Shelter Mountain

Praise for the novels of
ROBYN CARR

“The Virgin River books are so compelling —I connected instantly with the characters and just wanted more and more and more.” —New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“ Virgin River is sexy, tense, emotional and satisfying. I can’t wait for more!” —New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers

“A thrilling debut of a series that promises

much to come.”

—New York Times bestselling author Clive Cussler

“Robyn Carr provides readers [with] a powerful,

thought-provoking work of contemporary fiction.”

—Midwest Book Review on Deep in the Valley

“A remarkable storyteller…”

—Library Journal

One

Mike Valenzuela was up and had his Jeep SUV packed long before sunrise. He had a long drive to Los Angeles and meant to get an early start. Depending on traffic around the Bay Area, the drive would be eight to ten hours from Virgin River. He locked up his RV, which was his home. It sat on the property at Jack’s bar and grill; Jack and Preacher would keep an eye on it for him, not that Mike expected any kind of trouble. That was one of several reasons he’d chosen to live here—it was quiet. Small, peaceful, beautiful and nothing to disturb one’s peace of mind. Mike had had enough of that in his former life.

Before coming to Virgin River permanently, Mike had made many trips to this Humboldt County mountain town for hunting and fishing, for gathering with an old marine squad that was still close. His full-time job had been with LAPD, a sergeant in the gangs division. That had all ended when he was shot on the job—he’d taken three bullets and had a lot of hard work getting his body back. He’d needed Preacher’s robust food and Jack’s wife, Mel’s, assistance with physical therapy on his shoulder. After six months, Mike was as close to completely recovered as he’d get.

Since moving to Virgin River, he’d been home only once to visit his parents, siblings and their families. He planned to take a week—one day driving each way and five days with that crowd of laughing, dancing Mexicans. Knowing the traditions of his family, it would be a nonstop celebration. His mother and sisters would cook from morning to night, his brothers would stock the refrigerator with cerveza, family friends and cop buddies from the department would drop by the house. It would be a good time—a good homecoming after his long recovery.

He was three hours into his drive when his cell phone rang. The noise startled him. There was no cell phone reception in Virgin River, so the last thing he expected was a phone call.

“Hello?” he answered.

“I need a favor,” Jack said without preamble. His voice sounded gravelly, as though he was barely awake. He must not have remembered Mike was heading south.

Mike looked at the dash clock. It wasn’t yet 7:00 a.m. He laughed. “Well, sure, but I’m nearly in Santa Rosa, so it might be inconvenient to run over to Garberville and get you ice for the bar, but hey—”

“Mike, it’s Brie,” Jack said. Brie was Jack’s youngest sister, his pet, his favorite. And she was really special to Mike. “She’s in the hospital.”

Mike actually swerved on the highway. “Hold on,” he said. “Stay there.” He pulled off the road onto a safe-looking shoulder. Then he took a deep breath. “Go ahead,” he said.

“She was assaulted sometime last night,” Jack said. “Beaten. Raped.”

“No!” Mike said. “What?”

Jack didn’t repeat himself. “My father just called a little while ago. Mel and I are packing—we’ll get on the road as soon as we can. Listen, I need someone who knows law enforcement, criminology, to walk me through what’s happening with her. They don’t have the guy who did this—there’s got to be an investigation. Right?”

“How bad is she?” Mike asked.

“My dad didn’t have a lot of details, but she’s out of emergency and in a room, sedated and semiconscious, no surgery. Can you write down a couple of numbers? Can you keep your cell phone turned on so I can call you? With questions? That kind of thing?”

“Of course. Yes,” Mike said. “Gimme numbers.”

Jack recited phone numbers for the hospital, Jack’s father, Sam, and Mel’s old cell phone that they’d charge on their way to Sacramento and then carry with them.

“Do they have a suspect? Did she know the guy?”

“I don’t know anything except her condition. After we get on the road, get the phone charged and we’re out of the mountains and through the redwoods, I’ll call my dad and see what he can tell me. Right now I gotta go. I gotta get down there.”

