“I hate even having it. All I wanted from that marriage since the honeymoon was out.”

“I understand that. But someday you’ll be practical and see how you can make something good out of it. Use it to help your kids or something.”

She handed it to him. “You keep track of it, then. If I ever get over this, we can make a decision.”

It wasn’t long after that conversation that it happened—what they’d been trying to prepare themselves for, but which was inevitable. Wes Lassiter was released from his jail sentence. The district attorney called and reported that he’d returned to LosAngeles to begin his required Addicts Anonymous meetings, probation reports and community service. But the community service hadn’t been selected and approved by the court, the probation meetings hadn’t begun and AA wasn’t likely to cooperate with anyone inquiring about whether he was turning up for meetings.

“We’ll watch closely,” Preacher said. “It’ll be neighborhood watch around here, don’t you worry. This is one nosy town.”

But Paige got tears in her eyes, ran to their bedroom and cried.

When Rick came in for work, Preacher was leaning on his work counter, staring down at nothing. “Hey,” Rick said. “Where’s the little guy?”

“Nap,” Preacher said shortly.

Rick’s head lifted, listening. Paige’s sobbing could be heard, though muffled. “Everything okay?” Rick asked.

“It’ll be fine,” Preacher said.

When Rick got into the bar he found Jack behind the counter with his clipboard, marking things off, and Mike up at the bar, giving him some grief about his unwillingness to let Preacher put inventories and receipts on the computer. He walked up next to Jack. “Something’s wrong in the kitchen,” he said. “Preacher’s pissed off and Paige is crying. You can hear her. Like maybe they had a big fight or something.”

Jack and Mike exchanged glances briefly, then got up and went to the kitchen. They’d also been counting the days. Rick followed.

“What’s up, man?” Jack asked Preacher.

Preacher kept his voice low. “He’s out. They say he went back to L.A., but there’s no way to check. Paige’s scared. Upset. I’m not sure what to do.”

“Get ready for anything,” Jack said. “Isn’t that what we were trained to do?”

“Yeah, but, there’s Chris. We gotta be so careful how we do that. I don’t want him scared, you know. And I don’t want him thinking it’s about his dad.”

“We can work with that,” Jack said. “We won’t keep a loaded gun under the bar or anything. If there was a robbery the next town over, we could carry sidearms for a while, till it looked like things are cool. Sidearms around here—not even interesting. Chris, he should stick real close—because there was a robbery the next town over, huh?”

Preacher was shaking his head. “I don’t want him scared.”

“I know,” Mike said. “But a little nervous is better than a little abducted. We need to play it smart, Preach.”

“I think Paige is going crazy right now,” Preacher said.

“You should go in there,” Jack said, giving his chin a jut in the direction of Preacher’s quarters. “Tell her we’re going to keep a gun or two, but there won’t ever be one set down where a kid could touch it. We’ll do that till it feels better around here, right?”

“How long’s that, you think?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I could do it a year without feeling the strain. Can you cook with a sidearm? Just because there was some trouble the next town over?”

He was shaking his head again, but not in denial so much as frustration.

“I was gonna go to L.A. for a week to see the family, but I can stay,” Mike said. “I can see them later.”

“No, go,” Preacher said quickly. “Maybe you have a contact or two that can tell us if he’s there, doing what he was ordered to do. That might help.”

“I can check that out,” Mike said. “I’ll make it a quick trip, see if I can find out anything. How’s that?”

“Good,” Preacher said. “Thanks.”

“I’ll wear a gun around the bar,” Rick said. When all three men swiveled their heads toward him, frowning, he said, “What? I’m licensed to carry! Why wouldn’t I get in this?”

“No,” Jack said.

“You’ll be sorry when I’m caught without a gun.”

“Nothing like that’s going to happen,” Mike said calmly. “He’s not going to storm the bar and get himself shot. If he does anything, he’s probably going to call Paige, try to convince her he’s a changed man, see if he can work a deal with her to get that order of protection lifted, maybe take a new look at custody. His type is manipulative.”

“He attacked her once,” Preacher said. “Right here, in the street.”

“So, defense makes sense. And watching him makes sense. But remember, that was before he was risking a long-term prison sentence. He’s a badass, but he’s a smart, manipulative badass. Let’s see if he went home….”

“The house is gone,” Preacher said. “Sold.”

“Well, Jesus, finding him could be a challenge. But anybody can be found.”

“Preach,” Jack said. “Go to Paige. Tell her we’re on board. We’ll do everything we can to keep her and Chris safe. Best-case scenario, we get the message he’s doing his chores in L.A., trying to get his life back, and we can move on. But we don’t quit early, huh? Tell her that. We don’t quit early.”

“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Yeah.”

Getting used to seeing Jack wearing a gun behind the bar was not easy for Mel. She had adjusted to the fact that everyone in Virgin River owned guns, out of necessity. They had livestock issues, wildlife concerns. Those guns in the racks of pickup trucks were loaded; children were educated in gun safety early. But where she’d come from in L.A., people with guns were either law enforcement or dangerous.

