Forbidden Falls

“Thanks, George. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Noah,” George said soberly. “Good luck, son. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

It was the first of July when Noah rattled into Virgin River and pulled right up to the church. Parked there was a big old Suburban with the wheels jacked up and covered with mud. Standing beside it was a tiny old woman with wiry white hair and big glasses, a cigarette hanging from her lips. She wore great big tennis shoes that didn’t look as if they’d ever been white and, although it was summer, she had on a jacket with torn pockets. When he parked and got out of his RV, she tossed the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. One of Virgin River’s stunning beauties, he thought wryly.

“Reverend Kincaid, I presume?” she said.

From the look on her face, Noah assumed she was expecting someone a bit more refined. Maybe someone who dressed in khakis and a crisp white button-down? Shiny loafers? Neatly trimmed hair? Clean shaven at least? His hair was shaggy, his whiskers itchy, and he had a healthy bit of motor oil on his jeans, a result of a stop a hundred miles back when he’d had to work on the RV. “Mrs. McCrea,” he answered, putting out his hand.

She shook it briefly, then put the keys in his palm. “Welcome. Would you like a tour?”

“Do I need keys?” he asked. “The building wasn’t locked the last time I was here. I looked it over pretty thoroughly.”

“You’ve seen it?” she asked, clearly startled.

“Sure did. I took a run down here before placing a bid on behalf of the Presbyterian church. The door wasn’t locked so I helped myself. All the presbytery really needed from you was the engineer’s report on the building’s structural competence. I gave them lots of pictures.”

She pushed her oversize glasses up on her nose. “What are you, a minister or some kind of secret agent?”

He grinned at her. “Did you think the presbytery bought it on faith?”

“I guess I didn’t see any other possibility. Well, if you’re all set, let’s go in to Jack’s—it’s time for my drink. Doctor’s orders. I’ll front you one.”

“Did the doctor order the smokes, too?” he asked with a smile.

“You’re damn straight, sonny. Don’t start on me.”

“I gotta meet this doctor,” Noah muttered, following her.

Hope stopped abruptly, looked at him over her shoulder as she adjusted her jacket and said, “He’s dead.” And with that she turned and stomped into Jack’s bar.

Noah had only been in town a couple of days before the need for cleaning supplies sent him in the direction of Fortuna. The narrow, winding mountain roads led him toward the freeway, and he marveled that he had managed to get his RV to Virgin River at all, especially while towing his truck. He wasn’t quite halfway to Fortuna before he had his first lesson in how dramatically different mountain life was from life in the city, the campus and the Seattle wharf.

He spied a motionless animal by the side of the road and by pure coincidence there was a wide space on the shoulder just ahead. He pulled over and got out of his truck. When he was within a few feet, he realized it was a dog; perhaps some family pet. He went closer. Flies were buzzing around the animal and some of its fur looked shiny with blood, but Noah detected a slight movement. He crouched near the dog, whose eyes were open and tongue hanging out of its parted mouth. The animal was breathing, but clearly near death. The condition of the poor beast tore at his heart.

Just then, an old truck pulled up and parked behind Noah’s vehicle and a man got out. Noah took him for a farmer or rancher; he wore jeans, boots, a cowboy hat, and walked with a hitch that suggested a sore back. “Got a problem there, bud?” the man asked.

Noah looked at him over his shoulder. “Dog,” he said. “Hit by a car, I guess. And a while ago. But it’s alive.”

The rancher crouched and took a closer look. “Hmmph,” he grunted. He stood. “Okay then. I’ll take care of it.”

Noah waved away the flies and gave the dog’s head and neck a stroke. “Easy now—help’s on the way.” He was still stroking the dog’s neck when the man’s boots came into view beside him, as well as the business end of a rifle, aimed at the dog’s chest. “Might want to move back, son,” the man said.

“Hey!” Noah shouted, pushing the rifle away. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to put that poor creature out of its misery,” the man said in a tone that indicated he found the question ludicrous. “What else you gonna do?”

“Take it to a vet,” Noah said, standing. “Maybe it can be helped!”

“Buddy, look at that dog. It’s emaciated, pretty much starved. That animal was half-dead before a car hit it. Wouldn’t be right to leave it to lie here, dying.” He aimed again.

Again Noah pushed the rifle away. “Where’s the nearest vet?” he asked. “I’ll take it. If the vet can’t help it, he can euthanize the dog without blowing it apart.”

The rancher scratched his chin and shook his head. “Nathaniel Jensen is off 36, just this side of Fortuna, but he’s a large-animal vet. He’s got dogs, though. If he can’t help, he can give you the name of someone who can. Or put it down for you. But, buddy, that dog isn’t going to make it to the vet.”

“How do I get there?” Noah asked.