“Right,” Mike said. “Okay. My phone will be in my pocket twenty-four-seven. I’ll call the hospital, see what I can find out.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it,” Jack said, hanging up.

Mike sat on the shoulder, staring at the phone for a long minute, helpless. Not Brie, he thought. Oh God, not Brie!

His mind flashed on times they’d been together. A couple of months ago she’d been in Virgin River to see her new nephew, Jack and Mel’s baby. Mike had taken her on a picnic at the river—to a special place where the river was wide but shallow and fishermen didn’t bother with the place. They’d had lunch against a big boulder, close enough to hear the water whisper by as it passed over the rocks. It was a place frequented by young lovers, teenagers, and that big old rock had seen some wonderful things on the riverbank; it protected many secrets. Some of his own, in fact. He’d held Brie’s hand for a long time that day, and she hadn’t pulled it away. It was the first time he’d realized he was taken with her. A crush. At thirty-seven, he felt it was an old man’s crush, but damned if it didn’t feel awfully like a sixteen-year-old’s.

When Mike met Brie for the first time a few years back, he’d gone to see her brother while Jack was on leave, visiting his family in Sacramento right before his last assignment in Iraq. Mike was oblivious to the fact that his reserve unit would be activated and he’d end up meeting Jack over there, serving under him a second time. Brie was there, of course, recently married to a Sacramento cop. Nice guy, so Mike had thought. She was a prosecutor for the county in Sacramento, the state capital. She was small, about five-three, with long, soft brown hair that flowed almost to her waist, making her look like a mere girl. But she was no girl. She put away hardened criminals for a living; she had a reputation as one of the toughest prosecutors in the county. Mike had immediately admired her brains, her grit, not to mention her beauty. In his past life, before the shooting, he’d never been particularly discouraged by the mere presence of a husband, but they were newlyweds, and Brie was in love. No other man existed for her.

When Mike saw her in Virgin River right after Jack’s son was born, she was trying to recover from a painful divorce—her husband had left her for her best friend, and Brie was shattered. Lonely. So hurt. Mike immediately wanted to take her into his arms and console her, for he was hurting, too. But Brie, crushed by her husband’s infidelity, was determined not to put her heart on the line again, and she wanted nothing of a man, especially another player who’d had more than his share of women. A further complication—this was Jack’s baby sister, of whom he was so protective it verged on ridiculous. And Mike was no longer a driven, devil-may-care Latino lover. He was maimed. The body just didn’t work right anymore.

It had been only a couple of weeks since he’d last seen her. She came back to Virgin River with the rest of her family to help erect the frame of Jack’s new house. Preacher and his bride, Paige, were married in that framed structure the very next day. For a man who could barely walk six months ago, Mike had given Brie a fairly decent twirl around the dance floor at the wedding. It was a fantastic party—full of that good old country food, barbecques flaming, the chairs pushed back and the band set up on the foundation of Jack’s unfinished house, the frame strung with floral garlands. He grabbed her, laughing, into his arms and whirled her around with abandon, and whenever the tempo allowed, pressed his cheek close against hers, whispering in conspiratorial amusement, “Your brother is frowning at us.”

“I wonder why that is.” She laughed.

“I don’t think he wants you near a man so like himself,” Mike speculated.

That seemed to amuse her a great deal. She tipped her head back and laughed a little wildly. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “It has nothing to do with your great success with women. You’re a man, near his baby sister. That’s enough.”

“You’re no baby,” he said, pulling her closer. “And I think you’re having too much fun with this, getting him riled up. Don’t you realize he has a dangerous temper?”

Unmistakably, she held him tighter. “Not toward me,” she whispered.

“There’s a devil in you,” he said, and looked death in the face by kissing her neck.

“There’s a fool in you,” she said, tilting her head just slightly to give him more of her neck.

In years gone by he would have found a way to get her alone, seduced her, made love to her in ways she’d dream about later. But three bullets had decided a few things. Even if he could spirit her away from her brother’s protective stare, he wouldn’t be able to perform. So he said, “You’re trying to get me shot again.”

