself. Then he tapped lightly on the door.

“Huh?” he heard her say, sounding startled.

“Just some towels,” he said.

“One second, okay?”

“Take your time.”

Momentarily she opened the door a tiny bit farther, her sweatshirt back in place.

“I forgot, I took all the bathroom stuff out,” he said. “You’ll need some towels. I’ll leave you alone now. Won’t bother you again.”

“Thank you. John.”

“No problem. Paige. Get some good rest.”

Paige pulled the bureau carefully, as quietly as possible, in front of the door. She really hoped John hadn’t heard that, but as close as she could figure out, the kitchen was right beneath this room. And—if the man meant her or Christopher any harm, he could have already delivered it, not to mention that a locked door and empty bedroom dresser couldn’t possibly keep him out.

As much as she’d have liked a hot soak in a tub, she felt too vulnerable to get naked. She couldn’t talk herself into the shower, either—she might not hear the doorknob rattle or Christopher call out to her—so she washed up in the sink and put on clean clothes. Then, leaving the bathroom light on, she lay carefully on the bed, on top of the covers. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but after a little while she calmed down. She stared at the ceiling, the wood slats forming a perfect V over her head. What came to mind was that this was the third time in her life she’d lain in bed looking at such a ceiling.

The first time was in the house she grew up in—the beams were bare, pink insulation puffing out between them. The house was small, only two bedrooms, and already old when her parents moved in, but the neighborhood had been clean and quiet then, twenty years ago. Her mother moved her into the attic when she was nine; she shared her space with boxes of stored household goods pushed back against one wall. But it was her space, and she escaped to it whenever she could. From her bed she could hear her mother and father arguing. After her father’s death when she was eleven, she could hear her older brother, Bud, argue with their mother.

From what she had learned about domestic battery in the last few years, she should have expected to end up with an abuser, even though her father never hit her or her mother, and the worst she ever got from Bud was a shove or slug in the arm. But man, could the men in her family yell. So loud, so mad, she wondered why the windows didn’t crack. Demand, belittle, insult, accuse, sulk, punish with the meanest words. It was just a matter of degrees; abuse is abuse.

The next time she had found herself staring at a ceiling like this one was after she left home. She’d gone to beauty school after high school and stayed home with her mother, paying rent, until she was twenty-one. Then she and two girlfriends—also beauticians—rented half an old house. Paige had happily taken the attic bedroom, though it wasn’t even as large as her childhood room and most of the time she had to crouch to keep from hitting her head on the slanted walls.

Tears came to her eyes because she remembered those two years with Pat and Jeannie as the happiest in her life. Sometimes she missed them so much it made her ache. Three hairdressers, mostly broke after rent, food and clothes—it had seemed like heaven. When they couldn’t afford to go out, they’d buy popcorn and cheap wine and make a party of it at home, gossiping about women whose hair they cut and frosted, about boyfriends and sex, laughing till they couldn’t sit up straight.

Then Wes came into her life, a successful businessman, six years older. It was shocking to realize he’d been the age she was now—twenty-nine. Yet he’d seemed so worldly, mature. She’d been styling his hair for only a couple of months when he asked her out and took her to a restaurant so fine the hostesses were better dressed than she was. He drove a brand-new Grand Prix with cushy leather seats, darkly tinted windows. And he drove too fast, which at twenty-three didn’t seem dangerous. It was thrilling. Even though he yelled at and flipped off other drivers, it seemed his right—he was powerful. By her standards, rich.

He had a house already, which he didn’t even have to share with roommates. His career was trading stocks and commodities; an exhausting job that required brilliance and high energy. He wanted to go out every night, bought her things, pulled his wallet out of his pocket and said, “I don’t know what you really want, what little thing would just make you cry it’s so perfect, so I want you to shop for yourself. Because you being happy is the only thing that matters to me in the world.” He’d peeled off a couple of bills and handed her two hundred dollars, a veritable fortune.

Pat and Jeannie didn’t like him, but there was hardly a mystery in that. He wasn’t all that nice to them. He treated them like wallpaper, furniture. Answered their questions with one word when he could. In fact, she couldn’t remember what they said about him when they tried to warn her off.