“Turn left off 36 on Waycliff Road. You’ll see a sign for Jensen Stables and Vet Clinic, and Dr. Jensen. It’s only a few minutes down the hill.” He shook his head again. “This could all be over in thirty seconds.”

Noah ignored him and went back to his truck, opening the passenger door. He returned to the animal and lifted it into his arms, which is when he discovered it was a female. The blood was dried and didn’t soil him, but flies buzzed around the injury and he was pretty sure he’d end up with maggots on his clothes. He was about halfway to his truck when the rancher said, “Good luck there, buddy.”

“Yeah,” Noah grumbled. “Thanks.”

Dr. Nathaniel Jensen proved to be a friendly guy just a little younger than Noah and he was far more helpful than the old rancher had been. He looked the dog over for about sixty seconds before he said, “This looks like it could be Lucy. Her owner was a local rancher, killed in an accident up north, near Redding, months ago now. He was hauling a gelding; killed him and the horse. They never found his dog, a border collie. She might’ve been thrown and injured. Or maybe she got scared and bolted. Oh, man, if this is Lucy, I bet she was trying to find her way home.”

“Does she have family who will take care of her?”

“That’s the thing—old Silas was a widower. He had one daughter and she married a serviceman, moved away more than twenty years ago. Silas’s ranch and stable sold immediately. The remaining animals—horses and dogs—were sold or placed. I don’t think the daughter was even back here for the sale. I could call around, see if anyone knows where she is. But that could take time old Lucy doesn’t have. She didn’t take on any of her father’s other animals. And we don’t even know if this is—”

“Old Lucy?” Noah asked.

“I didn’t mean it like that. She’s not that old. Three or four, maybe. Silas had a pack of ranch dogs. Herders. But Lucy was a favorite and went everywhere with him. She’s a mess.”

“Can you do anything for her?”

“Listen, I can start an IV, treat her for a possible head injury, find the source of bleeding, clean her up, sedate her if she needs it, run some antibiotics, transfuse her if necessary—but you’re looking at a big expense that Silas’s only daughter might not be willing to pick up. People around here—farmers and ranchers—most of ‘em aren’t real sentimental about their dogs. They wouldn’t spend more than the animal’s worth.”

“I’m beginning to understand that,” Noah said, pulling out his wallet. He extracted a credit card and said, “I don’t have a phone yet—I just got here and there’s no reception for the cell. I’ll call in or stop by. Just do what you can do.”

“Nothing wrong with just letting her go, Noah,” he said gently. “As banged up as she is, that’s what most people would do. Even if she pulls through, there’s no guarantee she’ll be much of a dog.”

He stroked the dog’s head and thought, No guarantee any of us will be much of anything, but we still try. “Be sure to give her something good for pain, all right? I don’t want her to be in pain while you see what can be done.”

“You sure about this?” Nathaniel asked.

Noah smiled at him. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow afternoon. And thanks.”

The next day, Noah learned that Lucy had a few cracked ribs, a couple of lacerations and scrapes, was malnourished and infested with tics and maggots, and had a systemic infection. She might recover, Dr. Jensen said, but her condition was poor. If she did get stronger, Dr. Jensen insisted she should be spayed. So on top of everything else, poor Lucy was going to have a hysterectomy. He gave Nathaniel Jensen the phone number for the bar next door to the church, in case something came up. It turned out Doc Jensen knew the owner, Jack.

Noah soon discovered that Virgin River’s Communication Central was located right next door to the church—at Jack’s Bar. Jack was a very nice guy who seemed to know everyone and everything. He quizzed Noah briefly about his denomination, education, what plans he had for the church, and that was all it took for the entire town to be informed. Noah had expected some rude jokes and at the very least some good-natured ribbing about being the pastor who bought an old church on eBay, and he hadn’t been disappointed. But it also seemed the people in town were relieved to learn he was an ordained minister, since he looked pretty much like an out-of-work lumberjack; all the thin white scars on his hands and forearms from work on the boats and docks undoubtedly set him up as a man who did hard, physical labor.

Noah explained that the building officially belonged to the church but that it would be governed by a group of church elders once they were functional and had a congregation. Ownership would hopefully, in time, pass to the congregants, as they amassed and grew and gathered the funds to support it. His plans? “How about a low-key, friendly place for people to gather, support each other, worship together?” Noah had answered. “No revivals or animal sacrifices till we’re all better acquainted.” And then he had grinned.

Not only did Jack give him good press, which Noah appreciated, but in short order Jack began to feel like a friend. Noah checked in daily at Jack’s, usually having at least a cup of coffee, and through Jack he met many of the locals. And Jack’s phone was the hotline to the veterinarian. “Nate called in, Noah,” Jack reported. “That dog of yours is still hanging in there. Doing better.”

“She worth more than my truck yet?” Noah asked.

Jack laughed. “I saw that old truck, Noah. I suspect she was worth more than that when you scraped her off the road.”