“You don’t look mean,” she said timidly.
“It can make women and little kids real nervous—and I hate that part. You on the run?” he asked her.
She lowered her eyes.
“What d’you think? I’m gonna call the cops? Who did that to you?”
She immediately started to cry.
“Aw. Hey. Don’t.”
She put her head down on folded arms on the tabletop and sobbed.
“Aw. Come on. Don’t do that. I never know what to do.” Hesitatingly, squeamishly, he touched her back and she jumped. He touched one of her hands, very lightly. “Come on, don’t cry. Maybe I can help.”
“No. You can’t.”
“Never know,” he said, lightly patting her hand.
She lifted her head. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m exhausted, I guess. It was an accident. It was really stupid, but I was struggling with Chris—” She stopped suddenly and looked around nervously, as though worried about being overheard. She licked her lower lip. “I was trying to get Christopher in the car, hanging on to stuff, and I opened the door right into my face. Hard. You shouldn’t be in a hurry, you know? It was just a little accident. It’s fine.” She lifted the napkin to her nose.
“Right,” Preacher said. “Sure. Too bad about that. Looks sore.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Sure it will. So—what’s your name?” When she didn’t answer for a long moment, he said, “It’s okay. I’m not going to repeat it. If anyone came looking for you, I’d never mention seeing you.” Her eyes grew round and her mouth stood open slightly. “Oh, damn, that was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?” he said. “All I mean is, if you’re hiding or running, it’s okay. You can hide or run here. I won’t give you up. What’s your name?”
She reached out and ran her fingers gently through the boy’s hair. Silent.
Preacher got up and flipped off the Open sign and threw the latch on the door. “There,” he said, sitting down with her again, the little boy taking up much of the table beside them. “Try to take it easy,” he said softly. “No one here’s gonna hurt you. I can be a friend. I’m sure not scared of the weak dick who’d do that to a woman. Sorry.”
She looked down to avoid eye contact. “It was the car door…”
“Not afraid of any mean old car door, either,” he said.
She gave a little huff of laughter, but had trouble looking him in the eye. She picked up her brandy with a slightly trembling hand and lifted it to her mouth.
“Yeah, there you go,” Preacher said. “If you think the boy needs a doctor tonight, there’s one right across the street. I could go get him. Or take you over.”
“I think he’s just coming down with a cold. I’m keeping a close eye on him.”
“If he needs medicine or something…”
“I think he’s okay….”
“My buddy, the guy who owns this place, his wife is a nurse. A special nurse—she can give medicine, see patients…. She takes real good care of the women around here. She’d come in ten minutes. If a woman makes a difference, under the circumstances.”
“Circumstances?” she asked, a panicked look floating across her features.
“Car door, and all that…”
“No. Really. It’s just been a long day. You know.”
“Yeah, must’ve been. And the last hour or so off the freeway, that must’ve been pretty awful. If you’re not used to those roads.”
“A little scary,” she admitted softly. “And not having any idea where I am…”
“You’re in Virgin River now, that’s what matters. It’s just a little crimp in the road, but the people are good. Help out where they can. You know?”
She gave him a small, shy smile, but her eyes were downcast again.
“What’s your name?” he asked again. She pursed her lips tight, shaking her head. Her eyes welled up again. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Really.”
“Paige,” she whispered, a tear running down her cheek. “Paige,” she repeated in a small voice.
“Yeah, that’s good. That’s a pretty name. You can say your name around here without being afraid.”
“Your name?”
“John,” he said, then wondered why he had done that. Something about her, he guessed. “John Middleton. No one calls me John, though. I’m known as Preacher.”
“You’re a preacher?”
“No,” he said with a short laugh. “Way far from it. The only one ever to call me John was my mother.”
“What did your father call you?” she asked him.
“Kid,” he said, and smiled. “Hey, kid,” he emphasized.
“Why do they call you Preacher?”
“Aw,” he said, ducking shyly. “I don’t know. I got the nickname way back, when I was just a kid in the Marine Corps. The boys said I was kinda straitlaced and uptight.”
“Really? Are you?”
“Nah, not really,” he said. “I never used to curse at all. I used to go to mass, when there was a mass. I grew up around priests and nuns—my mother was real devout. None of the boys ever went to mass, that I remember. And I kind of hung back when they went out to get drunk and look for women. I don’t know… I never felt like doing that. I’m not good with women.” He smiled suddenly. “That should be obvious right away, huh? And getting drunk never really appealed to me.”
“But you have a bar?” she asked.
“It’s Jack’s bar. He watches over people real good. We don’t let anybody out of here if they’re not safe, you know? I like a shot at the end of the day, but no reason to get a headache over it, right?” He grinned at her.
“Should I call you John?” she asked him. “Or Preacher?”
“Whatever you want.”
“John,” she said. “Okay?”
“If you want. Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I like that. Been a while since anyone called me that.”
She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them again. “I really appreciate this, John. You staying open and everything.”
“It’s not a big deal. Most nights we’re open later than this.” Preacher inclined his head toward the boy. “He going to wake up hungry?”
“Maybe,” she said. “I had some peanut butter and jelly in the car, and he went through that pretty fast.”
“Okay, there’s an extra room upstairs, right above the kitchen. You help yourself in the kitchen—I’ll leave a light on for you. Anything you want. There’s milk in the refrigerator. And orange juice. Cereal, bread, peanut butter, more of that soup in the fridge and a microwave. Okay?”
“That’s very nice of you, but—”
“Paige, you look like you could use some rest, and if the boy’s coming down with something, you don’t want to take him out in that cold, wet mess.”