Then came the insanity of her life spiraling out of control that to this day seemed impossible: he’d hit her before they married, and she’d married him anyway. They’d been in his fancy car, parked, having an argument about where she was living—he thought she’d be better off at home with her mother rather than that old half a house in a questionable neighborhood with a couple of dykes. It got pretty nasty; she’d said her share of ugly things to him. He said something like, “I want you with your mother, not in some little whorehouse in the ghetto.”

Just who the fuck do you think you are, calling where I live a whorehouse?

How do you use that language with me?

You called my best friends dykes and whores and it’s my language you criticize?

I’m just thinking about your safety. You said you wanted to marry me someday, and I’d like you to still be around when that happens!

Well up yours, because I love living there and you can’t tell me what to do! And I’m not marrying anyone who can talk about my best friends like that!

There was more. More. She vaguely remembered calling him a bad name, like prick or asshole. He called her a bitch, a difficult bitch. In any case, they both contributed, she was sure of that.

He’d slapped her, open palm. Then he immediately broke down, collapsed, cried like a baby, said he wasn’t sure what had happened to him, but maybe it was because he’d never been in love like this before. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong to overreact that way, he was crazy, he was ashamed. But… he wanted to hold her in his arms every night, take care of her for the rest of her life, never lose her. He apologized for what he’d said about the roommates—maybe he was jealous of how loyal she was to them. In his mind he couldn’t see past her; there was no one in his life he valued like he valued her. He loved her so much it made him nuts, he said. She was the first person he’d ever felt that way about. Without her, he was nothing!

She believed him. But she never used profanity around him again.

She hadn’t told Pat and Jeannie because even though she was stupid about what was happening, she knew better than to risk their further disapproval. It only took her a couple of days to get over that slap. It wasn’t much of a slap. It didn’t take more than a month for her to almost forget it happened and trust him again; she thought him handsome, exciting, sexy. He was edgy and confident. Smart. Passive men couldn’t get the kind of success he had. She wasn’t attracted to passive men.

Then he said, “Paige, I don’t want to wait. I want us to get married as soon as you’re ready. A nice wedding—screw the cost, I can afford whatever you want. Ask Pat and Jeannie to stand up for us. And you can quit your job—you don’t have to work anymore.”

Her legs hurt; she was getting bunions. Fixing hair six days a week was no easy job, even though she had liked it. She’d often thought how much more she’d like it if she only had to do it about six hours a day, four days a week, but that seemed an impossible dream. She could barely make ends meet as it was, and her mother had been working two jobs since her father died. In her mother, she saw her future—alone, weak and worked to death. A picture of her surly roommates wearing pretty satin at her wedding, smiling, envious of her good fortune and the cushy life she’d have. And she’d said yes.

He hit her again on the honeymoon.

Over the next six years she’d tried everything—counseling, police, running away. He got out of jail right away, if they even bothered to take him in; he found her in hiding, and it just got worse. Even her pregnancy and Christopher’s arrival hadn’t stopped the abuse. She discovered by accident that there might be a little more to this equation—a certain chemistry that gave him such energy to work those long hours and wear himself out keeping track of her, the fits of euphoria, the skull-splitting temper—some white powder in a small vial. Cocaine? And he took something his personal trainer gave him, though he swore it wasn’t steroids. A lot of traders used amphetamines to keep up with the demands of the job. Cocaine users tended to be reed-thin, but Wes was proud of his body, his build, and worked hard on his muscles. A coke and steroid regimen, she realized, could make his temper hair-trigger short. She had no idea how much, how long. But she knew he was crazy.

This was her last chance. Through a shelter she’d met a woman who said she could help her get away, change her identity and flee. There was an underground for battered women and children in hopeless situations. If she and Christopher could just get to the first contact, they would be passed along from place to place, collecting new ID, names, histories and lives along the way. The upside was—it worked a lot. It was nearly foolproof when the woman followed instructions and the children were young enough. The downside was, it was illegal, and for life. Life like this, covered in bruises, afraid she’d be killed every day—or a life of being someone else, someone who isn’t hit?

She started squirreling away money from her grocery allowance and packed a bag that she hid with a contact from a shelter. She managed almost five hundred dollars and fully intended to get herself and Christopher out before another bad episode occurred. With the last beating, she knew she was nearly too late.

