Shelter Mountain. Робин Карр
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time was a felony, which carried a prison sentence.
He also read about the psychology of this syndrome, how you could be sucked in, manipulated, terrified—and suddenly find yourself in a life-threatening situation. Battered women who were threatened with death if they told, if they fled, if they fought back—were often killed. It chilled Preacher to the bones.
So, while Chris was napping and Paige was off somewhere with Mel, Preacher called one of his best friends from the Corps, one of the guys who came up to Virgin River regularly when they gathered for fishing, hunting and poker. Mike Valenzuela was LAPD—a sergeant in the gangs division. Too bad he couldn’t be in the domestic violence division. Preacher called him, told him about Paige.
“She doesn’t know I happened to see,” Preacher said. “It was just a little crack in the door and I saw her in the mirror, and Jesus… She was so beat up, it’s amazing she’s not dead. She’s running for her life, man. She ran to get her three-year-old kid out of there. So how is it he can file kidnapping charges against her and get her back?”
“Parental kidnapping. But here’s the thing—if there’s evidence that he’s battered her in the past, if he has a record, she might have to return and face her kidnapping charges, but they’d probably be pleaded down or dismissed, given the situation. And she could probably gain at least temporary custody at that time, a divorce, a restraining order, what she needs to stay safe.”
“But she’d have to go back,” he said, a note of desperation in his voice.
“Preacher. She wouldn’t necessarily have to go back alone. Hey, how into this woman are you?”
“It’s not like that, man. I’m just trying to help out. That little kid—he’s a good little kid. If I could help with this, even a little, it would make me feel like I’d done something that mattered. For once.”
“Preach.” Mike laughed. “I was with you in Iraq! You mattered damn near every day, for God’s sake! Hey—where did you learn all this stuff about battery DV? Huh?”
“I got a computer,” Preacher answered. “Doesn’t everyone but Jack have a computer?”
“I guess.” Mike laughed.
“One thing I can’t get online—I wanna know who she is, how guilty he is, and what’s the best way to go here. All I know is her license plate…. California plate…”
“Aw, Preach. I’m not supposed to do that.”
“Couldn’t you be curious?” Preacher asked. “Because there could actually be a crime in here somewhere. All you have to do is look, Mike.”
“Hey, Preacher,” Mike said. “What if it’s not good news?”
“Would it be the truth?” Preacher asked. “Because I think that might be important here.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Might be.”
Preacher swallowed hard and hoped it would be okay. “Thanks,” he said. “Go ahead and hurry, huh?”
Paige had gone with Mel to Grace Valley where Dr. John Stone examined her and performed an ultrasound, showing her a small, beating heart in a little mass that didn’t look anything like a baby. But it gave her hope. She had gotten out in time. Barely in time.
The pregnancy was an accident, of course. Wes didn’t want children. He hadn’t wanted Christopher—it interfered with his focus, which was his job and his possessions, Paige being chief among them. Perhaps this new baby precipitated the beating; she’d only told him a couple of days before. In fact, she’d been terrified to tell him. But then, if he didn’t want it, why put her through so much? Why not just suggest termination?
The larger question was how could Paige be so relieved to learn the baby had survived when Wes’s merest touch repelled her? She was, that’s all. But then, she’d come to think of her son as the one good thing that could come out of the biggest mistake of her life. Have you been raped? Mel had asked. Oh, no—not rape. She wouldn’t dare tell Wes no…
When she got back to Virgin River, she found Chris making bread with John, kneading and punching the dough, laughing.
Such an uncomplicated scene, she thought. So many times when Wes was stressing out and getting himself all worked up about his job, the financial pressures of their lifestyle, she had told him that simplifying things would actually appeal to her. No, she didn’t want to be dirt poor and worked to death, but she could be so content in a smaller house with a happier husband. Not long before Chris had been born, Wes bought the big house in an exclusive, guarded, gated L.A. community—more house than they could ever need, and hanging on to it was killing him. Killing her.
So, here she was. The baby had made it. She had to get going, to that address in Spokane, to the first step in her underground escape. The dresser had not been pulled against the door since the first night and she thought she’d give herself another twenty-four hours to rest, then leave in the quiet of night. If there was no rain, the roads wouldn’t be so difficult and it would be easier to travel at night while Chris slept.
There was a soft tapping at the door. It was her instinct to ask who was there, but there was only one possibility. She pulled the door open and there stood John, looking nervous. Looking, in spite of his height and girth, like a teenager. He might’ve had a flush on his cheeks.
“I closed up the bar. I was thinking about a short drink before calling it a night. How about you? Wanna come down for a little while?”
“For a drink?”
He shrugged. “Whatever you want.” He peered past her. “He asleep?”
“Out like a light, despite an overdose of cookies.”
“Yeah, I probably gave him too many. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry—he loves making them. If he makes them, he has to eat them. It’s fun—sometimes that’s more important than nutrition.”
“I’ll do whatever you say,” Preacher said. “I could cut him back. He likes ‘em though. He especially likes burning his mouth on them. He doesn’t wait so good.”
“I know,” she said, smiling. “You have anything like… tea?”
“Sure. Aside from sportsmen, I serve mostly little old ladies.” He took on a shocked look. “I didn’t mean.”
“A cup of tea would be nice. Good.”
“Great,” he said, turning and preceding her down the stairs, looking almost grateful to get away.
He got busy brewing tea in the kitchen, so Paige went into the bar and sat at the table where she saw his drink by the fire. When he finally brought her that cup of tea, he said, “You have a good time with Mel today?”
“Yes. Was Christopher a lot of trouble?”
He shook his head with a chuckle. “Nah, he’s a kick. He wants to know everything. Every detail. ‘Why is it a quarter teaspoon of that?’ ‘What does the Crisco on the tray do?’ And man, yeast blows him away. I think he has a little scientist in him.”
Paige thought, he couldn’t ask his father questions. Wes didn’t have the patience to answer them. “John, do you have family?”
“Not anymore. I was an only child. And my folks were older, anyway—they didn’t think they were going to have kids. Then I surprised ‘em. Boy, did I surprise ‘em. My dad died when I was about six—a construction accident. And then my mom when I was seventeen, right before my senior year.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, thanks. It’s okay. I’ve had a good life.”
“What did you do when you lost your mother? Go live with aunts or something?”
“No aunts,” he said, shaking his head. “My football coach took me in. It was good—he