Shelter Mountain. Robyn Carr
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started to cry as she walked into the kitchen, pressing her fingers against her lips. She felt like a caught felon. It made her feel even worse that he was being so nice to her. “I looked everywhere for that damn bear,” she said softly with a whimper.
Preacher turned toward her. Hand pressed against her mouth, eyes overflowing, she seemed to jerk with the effort not to add sound to her crying. Then slowly and carefully, he pulled her by her shoulders toward him, against his big chest, gently circling her with his arms. And she collapsed from inside, sobbing against him. No holding back the sound now, she was racked with tears. “Aw, you been holding that in too long, haven’t you? I been there, all right. It’s okay, Paige. I know you’re scared and worried, but it’s going to be okay.”
She doubted it, but she was helpless in the moment. All she could do was cry and shake her head. She tried to remember when someone had pulled her sweetly into strong arms and tried to make her feel safe. Long ago. So long ago, she couldn’t remember the last time. Not even Wes in the early days, at his most manipulative. No, he would cry. He’d hit her, beat her, then he would cry and she’d comfort him.
Preacher rocked her back and forth in the dimly lit kitchen for a long time until she quieted down, then with a hand on her back, pushed her through the kitchen into the bar. He directed her to that same chair near the fire, stirred up the flame and threw on a new log, and went behind the bar to fix her a brandy. When he put it in front of her, she said, “I have to be ready to drive.”
“You won’t be any good to drive unless you calm down. Just a sip, then if you want coffee, we’ll make some.” He sat down in the chair next to hers and, with elbows on his knees, leaned toward her. “When you came in here, I had no idea what happened to you, but I knew it wasn’t good and I knew it wasn’t a car door. You have California plates. So, I called a good friend of mine—someone I knew I could trust. He checked out the plates, registered to your husband. He’s been booked for battery domestic before.” Preacher shrugged. “I didn’t need to know much more than that, did I?”
Paige’s eyes closed, then slowly opened again, focused on his face. She lifted the brandy to her lips and took a tiny sip, not confirming or denying anything.
Preacher went on, “He hasn’t reported you missing, so no law enforcement’s looking for you. I don’t know what your plan is, Paige, but if you take Christopher out of state, you’d be breaking the law—that could go hard on you trying to keep him. I figure you must be thinking that way, ‘cause you came all the way from L.A. and you’re almost out of state now. If you’re thinking of running off on your own and disappearing, whew, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You just don’t know what you’re doing—you’ll get tripped up. You don’t know the difference between truck and car plates. There isn’t much devious going on in that head of yours.”
A huff of rueful laughter escaped her. Maybe that had been her problem; she wasn’t sneaky enough.
“Maybe you have someplace to go where they’ll keep you hidden and safe—that’s a better idea. I just hope wherever that is, there’s a bunch of big, mean, angry guys like me and Jack around, ready, on the off chance the son of a bitch hunts you down and finds you.”
“I don’t have a lot of choices,” she whispered. “I have to get away.”
“’Course you do,” he said. “Do you know there’s one more way to go? You wouldn’t have any trouble getting custody of Chris, at least temporary custody, given the father’s record, even if they weren’t felony charges. You don’t need his okay to get a divorce. Not in this state. It’s no fault.” She was shaking her head, closing her eyes again, another tear spilling down her cheek. But Preacher went on. “There’s restraining orders, and even if he ignores ‘em, it keeps the law on your side. You ever think of these things, Paige?”
“How do you know all this? Did your friend tell you?”
“I wanna find out something, I look it up,” he said.
“Then do you know while I’m trying to do that, he’s going to kill me? He’s mean, and he’s crazy. He’s going to kill me.”
“Not if you stay here,” Preacher said.
She was stunned silent for a moment. Then she said, “I can’t stay here, John. I’m pregnant.”
Then it was Preacher’s turn to show shock. Silent and dark. It settled into his eyes and over his expression slowly as he sat back in the chair, then stood. He went behind the bar and poured himself a shot, throwing it back. When he returned to the chair by the fire, he asked, “Did he know? When he beat you, did he know you were pregnant?”
She nodded and looked away from him, pursing her lips tight. Intellectually, she knew none of this was her fault, but there was an emotional misfire in her brain that said, you married him, had a child with him, didn’t get out in time, let it happen, screwed up, got pregnant again, never ran in time, never saw it coming and it was plain as day.
“You ever been to a shelter?” he asked her. She nodded.
“Here are your choices,” Preacher said calmly. “You can stay here and try to get your ducks in a row so when you do leave, you’re not breaking the law or hiding for the rest of your life. It’s okay if you stay here—there are medical people across the street if you need them, you can help out in the kitchen if you want to, so you don’t feel like you’re taking advantage, and if you happen to run into that son of a bitch around here, we’re ready for him. You think of it as a shelter, like any other shelter—sometimes people just want to help out. Or you can go if you want—continue on with your plan. Whatever it is. You don’t have to run in the night, anyway. Safer in daylight. Huh?” He stood up. “You sit a minute, think, have a little brandy there—it won’t hurt that baby, a tiny sip of brandy, and I think maybe you need it. I’m going to take care of those plates for you, then I’m going to get you the bear. Whatever you decide to do, you can’t leave without the bear, you know that.”
He left her, going through his apartment. She could hear him go out his back door. He must have found the bear in the kitchen and put it in a safe place. A log in the fireplace dropped and she pulled her jacket tighter around her, taking another tiny sip of brandy that burned its way down her throat and did, miraculously, settle her stomach and her nerves, if slightly. Or maybe it was the news that Wes didn’t have the police after her that calmed her a little. A while later, John came back from his apartment, still wearing the jacket he’d obviously fetched, and holding the bear.
“Connie’ll never know the difference on those plates,” he said, holding the bear out to her. “Besides, if she knew what was going on here, she’d tell you to take ‘em.”
She frowned as she looked at the bear, changed. He had a new leg, sewn out of blue-and-gray plaid. It wasn’t exactly the same shape as the surviving leg; it was just a stuffed flannel tube stuck on the bear, but he was symmetrical now. “What did you do?” she asked, taking the bear.
Preacher shrugged. “I told him I’d give it a try. Looks pretty silly, I guess, but it was a good idea at the time.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Think you can get a little rest tonight? You still feel like you have to go right now? I could brew you up some coffee if you wanna just get out of here. I think I even have a thermos I could—”
She stood up, leaving the brandy on the table, holding Bear close against her. “I’m going back to bed,” she said. “I’ll leave in the morning, after Chris has a little breakfast.”
“If that’s what you want,” he said.
Paige awakened to the dim light of morning streaking through the dormer window and the sound of an ax striking wood. She rolled onto her side to see Christopher still sleeping peacefully, gripping the bear with the blue-and-gray flannel leg and she knew she should think about this for a while. It scared her to take a chance like this. But it didn’t scare her any more than driving on to some address in Spokane and a commitment to a life she knew nothing about, and might not be devious enough to pull off.
She’d