And here she was, looking at her third V-shaped ceiling. She knew she wouldn’t sleep; she’d hardly slept in six years. No worries about the drive—with so much adrenaline going on, she’d make it.

But then she woke up to sunlight and a regular thwacking noise outside. Someone was chopping wood. She sat up cautiously and smelled coffee. She had slept after all. And so had Christopher.

The dresser was still pushed against the door.

Two

Preacher barely slept. He spent half the night on the computer. It was like this little machine was invented for him, because he liked to look things up. He had been trying to get Jack to put the inventory and receipts on the computer, but Jack had a clipboard that was like an extension of his arm and wanted nothing to do with Preacher’s technology. It was slow, there being no cable hookup out here, but he was patient. And it got the job done.

The rest of the night was spent trying to catch some sleep, which eluded him completely. He got out of bed several times and looked out the back window to see if the little Honda was still there. He finally got up for the day at five, when it was still black as pitch outside. He went into the kitchen, started the coffee, laid a fresh fire. There was no sound from upstairs.

The rain had stopped, but it was overcast and chilly. He’d have liked to go ahead and split logs, work off some aggression, but Jack liked doing that, so he let it go. At six-thirty, Jack came into the bar, all smiles. This was the happiest man in Virgin River since he got married. It was as if he couldn’t stop grinning.

Preacher stood behind the bar with his coffee mug and lifted his chin in greeting to his best friend. “Hey,” Jack said. “Good rain.”

“Jack,” he said. “Listen. I did something…”

Jack shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the peg inside the door. “Pee in the soup again, Preacher?”

“I got a woman upstairs…”

Pure shock settled over Jack’s face. Preacher didn’t have women around. He didn’t prowl, didn’t flirt, didn’t do any of that. Of course, Jack didn’t really know how he lived like that, but this was Preacher. When the guys, the Marines they had served with, were all out looking for women to pass the night with, Preacher stayed behind. They jokingly called him the Big Eunuch. “Oh, yeah?” he asked.

Preacher took down a mug and filled it for Jack. “She came in last night, during the storm,” he said. “She’s got a kid with her—little,” he said, measuring with his huge hands. “Kid might be coming down with something. He’s got a fever, she said. I gave her my old room because there’s no place to stay around here….”

“Well,” Jack said, picking up his coffee. “That was nice of you. I guess. She steal the silver or anything?”

Preacher made a face. They didn’t have silver; the only thing worth stealing was the cash, locked up tight. Or liquor—way too much trouble for a woman with a kid. Not that any of that ever crossed his mind. “She’s probably in some trouble,” Preacher said. “She’s got… Looks like maybe she’s been in some trouble. Maybe she’s running or something.”

Again, Jack was shocked. “Huh?”

Preacher stared hard into Jack’s eyes. “I think she needs some help,” he said, when in fact he knew she needed help. “She’s got a bruise on her face.”

“Oh, boy,” Jack said.

“Mel coming in to Doc’s?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“She needs to have a look at the kid—make sure he’s not sick. You know. And the woman—Paige—she says she’s all right, but maybe… Maybe Mel can—I don’t know—be sure.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, taking a sip from his mug. “Then what?”

Preacher shrugged. “She’s gonna want to get out of here, I think. She’s all skittish. She seems scared. I want her to at least see Mel.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“Yeah. That’s what we’ll do. Ask her to let Mel have a look. But I can’t make her, you know. I think you should do it. Talk to her, suggest it to her….”

“Nah, Preach, you can handle this. It’s your deal—I haven’t seen her or anything. You just talk to her. Quiet and soft. Try not to scare her.”

“She’s already scared, which is how I figure she’s in some trouble. The kid hasn’t seen me yet, though—he was asleep. He’ll probably run screaming.”

At seven-thirty Preacher fixed up a tray with some cereal in bowls, toast, coffee, orange juice and milk. He went up the back stairs and gently tapped on the door. It opened immediately. Paige had showered and dressed. She wore the same jeans and a long-sleeved chambray shirt. A little black-and-blue spot peeked out from the opened collar and Preacher immediately felt steamed up, but he tried to keep it from showing on his face. Instead, he focused on her eyes, which were a deep emerald-green, and her damp hair, which fell in curly tendrils to her shoulders. “Morning,” he said, trying to keep his voice quiet and soft, like Jack would.