Paige was understandably upset when she’d learned her ex-husband was released from jail, but a week later and a phone call from Mike in L.A. saying Wes seemed to be making his probation and community service arrangements put her more at ease. It gave her hope that maybe all this precaution could be just an exercise.

In the meantime, Mel’s baby was lowering and her back was aching. She was a small woman for such a load, and the pressure could be intense. The back pain came and went for a few days. Sometimes if she took a break and lay down for a while, it would go away. She knew she was getting close.

“You’re starting to look like you should stop working,” Doc said.

“I’m starting to look like I’m going to give birth to a whole football team,” she returned. “What am I going to do with myself if I don’t come into work? Sit out at the cabin all day and watch fuzzy TV?”

“Rest up,” he said. “You’re going to wish you had.”

“You know, I’m only wishing for one thing right now. My mouth waters at the thought of that stupid epidural….”

“How about a little gin? After you wax me, you can go home and take a nap.”

“Sounds good to me.” She got out the cards, but before they could deal, a patient came in. Doc stood up to see who had come in the front door, Mel behind him.

Carrie Bristol had her hand under the elbow of her thirteen-year-old daughter, Jodie, while Jodie was gripping her tummy. “Bad tummyache,” Carrie said.

“Let’s have a look,” Doc invited, preceding them down the hall and standing aside so they could enter the exam room ahead of him. A few minutes later, he called Mel to the exam room. “I have a possible positive appy,” he said, meaning inflamed appendix.

“Ew,” Mel said. She went into the room and looked down at Jodie’s squinting eyes. “Bad, huh?”

“Fever, vomiting, pain,” Doc said.

“You tap the soles of her feet?” Mel asked. If that technique jarred the appendix painfully, it was a sign.

“Of course. Start an IV for me, will you? I think we’ll take her.”

“Do you have to operate?” Carrie asked. “How can you be sure?”

“You know what, we often aren’t,” Mel said. “In fact, surgeons remove a fair number of healthy appendixes simply because to err on the side of surgery is safer than to err on the side of a rupture. If there’s time at the hospital and her appendix isn’t too hot, they’ll do a few blood tests to see if her white count is elevated—that’s a sign it needs to come out. But Jodie’s symptoms are strong—it’s better to just hurry and go. Let the surgeon decide.”

Mel got out her IV setup and started a line. Before long they were ready to put her on the gurney.

“Want me to go?”

“Hell, no,” Doc said. “Carrie can ride in the back with her. I don’t need a delivery along the way.”

“We’d be going in the right direction,” Mel put in.

“Just close up the office, go home and take a nap.”

“Well, at least you’re not going in the back of a pickup. Take the Hummer,” she told him.

“Right. Let’s go. Carrie, you help me with the gurney. Melinda is ready to whelp.”

Mel walked outside with them and gave Jodie’s hand a pat. “You’re going to be fine.”

She stood on Doc’s porch for a few minutes after they were gone. She noticed Cheryl Chreighton weaving around the side of the boarded-up church, an unmistakable bottle in her hand. Mel ran a hand over her belly and silently vowed that after the baby came, she’d find a way to get that woman some help. That she wasn’t a patient was irrelevant. She was a human being in need. When Mel saw a need, she went to work on it.

The breeze picked up and became a brisk wind and the sky was darkening. A few heavy drops fell on the street in front of her and she thought about how much she’d enjoy a heavy rain on a lazy afternoon. It took Mel only a couple of minutes to decide Doc was probably right—she should take the rest of the day off. Her back was killing her. A hot shower and nap sounded fine.

She went over to the bar and hopped up on a stool. “Hello, gorgeous,” Jack said, leaning across the bar to put a brief kiss on her lips. “How are you feeling?”

“Huge,” she answered. “How are things around here?”

“Calm. Quiet. Nice.”

“Can I have a ginger ale, please?”

“Coming up. What’s going on with you?”

“Doc took a patient to Valley Hospital in the Hummer—possible appendicitis. So I’m going to take the afternoon off. Can I borrow your truck? Can you get Rick or Preacher to run you home later?”

“I think that can be arranged. Want me to take a break and drive you home?” he asked.

“That’s sweet, but I like having the truck. I hate being stuck out there without wheels. If you need it, I can scrounge around for Doc’s keys….”

“Nah, take it. I’d rather have you in my truck.”

She took a sip of her ginger ale and lifted her eyes toward the ceiling as there was a loud crack of thunder. “I think I’m going to have a hot shower, put on my flannel nightie and let the rain on the roof rock me to sleep.”

“I can come wake you up a little later,” he said. “I’ll rub your back.”

“It’s driving me crazy,” she said, pressing a hand against the small of her back. “This kid must be sitting on my spine. When he’s not dancing on my kidneys.”

Jack held both her hands across the bar. “I know this has been rough lately, Mel. Pretty soon he’ll be here and you can start to feel better.”