Shelter Mountain by Robyn Carr Read Free Book Online Page B

understand why you’re standing here, looking at this with us?”
    “I think so. She’s at the bar. Preacher wants her to stay.”
    “Well, you should know, I told her she could stay with us if she wanted to. I think she feels okay at your bar, especially since I vouched for Preacher. We have to get her some help or this beast will kill her.”
    “Of course. You think Preach knows how bad this is?”
    “I have no idea. I’m not sharing this with him, but you need to know what’s going on if she’s under your roof.”
    “Our roof,” he said. Mel and the baby—they were his life. He couldn’t imagine laying anything but a loving hand on her. “You know anything about her? Because I don’t want Preacher getting used. Or hurt.”
    Mel shrugged. “I don’t even know where she came from. But I don’t think Preacher’s the one you have to worry about at the moment.”
    “He’s already caught up in this. Taking it on.”
    “Well, good for him. She needs someone to take this on. And Preacher can take care of himself.”
    “Yeah, we just went over that.”
    Mel leaned against Jack and he put his arm around her. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen a lot,” she said in a breath. “This is one dangerous son of a bitch.”
    “I don’t want you in over your head, either,” he said.
    “Save it. I have a job to do.”
    “This is really bad, Mel,” he said.
    “Even more reason why I’d better do my job.”
     
    Preacher was surprised that Paige came back from Mel deciding to stay a couple of days. She seemed so hell-bent to take off. She took Christopher upstairs in themorning and there hadn’t been a sound from up there. They missed lunch altogether. But, he reasoned, if the kid didn’t feel good, maybe he’d sleep extra long, which would give his banged-up mother a needed rest.
    During the quiet of the afternoon was when he usually got dinner ready, but today he got out one of his older cookbooks. He had great admiration for Martha Stewart, even though most of her recipes were too fussy for a bar. But he liked the real old-fashioned ones—old Betty Crocker, Julia Child—before everyone started eating light and watching their cholesterol.
    He looked up cookies.
    Preacher didn’t know a lot about kids, and there wasn’t much call for cookies in a bar, but he had tender memories of his mother making cookies. She had been a little tiny thing. Tiny, high-principled, soft-spoken but stern, and real shy—he’d inherited the shy part, probably. His dad had died when he was young, but he hadn’t been a big guy, either—just average. And here came Preacher. More than nine pounds at birth, almost six feet by the seventh grade.
    He didn’t have cookie stuff on hand. But he had flour, sugar, butter and peanut butter—a good thing. Those ingredients would make the soft, sweet kind of cookies, anyway. While he was mixing the dough and rolling little brown balls he found himself thinking about the sight of his mother and him sitting together in mass—her narrow shoulders, high-buttoned dress, graying hair pulled into a proper bun at the nape of her neck. And he, beside her, taking two spaces in the pew by the time he was fifteen. While he was gently pressing the little balls flat with a fork, he chuckled to himself, remembering when she taught him to drive. It was one of the only times he heard her raise her voice, get all flustered and upset. His feet were so big and his legs so long, he was rugged on the accelerator, the brakes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, John! You have to be gentler! Slower, more graceful! I should have sent you to ballet lessons instead of football! It was a surprise she didn’t die of a heart attack, riding with him.
    She did die of a heart attack a little while later, the summer before Preacher’s senior year in high school. She didn’t look like the kind of woman with a weak heart, but how would anyone know? She never went to the doctor.
    Preacher was working on his