Virgin River. Робин КаррЧитать онлайн книгу.
in her life and she said, “Ah. Delicious.” No comment from the big man. Just as well, she thought. She didn’t feel like talking anyway.
A few minutes passed in what seemed like oddly companionable silence when the side door to the bar opened and in came Jack, his arms laden with firewood. When he saw her, he grinned, showing a nice batch of even, white teeth. Under the weight of the wood his biceps strained against his blue denim shirt, the width of his shoulders accentuated a narrow waist. A little light brown chest hair peeked out of the opened collar and his clean-shaven face made her realize that the night before his cheeks and chin had been slightly shadowed by the day’s growth of beard.
“Well, now,” he said. “Good morning.” He took the firewood to the hearth and when he stooped to stack it there, she couldn’t help but notice a broad, muscular back and a perfect male butt. Men around here must get a pretty good workout just getting through the rugged days of rural living.
The big bald man lifted the pot to refill her cup when Jack said, “I got that, Preacher.”
Jack came behind the bar and “Preacher” went through the door to the kitchen. Jack filled her cup.
“Preacher?” she asked in a near whisper.
“His name is actually John Middleton, but he got that nickname way back. If you called out to John, he wouldn’t even turn around.”
“Why do you call him that?” she asked.
“Ah, he’s pretty straight-laced. Hardly ever swears, never see him drunk, doesn’t bother women.”
“He’s a little frightening looking,” she said, still keeping her voice low.
“Nah. He’s a pussycat,” Jack said. “How was your night?”
“Passable,” she said with a shrug. “I didn’t think I could make it out of town without a cup of coffee.”
“You must be ready to kill Hope. She didn’t even have coffee for you?”
“‘Fraid not.”
“I’m sorry about this, Miss Monroe. You should’ve had a better welcome than this. I don’t blame you for thinking the worst of this place. How about some eggs?” He gestured over his shoulder. “He’s a fine cook.”
“I won’t say no,” she said. She felt that odd sensation of a smile on her lips. “And call me Mel.”
“Short for Melinda,” he said.
Jack hollered through the door to the kitchen. “Preacher. How about some breakfast for the lady?” Back at the bar, he said, “Well, the least we can do is send you off with a good meal—if you can’t be convinced to stay a couple of days.”
“Sorry,” she said. “That cabin. It’s uninhabitable. Mrs. McCrea said something about someone who was supposed to clean it—but she’s drinking? I think I got that right.”
“That would be Cheryl. Has a bit of a problem that way, I’m afraid. She should’ve called someone else. Plenty of women around here who’d take a little work.”
“Well, it’s irrelevant now,” Mel said, sipping again. “Jack, this is the best coffee I’ve ever had. Either that, or I had a bad couple of days and am easily impressed by some creature comforts.”
“No, it’s really that good.” He frowned and reached out, lifting a lock of her hair off her shoulder. “Do you have mud in your hair?”
“Probably,” she said. “I was standing on the porch, appreciating the beauty of this nice spring morning when one end gave way and spilled me right into a big, nasty mud puddle. And I wasn’t brave enough to try out the shower—it’s beyond filthy. But I thought I got it all off.”
“Oh, man,” he said, surprising her with a big laugh. “Could you have had a worse day? If you’d like, I have a shower in my quarters—clean as a whistle.” He grinned again. “Towels even smell like Downy.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll just move on. When I get closer to the coast, I’m going to get a hotel room and have a quiet, warm, clean evening. Maybe rent a movie.”
“Sounds nice,” he said. “Then back to Los Angeles?”
She shrugged. “No,” she said. She couldn’t do that. Everything from the hospital to the house would conjure sweet memories and bring her grief to the surface. She just couldn’t move on as long as she stayed in L.A. Besides, now there was nothing there for her anymore. “It’s time for a change. But it turns out this was too big a change. Have you lived here all your life?”
“Me? No. Only a little while. I grew up in Sacramento. I was looking for a good place to fish and stayed on. I converted this cabin into a bar and grill and built on an addition to live in. Small, but comfortable. Preacher has a room upstairs, over the kitchen.”
“What in the world made you stay on? I’m not trying to be flip—there doesn’t seem to be that much of a town here.”
“If you had the time, I’d show you. This is incredible country. Over six hundred people live in and around town. Lots of people from the cities have cabins up and down the Virgin River—it’s peaceful and the fishing is excellent. We don’t have much tourist traffic through town, but fishermen come in here pretty regularly and some hunters pass through during the season. Preacher is known for his cooking, and it’s the only place in town to get a beer. We’re right up against some redwoods—awesome. Majestic. Lots of campers and hikers around the national forests all through the summer. And the sky and air out here—you just can’t find anything like it in a city.”
“And your son works here with you?”
“Son? Oh,” he laughed. “Ricky? He’s a kid from town. He works around the bar after school most days. Good kid.”
“You have family?” she asked.
“Sisters and nieces in Sacramento. My dad is still there, but I lost my mother a few years back.”
Preacher came out of the kitchen holding a steaming plate with a napkin. As he sat it before Mel, Jack reached beneath the bar and produced silverware and a napkin. On the plate was a luscious-looking cheese omelet with peppers, sausage patties, fruit, home fries, wheat toast. Ice water appeared; her coffee was refilled.
Mel dipped into the omelet and brought it to her mouth. It melted there, rich and delicious. “Mmmm,” she said, letting her eyes close. After she swallowed she said, “I’ve eaten here twice, and I have to say the food is some of the best I’ve ever had.”
“Me and Preacher—we can whip up some good food, sometimes. Preacher has a real gift. And he wasn’t a cook until he got up here.”
She took another bite. Apparently Jack was going to stand there through her meal and watch her devour every bite. “So,” she said, “what’s the story on the doctor and Mrs. McCrea?”
“Well, let’s see,” he said, leaning his back on the counter behind the bar, his arms wide, big hands braced on either side of him. “They tend to bicker. Two opinionated, stubborn old farts who can’t agree on anything. The fact of the matter is, I think Doc could use help—but I imagine you gathered he’s a bit on the obstinate side.”
She made an affirmative noise, her mouth full of the most wonderful eggs she’d ever eaten.
“The thing about this little town is—sometimes days go by without anyone needing medical attention. Then there will be weeks when everyone needs to see Doc— a flu going around while three women are about to give birth, and right then someone will fall off a horse or roof. So it goes. And although he doesn’t like to admit it, he is seventy.” Jack gave a shrug. “Next town doctor is at least a half hour away and for rural people out on farms and ranches, over an hour. The hospital is farther yet. Then, we have to think about what will happen when Doc dies, which hopefully won’t be too soon.”
She swallowed and