“Hey,” she said. “You’re up early.”

“I’ve been up forever,” he said.

“Mom?” came a voice from behind her. He looked past her and saw the little kid, Christopher, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.

She opened the door for Preacher and he came in, putting the tray on the bureau just inside the door. He stayed by the door and gave the kid a nod. He tried to relax his features into softness, but wasn’t sure how to do that. “Hey, little buddy. You want some breakfast?”

The kid shrugged, but his round eyes were wide and focused on Preacher.

“He’s not so good with men,” Paige whispered softly. “Shy.”

“Yeah?” Preacher asked. “Me, too. Don’t worry—I’ll stay back.”

He looked at the child and tried out a smile. Then the kid pointed at Preacher’s head and said, “You hafta shabe that?”

It made Preacher laugh. “Yeah. Wanna feel?” he asked. He approached the bed slowly, carefully, bending his bald head toward the kid. He felt a small hand rub over his dome and it made him laugh again. He raised his head and said, “Cool, huh?” And the kid nodded.

Preacher went back to Paige. “My buddy’s wife, Melinda, she’s coming to Doc’s this morning and I wanna take you over there. Let her have a look at the kid, make sure he’s okay, and if he needs medicine or anything, she’ll fix you right up.”

“She’s a nurse, you say?”

“Yeah. A special nurse. A midwife. She delivers babies and that.”

“Oh,” Paige said, a little more interested. “That’s probably a good idea. But I don’t have much money—”

He laughed. “We don’t worry about things like that around here, if someone could use a little help. It’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure…”

“It’s all good. Come on downstairs when you’re ready. Mel will be over there about eight, but take your time. Not too many people get sick around here and they’re not usually busy.”

“Okay. Then we’ll press on….”

“Um, if you need to, you can stay a couple of days. I mean, if he’s not feeling so well. Or, if you’re tired from driving.”

“I’ll probably just get back on the road.”

“Where you headed?” he asked. “You never mentioned.”

“Just a little farther. I have a friend… We’re going to visit a friend.”

“Ah,” he said, but if it had been just a little farther, she’d have kept going. “Well, you think about it. Open offer.”

While Christopher sat cross-legged on the bed to eat cereal, Paige leaned toward the mirror, dabbing makeup on her purple cheek, covering it as best she could. It had at least lightened somewhat. But there was nothing she could do about the split lip, which was scabbing over. Christopher would touch it and say, “Mommy’s owie.”

Her mind wandered back to that last beating. The part that still shook her was not being able to remember what had really started it. Something about Christopher’s toys being strewn all over the family room, and then Wes’s suit not back from the dry cleaners. He wasn’t happy about what she’d made for dinner. Or was it what she had said about the toys? “Jesus, Wes, he has toys—he plays with them. Just give me a minute.” Had he slapped her then? No, right after that, when she muttered, under her breath, “Don’t get excited, don’t get mean, just let me do it…”

How could she not know that he’d react like that? Because she never knew how he would react. They’d had months of no violence. But she had seen it in his eyes when he came home from the office. It was already there—eyes that said, I’m going to hit you and hit you and hit you some more and neither of us will know exactly why. As usual, by the time she zoned in on that dangerous gleam, it was too late.

She had started spotting then, in danger of losing the baby—the new baby that she’d recently told him about. Big surprise—since he had kicked her. So she dragged herself out of the bed and went to pick up Christopher at day care. The girl behind the desk, Debbie, had gasped when she saw Paige’s face. Then she stammered, “M-Mr. Lassiter asked us to call him if you came for Christopher.”

“Look at me, Debbie. Maybe you could forget to call him. Just this once. Maybe for a while.”

“I don’t know…”

“He’s not going to hit you,” she had said boldly.

“Mrs. Lassiter, maybe you should call the police or something?”

And Paige had laughed hollowly. Right. “I guess you think I haven’t.”

At least she’d gotten out of town. With her one suitcase, almost five hundred dollars and an address in Spokane.

And here she was, waking up under another V-shaped ceiling. Still scared to death, but at least in the moment, apparently safe.

While Christopher ate, she poked around a little, not touching anything. It wasn’t a real big room, but there was enough space for Preacher’s bench and weights. She looked at a couple of barbells on the floor—sixty pounds each. On the press he had stacked four hundred pounds; Wes had bragged incessantly about his two-fifty.