“Oh, I doubt he’d actually shoot you. But I haven’t been to a good old-fashioned wedding brawl in ages.”

When they’d said goodbye he had hugged her briefly, her sweet scent like a cinch around his mind, feeling her cheek against his, his arms around her waist, pulling her close. A bit more than just a friendly gesture—a suggestive one, which she returned. He assumed she was having fun with the flirtation, stirring things up a little bit, but it meant far more than that to him. Brie held his thoughts in a disturbing way that suggested if he were capable of giving her love, she would capture his heart and mind in that powerful way that wipes all other women out of the past. He really didn’t have that to offer anymore. Although that didn’t keep him from thinking about her, wanting her.

He could not bear to think about all that mischief and sass lying broken and violated in a hospital. His heart was in pieces, aching for her. Dying to know that she was going to be all right.

He put the SUV into Drive, looked over his shoulder and got back on the freeway. He gunned the engine and veered across two lanes of fast-moving traffic to make the exit to Sacramento.

Also available by Robyn Carr

VIRGIN RIVER

NEVER TOO LATE

RUNAWAY MISTRESS

BLUE SKIES

DOWN BY THE RIVER

JUST OVER THE MOUNTAIN

THE HOUSE ON OLIVE STREET

SHELTER

MOUNTAIN

ROBYN CARR

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Karen Garris, another precious daughter,

with love

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to Pamela SF Glenn, CNM, MS—without whose expertise in midwifery this story would not have been possible. My deepest gratitude to you for poring over manuscript after manuscript with sharp eyes and a ruthless pen, keeping me straight. And to Sharon Lampert, RN, WHNP, for sharing your expertise as a women’s health nurse practitioner, but mostly for picking up your cell phone no matter where you were and answering delicate questions about female anatomy and function with directness and honesty. I’m sure there are people out there still talking about what they overheard in the grocery store, beauty parlour and Department of Motor Vehicles. The passion and devotion with which you two professionals serve your women patients is inspiring, and was an enormous help in shaping the character of a dedicated nurse practitioner and certified nurse midwife.

Thanks to Paul Wojcik for sharing your experiences in the United States Marine Corps, and to Richard Gustavson, RN with twenty-three years in the Navy Reserves. I thank each of you for reading the manuscripts and for offering your invaluable technical input.

Kris Kitna, Chief of Police, Fortuna, California, thanks for valuable information on local law enforcement, not to mention help with details about hunting, fishing and firearms.

Kate Bandy, the best assistant a writer can possibly have, my dear friend of many years, thanks not only for reading copy and offering suggestions, but especially for accompanying me on an exciting research trip to Humboldt County. Without you there I would have floundered… or slipped off a mountain.

Denise and Jeff Nicholl—thanks for reading first drafts, taking exhaustive notes and answering a million questions. Your friendship and support during the whole process mean the world to me. Many thanks to Nellie Valdez-Hathorn for her help with my Spanish.

Other early readers whose input was critical included Jamie Carr, Laurie Fait, Karen Garris, Martha Gould, Pat Hagee, Goldiene Jones and Lori Stoveken—I’m deeply in debt to you for your comments and suggestions.

Huge thanks to Clive Cussler, Debbie Macomber and Carla Neggers for reading and commenting on Virgin River. For you to take the time, with your busy schedules, is a monumental compliment.

Huge thanks to Valerie Gray, my editor, and Liza Dawson, my agent, for your commitment to helping me craft the best series possible. Your hard work and dedication made all the difference—I’m so grateful.

To Trudy Casey, Tom Fay, Michelle Mazzanti, Kristy Price and the entire staff of Henderson Public Libraries, thank you for the monumental support and encouragement. I’ve never known a more hardworking and motivated group of public servants.

And, finally, thanks to Jim Carr for your loving support. And, my God, thank you for cooking! I wish I’d known years ago that you could!

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?”