Mike had been into living hard, living on the edge. The fighting Marines, the police department. Women. Lots of guy stuff—lifting, sports, poker, hunting, fishing. More women. Life in the moment. Fun, fun, fun. Ah. Instant gratification. He’d married twice because he was in the mood, married women he wasn’t really committed to, obviously. And he had pursued too many others. That was certainly not going to be an issue now. Maybe you get only so many erections, and I had all of mine, he thought.

Driving a long distance wasn’t advisable, but he managed. The right leg was good, the left arm worked fine. The doctors disapproved; they had ideas about further rehab and treatment, but he was a stubborn man and desperate to get away from it all. He threw the stuff he needed in the back of his Jeep SUV and headed north. “Stay as long as you want,” Jack had said. “You’ll have to stay with us, though. Preacher’s filled up the spare room in the bar. You might remember the woman—the one that Preacher called you about—she showed up in the bar, beat up, running from an abusive husband.”

Mike remembered, but vaguely.

What Mike wanted was a place to go where his family wouldn’t be in his business, hovering, breathing down his neck. Where his buddies from the department wouldn’t keep calling to see how he was doing, because he wasn’t doing that great. The doctor said that he might eventually get back close to a hundred percent of his arm, but it would take a long time and hard work. The other things, the peeing, the erection, that stuff would either return spontaneously or not—nothing they could do about it right now.

Virgin River had always been a place of good memories for him. Of sanctuary and challenge at once. He and the boys from his squad went a couple of times a year, camped, stayed a week or so, fished every day, did a little hunting, played poker and drank all night, laughed themselves stupid, had a good time. And what Mike had to do was work on the arm, the groin. Get his body back. Then he could think about the future. At the moment, it seemed like the things he wanted were out of his reach.

The last time he’d been to Virgin River had only been a few months ago—August—not their usual fishing/hunting/poker trip. Jack had called saying he’d had to kill a man—a lunatic from out in the woods had held a knife on Jack’s woman, demanding drugs. Jack got together a couple of guys to go clean out the woods, so Mike had rounded up the boys and, of course, they all took emergency time off from their jobs and were there by the next morning. When one of them called, they rallied. They hadn’t found anything dangerous in the woods except a big, mean, smelly, pissed-off bear.

And they’d found Jack, their leader, for the first time in his life, hooked into a woman. Mel, a petite, stunning, delicious woman. Jack, who’d always played the ladies with little care and a lot of useless charm, getting ready to commit to a woman. Now Mel was Jack’s wife and carried their child. Mike was amazed this had happened. He assumed Jack had finally stumbled on a woman who could trip him up, catch him. And make him think he was happy to be caught.

That, and the three bullets, had set up a real strong sense of regret in Mike. And a longing for a different kind of life. He felt like he’d missed out on something.

So, he went to Virgin River with his clothes, his guns, his weights, a rod and reel he wasn’t sure he’d get to use again. He was going to keep rehabing his arm, get some rest and gain some weight back eating Preacher’s food.

When he got to the bar he honked the horn and Jack came out on the porch. Mike got out of the SUV using his cane for balance. Jack was tough—he didn’t look at Mike as if he was pathetic, thin, limping slightly, his arm crimped and still useless. Instead, he embraced him like a brother would, but more carefully than in the past. And said, “Damn, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Me, too. I have so much work to do to get strong. Again.”

“You’ll get there.”

Mel came outside. She was showing now, and it made her more beautiful than ever—she was glowing with Jack’s life in her. She wore a smile that was sincerely welcoming and opened her arms to him, as well. “I’m glad you’re here, too, Mike,” she said. “I can help you with that arm. We’ll get it back.”

He hugged her with the good arm. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Come inside,” Mel said. “There’s someone you haven’t met, even though you helped her.”

Jack let Mike navigate the stairs up onto the porch himself, obviously resisting the urge to help him. When they were inside, Jack yelled for Preacher and the big man came out, wearing his apron. He cracked a rare grin when he saw Mike and he came around the bar, arms open.

“Oh, man,” Preacher said, embracing him. He gave him several pats on the back, causing Mike to wince painfully. Then he held him away and looked at him. “Damn, it’s good to see you!”

“Okay, great. Now, never do that again.”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry. You still in pain?”

“Some, yeah. What’s with this? Hair on my Preacher-man?”

“Head got cold,” he said, ducking shyly. “You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Maybe you could set me up a beer. That’d help.”

“You bet, buddy. Coming up. And maybe something to eat, huh?”

“Beer first, okay?”

Preacher went around the bar and fixed him a draft. Mel and Jack each sat on one side. Mel leaned in. “How bad is the pain?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s all soft tissue,” he said. “But it can get real…real.”

“What are you taking?”

“I’m trying to hang in there with the anti-inflammatory, maybe a beer, but every once in a while I have to cave in to the Percodan. I hate doing that. Makes me weird.”

“You’re already weird,” Jack said. “Preacher, let me have a beer with my man here.” When his glass was poured, Jack lifted it toward Mike. “Here’s to your recovery, bud. It’s going to be quick and powerful.”