There was a medium-size bookcase against the wall, full, books stacked on the floor beside it and on top. She held her hands behind her back; force of habit—Wes didn’t like her touching his things, except his dirty laundry. Weird titles—the biography of Napoléon, World War Two warplanes, medieval armies. Hitler’s Occupation—that sent a chill through her. Most of them were pretty worn, old. Some new. She couldn’t spot a fiction title—all nonfiction, all military or political subjects. Maybe they had belonged to his father or an uncle. He didn’t exactly look like a big reader, though he sure looked like a weight-lifter.

When Chris was done with his breakfast, she put on his jacket, then her own, picking up the quilted bag to hang over her shoulder. She left the suitcase, packed, on the bed and carried the breakfast tray down the back stairs. John was in the kitchen wearing an apron, flipping sausage patties, an omelet pan steaming over a high flame. “Go ahead and set that down right on the counter and give me one minute,” he said. “I’ll walk you over.”

“I could wash these up,” she said meekly.

“Nah, I got it.” Paige watched as he pressed the patties with his big spatula and sprinkled cheese on the omelet, then deftly folded and flipped it. Toast popped up, was buttered and everything put on a large oval plate. He took off his apron and hung it on a hook. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that was stretched so tight across the broad expanse of his chest it looked like it should split. The biceps on the man were like melons. If he’d been wearing a white T-shirt, he’d look like Mr. Clean.

He plucked a denim jacket off the peg and shrugged into it. He picked up the plate and said, “Come on,” and walked into the bar. He put the plate down in front of a man who sat at the bar, quickly refilled the man’s coffee and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Here’s the pot. Jack’s out back if you need anything.”

Paige stole a look out the back door window where she saw a man in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt hefting an ax over his head and bringing it down to split a log. That had been what woke her. She took note of the muscular shoulders and broad back—not as pronounced as John’s, but still impressive.

Wes was not nearly as big as either of these men; he was about six feet and in good shape, but as for muscles, nothing by comparison, even with his chemical assistance. If John raised a fist to a woman the way Wes had done, she wouldn’t live to tell about it. She shuddered involuntarily.

“Look, Mommy,” Chris said, pointing to the mounted stag’s head over the door.

“I see. Wow.” The place did look like a hunting lodge.

John stuck his head out the back door and yelled, “Jack! I’m walking over to Doc’s. Be right back.”

Then he turned toward her and gave a nod. He opened the door for her to follow him outside. “How’s he feeling this morning?” he asked.

“He ate breakfast. That’s good.”

“That’s good,” John agreed. “The fever?” he whispered.

“I don’t have a thermometer with me, so I’m not sure. He feels a little warm.”

“Good to let Mel check, then,” he said, walking alongside her but careful not to get too close. She held her son’s hand, but Preacher put his in his pockets. He glanced at the boy; the boy glanced around his mother at him. They eyed each other warily. “It’ll be okay,” he said to her. “Mel’s the best. You’ll see.”

Paige looked up at him, smiled sweetly, and it made him feel all soupy inside. Her eyes were so sad, so scared. She couldn’t help it, he understood that. If it weren’t for the fear, he might actually take her hand to give her courage—but she wasn’t just afraid of whoever did that to her. She was afraid of everything, including him. “Don’t be nervous,” he said to her. “Mel’s very kind.”

“I’m not nervous,” she said.

“After I introduce you, I’ll go back over there. Unless you want me to stay? In case you need me for anything?”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

Melinda sat on Doc’s front steps with her morning coffee, listening to the loud crack of Jack’s ax as he split logs. He had called her when he got to the bar and said, “Put a wiggle in it, babe. Preacher’s got a patient for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asked.

“Some woman stumbled into the bar last night during the storm and he put her up for the night. Says she’s got a kid who might be feverish. And he also said he thinks she might be in trouble…”

“Oh? What kind of trouble?” Mel asked.

“No idea,” he said. “I haven’t even seen her yet. He gave her his old room, upstairs.”

