Shelter Mountain

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.”