“Hope God heard that,” Mike said, and took a long, refreshing pull. “The doc said I’d need three months to start feeling better and I’ve only given it six weeks, but…”

And then she came out from the kitchen. Mike almost choked on his words. She smiled at him and said, “Hello. You must be Mike.” She went to stand next to Preacher, and he, with his eyes focused on the shine in Mike’s, dropped an arm around her shoulders, claiming her. God, Mike thought. Preacher has a woman. And what a woman.

“Yeah,” Mike said slowly. She was gorgeous. Soft, light brown hair fell in silky curves to her shoulders. She had skin like creamy satin and peach-colored lips, a little line, a scar in her lower lip. He knew what that was about, he remembered better now. And warm, sexy green eyes surrounded by a lot of dark lashes and perfectly arched brows. With Preacher’s arm around her, she leaned against him.

“I just don’t get it,” Mike said with a laugh. “You two somehow found the most beautiful, sexiest women in the state right here in the backwoods. Shouldn’t there be at least one of you in Los Angeles?”

“Actually, we were both from Los Angeles,” Mel said. “And fortunately, both found our way to the backwoods.”

No way Preacher knows what he’s holding, Mike thought. And Preacher, knowing Mike’s careless ways with women, just about anyone’s woman, might feel a little threatened at the moment, even given the crippled hand and cane. Little did he know…

“Well, damn,” Mike said, lifting his glass. “To your good fortune. All of you.” Then he looked at Jack and said, “I’m sorry, Sarge, but I’ve had it. That drive—it was way more than I thought it would be. Do you mind if I…?”

“Come on,” Jack said. “You can follow me out to the cabin and I’ll help you unload your gear. Take a nap. Maybe you’ll feel like coming back for some of Preacher’s dinner later. If not, I’ll bring you home something.”

“Thanks, pal,” he said. He stretched his good hand toward Preacher for a shake.

Preacher’s expression lightened up. “Good you’re here, Mike. We’ll beef you up in no time.”

In the mornings, Mike drank the protein shakes that Mel gave him, though they were god-awful. Then he’d lift piddling weights and stretch. By 10:00 a.m., drenched in sweat, he’d need a shower and nap. Lying down always produced the same effect—soreness and pain when he got up. He’d roust himself up, try to ice it out, and if he could, get himself to the bar by three so he could have a beer to tamp it down a little before meeting Mel at Doc’s. Once there, she’d work on him, as vicious as any physical therapist. She would start with a deep massage of his shoulder and biceps and then the exercises would start. It was enough to make him cry like a baby.

He was lifting a one-pound weight laterally with the right arm and could not yet raise it to shoulder level, yet she praised him for it, but it was agony. Mike still couldn’t lift three plates out of a cupboard. He’d broken a couple, trying, and forced himself to drive all the way to Fortuna to replace them.

Every once in a while he’d try to lift his 9 mm right-handed and hold it out in front of him, looking over the barrel. No way.

“I really think we should set you up with an orthopedist. I can find you one on the coast,” Mel said.

“No. No more surgery,” he said.

“This could take a lot longer.”

But he was worried about trade damage, where they go in to fix one thing and muck up something else. “Where am I going? Save the orthopedist. I’ll work it out.”

“Any other issues?” she asked. “The head and groin?”

“Fine,” he said, but he didn’t connect with her eyes.

Almost two weeks in Virgin River, eight weeks post op, and he still couldn’t do a sit-up. But he had gained some weight and walking straight was easier, so things were looking up somewhat. And his friends, Jack, Mel, Preacher, Paige—they were hanging in there with him, encouraging his every movement.

Some days, if the sun was out, he could drive out to the Virgin and watch some angling. He particularly loved watching Jack and Preacher casting; he loved it even better when they had the boy Rick with them. They’d trained the kid and he was a master angler. The three of them, side by side, their lines soaring through the air in perfect S-shapes, flies touching down in the river with such grace and finesse, pulling in their catch. It was like ballet.

Mike had been a damn fine angler himself in days gone by. He’d been pretty good at a lot of things.

It was in that kind of a mood that Mike found himself a little later than usual at Jack’s. There were only a few fishermen at a table by the fire with a late meal. Mike was up at the bar when Preacher came back downstairs from story time. Jack exited, leaving Preacher to lock up, and Mike asked for another drink. Then he started to grumble. He was frustrated with the arm, the pain, the clumsiness. A few other things.

Preacher poured himself his closing shot and stood behind the bar, listening to Mike complain, nodding every so often, saying, “Yeah, buddy. Yeah.”

“Can’t lift the gun, can’t lift a lot of things. Know the true meaning of ‘weak dick,’” he said morosely. Preacher’s eyebrows lifted and Mike looked up at his face, glassy-eyed. “That’s right, the old boy’s dead and gone. May as well have shot it off.…”

Preacher lifted his drink. “You’re the only guy I know who’d complain about not getting laid in a few weeks because he’s been in a coma,” Preacher said. “I guess you thought you could get lucky even while you were unconscious….”

“That’s what you know,” he slurred. “Do I look like I’m unconscious now?”