“Okay, I’ll be along shortly.” Out of instinct, she put her digital camera in her bag. Now, watching the front of the bar, she saw something she had never expected to see. Preacher held the door for a woman and a child and walked them across the street. He seemed to be talking to her in soft tones, leaning close, a concerned look on his face. Amazing. Preacher was a man of so few words. Mel thought she remembered being in town for a month before he said ten words in a row to her. For him to take in a stranger like this was both very like him, yet so unprecedented.

As they neared, Mel stood up. The woman appeared to be in her twenties with a dark stain on her cheek that she’d tried to cover with makeup. She couldn’t cover the split lip, however. There’s the trouble Preacher had seen. It made Mel wince. But she smiled and said, “Hi. Mel Sheridan.”

She faltered. “Paige,” she finally said, then looked over her shoulder nervously.

“It’s okay, Paige,” Preacher said. “You’re safe with Mel. Everything with her is top secret. She’s ridiculous about it.”

Mel laughed as if amused. “No, I’m not ridiculous. This is a doctor’s office, a medical clinic. We’re confidential, that’s all. It’s very simple. Standard.” She reached out to shake Paige’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Paige.”

Paige took the offered hand and looked over her shoulder at Preacher. “Thank you, John.”

“John?” Mel asked. She laughed lightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call you John.” She tilted her head a bit. “Kind of nice. John.” Then she said, “Come with me, Paige.” And she led the way.

Inside the house they passed by Doc, who sat at the reception desk behind a computer. He looked up briefly, gave a nod, then went back to his work. “That’s Doc Mullins,” Mel said. “This way.” She opened an exam room door and let Paige precede her into the room. She closed the door and said, “I’m a nurse practitioner and midwife, Paige. I can have a look at your son if you’d like. Now, I understand you suspect a fever?”

“He’s kind of warm. Not too much energy…”

“Let’s have a look,” Mel said, briskly taking charge. She bent down and asked the little boy if he’d been to the doctor before. She hefted him up on the exam table, showed him the digital thermometer and asked him if he knew what to do with that. He pointed to his ear and Mel laughed happily. “You’re an expert at this,” she said. She picked up the stethoscope and asked, “Mind if I listen to your heart?” He shook his head. “I’ll try not to tickle, but it’s hard for me, because tickling is kind of fun—I just love hearing the giggles.” On cue, he laughed, though softly. Mel let him listen to his own heart, then hers. She palpated his lymph nodes while he listened to his chest, his leg, his hand. She looked in his ears and throat, and by the time she’d gotten that far he was already getting comfortable with her.

“I think he might have a little virus—doesn’t seem to be too serious. His temp is only a hundred. Have you given him anything?”

“Children’s Tylenol, last night.”

“Ah, then he’s in pretty good shape. His throat looks a little red. Keep up the Tylenol, lots of fluids. I don’t think you have to worry. If he gets worse, of course…”

“Then it’s safe to just keep driving…?”

Mel shrugged. “I don’t know, Paige. Want to talk about you? I’m here to help, if I can.”

Her gaze instantly dropped and that was really all it took. Mel knew where this was going. She’d spent years in a big-city emergency room, and had seen more than her share of battery victims. The bruise on the young woman’s face, the split lip, the fact that she wanted to keep driving… away…

Paige lifted her gaze. “I’m a little pregnant. And spotting.”

“And a couple of bruises?” Mel asked.

Paige averted her gaze and nodded.

“Okay. Would you like me to have a look?”

Paige looked down. “Please,” she said softly. “But what about Chris?”

“Oh, not to worry. I’ve got that covered.” She bent at the waist and smiled into Christopher’s handsome brown eyes. “You like to color, buddy? Because I have a ton of coloring books and crayons.” He nodded shyly. “Good. Come with me.” She helped the little guy down off the exam table and with the other hand, pulled a gown out of the cabinet and handed it to Paige. “Why don’t you put on this gown. I’ll give you a few minutes. And try not to be afraid. I’ll go slow, be gentle.”

“Um… Are you leaving him alone?” Paige asked.

“More or less.” Mel laughed. “I’m leaving him with Doc.”

“He seems a little… shy… around men.”

“It’ll be fine. Doc’s good with kids, especially the shy ones. He’ll just make sure this guy doesn’t do surgery or run away. Beyond that, it’s just coloring. At the kitchen table.”

“If you’re sure…”

“We do it all the time, Paige. It’ll be okay. Try not to worry.”

Mel took Christopher to the kitchen, and after setting him up with coloring books and crayons, she refilled her coffee. Decaf. She wasn’t enjoying coffee nearly as much these days. Then she went to the office and got out a new patient form. Given the situation she believed she faced, she would examine the patient first before frightening her with paperwork. Clipboard in hand, she asked Doc to keep an eye on the child in the kitchen while she performed a pelvic.

Being a few months pregnant herself, Mel had a sick feeling at the thought of anyone hitting a pregnant woman. It never ceased to amaze her that a man could live with himself after doing something like that. Forms on her clipboard, her small digital camera in her shirt pocket, stethoscope around her neck, coffee in hand, she tapped on the door and heard Paige softly say, “Come in.”

She put the clipboard and her coffee on the counter and said, “Okay, then… Let’s get your blood pressure first.” She picked up the blood pressure cuff and went to apply it to Paige’s arm and was frozen. There was a huge hematoma that covered much of her upper arm.

Mel put the cuff aside and gently pulled the gown away from Paige’s back; she had to concentrate not to gasp. She pulled the gown over Paige’s shoulder, down her arm, exposing the bruises on her back, arm, chest. She carefully lifted the gown at the bottom, exposing her thighs. More bruises. She looked at the girl’s face. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “Paige,” Mel said in a whisper. “My God…”

Paige put her hands over her face. Shame at having let it happen.

“Have you been raped?” Mel asked gently.

She shook her head, tears flowing. “No.”

“Who did this to you?” she asked. Paige just closed her eyes and shook her head. “It’s okay. You’re safe right now.”

“My husband,” she answered in a whisper.

“And you’re running away from him?”

She nodded.

“Here, let me help you lie down, slowly. Carefully… Are you all right?” Paige nodded, not making eye contact, and reclined on the exam table. Mel gently moved the gown around. Her chest, breasts, arms, legs—all covered in bruises. Mel palpated her abdomen and Paige winced. “Does it hurt here? Here?” When Paige nodded or shook her head, Mel moved on. “Here? Here?” Mel gently rolled her from one side to the other—her buttocks were bruised, as were her lower back and upper thighs. “Any blood in your urine?” she asked, and Paige shrugged. She didn’t know. “The only way I can get a clean urine specimen if you’re spotting is with a catheter, Paige. Would you like me to do that? Just to be sure?”

“Oh, God. Do you have to?”

“It’s okay. Let’s check what we can, first. Any chance you’ve had an ultrasound with this pregnancy?”

“I haven’t even been to the doctor yet,” she said.

Another symptom, Mel thought. Battered women didn’t take care of themselves, or their pregnancies, out of fear.

Paige sucked on her sore bottom lip, staring at the ceiling through glassy eyes while Mel examined her. “Okay, let me help you sit up. Easy does it.” Mel listened to Paige’s heart, looked in her ears, checked her head for lumps and lacerations. “Well, Paige, you don’t appear to have broken bones. At least none that I can detect. I wouldn’t mind getting an X ray of your ribs, just to be sure, since you have some tenderness there, but with you being pregnant and all. Frankly, if it were up to me, I’d admit you to the hospital.”

“No. No hospitals. I can’t have any records of any kind…”

“I understand, but realize, this looks very scary. How heavy is the bleeding?”

“Not too bad. Less than, say, a period.”

“Okay, lie back and slide down. I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

When she was in the position, Mel pulled on her gloves and took her stool. She touched the inside of Paige’s thigh before touching her external genitalia. “I’m not going to use a speculum for this exam, Paige. Just a pelvic to estimate the size of the uterus. If you have any discomfort at all, please tell me.” She inserted two fingers, gently pressing down on her lower abdomen with the other hand. “Do you know how far along you are?”

“Just over eight weeks.”

“Okay. When we’re done here I’ll have you take a pregnancy test. If the fetus was still viable—alive—as of a day or so ago, it should come out positive, but it won’t tell us much about the past twenty-four hours, I’m afraid. I don’t have an ultrasound, but there’s one a couple of towns over that we use when necessary. But. One thing at a time. Uterus is normal for an eight-week pregnancy.” Mel made a derisive sound. “Paige, you’ve been through such a lot.” She removed her gloves and offered her hand. “Can you sit up for me, please?”