Paradise Valley

“Yeah,” he said wearily. He handed her the letter, let her read. Before she got to the end, tears were running down her cheeks. “Dear God in heaven,” she whispered. “Our poor boy. God, all the poor boys.”

Jack was up until three in the morning, writing to Rick, telling him he could send any kind of letter he wanted, Jack would always be there to read it. He wrote anything he could think of to pump him up, tell him how proud he was, how completely sure he was going to make all the right decisions. He praised him for his ability to empathize with his boys—the ones who survived, the ones who were having a hard time. And he wrote, “Yeah, buddy, we’ve all seen some bad, bad stuff. When you’re home, you’ll better appreciate all the good stuff. I swear to God.”

And then Jack went back to his previous practice of writing a letter a day to Rick. Anything to keep him going, keep him positive.

A few days later, at about four in the afternoon, before the dinner crowd showed up and the bar was quiet, she came in. Liz. Rick’s girl. She stood just inside the door and smiled at Jack. Jack smiled back. What irony that she should turn up just a few days after Jack had received that letter, the one that threatened to rob him of any hope for a good night’s sleep till he had his boy home.

The first time he’d seen Liz she had been a fourteen-year-old hottie. She wore tight tops, skirts the size of napkins, high-heeled boots and heavy, dramatic makeup. His boy Rick went right over the edge. Despite all Jack’s counseling, Rick ended up in trouble with the girl; he just didn’t get that condom out of his pocket in time.

The next time Jack saw Liz, she had been so different. She actually looked younger than the first time. A pregnant child; a little girl of fifteen with no makeup, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt pulled over her pregnant tummy, her hair pulled back in a childish ponytail. And that was the real Liz, the girl Ricky loved and stood by. That was the girl who got him in so much trouble at school while he made himself late to every class making sure he got her past the sniggering girls in the hallway and into her classroom. Rick never once complained. He wanted nothing so much as to do right by her.

Jack had been so proud of the way the boy stuck with her, protected her, was there for her through everything. Then their baby had been stillborn—a tragedy, a horrible way for these kids to grow up. But they’d been so strong, so brave.

And this was what Liz had become—a beautiful young woman, almost eighteen. She was so lovely it almost took his breath away. Her hair was long, light brown with blond highlights, her eyes sparkling. She still wore daringly tight clothes, but she’d started adding tasteful elements, like today’s tan suede jacket. She wasn’t the showy, seductive nymphet anymore. And her makeup was light, only enhancing her natural beauty, rather than making her look like a too-young hooker, thank God.

She walked up to the bar, jumped up on a stool and leaned toward him to give him a friendly peck on the cheek. “How are you?” she asked.

“Never mind me. How about you?”

“Good. I graduate in June. I have straight As. Rick will be happy about that.”

“Are you happy about that?” he asked with a laugh.

“I’m very proud of it. I didn’t think I could do it.”

“But…are you doing it for Rick?”

“Well, I was,” she said with a nod. “But I have to admit, I like the feeling. School was so easy for Ricky—he always got straight As without hardly trying. I’d like to think I’m almost as smart as he is, even if I do have to work at it real hard.” She smiled at Jack. “But, I signed up for community college in the fall.”

“Good for you. Nothing wrong with hard work. If it’s any comfort, it never came easy to me, either. Any idea what you’d like to be when you grow up?”

“None whatsoever. Well, I know some things—I know I want to be with Rick. When he’s ready.” She sighed. “Jack, sometimes I miss him so much.”

“Me, too, kiddo. What do you hear from him these days?” he asked, praying she wouldn’t ask him the same question.

“I got a letter last week. I think he’s having a hard time. He won’t tell me anything bad, but there’s a certain…something. I can’t describe it. It’s like he’s having trouble writing things down, and he keeps repeating the same things over and over. I just hope he’s all right.”

“Lizzie, men who serve, even when they’re not real close to the action, tend to bring home some issues with them. Know what I mean, honey?”

“I know.” She dropped her gaze briefly. “I’m trying to read about it, but it’s scary.”

“There are groups, Liz. Military spouses who get together to support each other. You could check it out.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, Jack. I’m not a wife. They wouldn’t—”

He smiled. “Bet they would. You’re not the only girlfriend waiting for her guy to come home. If you think it could help you understand some things, you should give it a shot.”

“Do you think that would make it easier for Rick?” she asked.

Nothing is going to make this easier, Jack thought. But he didn’t say it. He smiled. “Maybe. The point is, if it helps you, it might end up helping him. Why not at least ask? If you can find a group in your area?”

“I guess I could check. Does it cost anything?”

He frowned. “I doubt it. Why? Is that a problem?”

“I’m saving every penny Aunt Connie pays me for helping in the store. When Rick gets his R & R, I want to meet him. I’ll go anywhere. I got a passport.”

Jack was momentarily stunned. That had never occurred to him—that Rick would spend his leave anywhere but Virgin River, and that Liz would travel to see him. The shock must have shown on his face, because she smiled.

“I’ve never been anywhere,” she said quietly. “Anywhere at all.”

“This is kind of a big step.”

“Bigger than spending nights with him at his grandma’s house? Bigger than having a baby with him? Than promising I’ll love him forever? Come on, Jack.” She laughed. “By now you should be used to this. We’re not giving each other up.”

Jack smiled at her, but he was thinking, All I want in this world is for everything to work out for you two now. You’ve earned it. Burying a baby, going to war, being left behind. You’ve gone through things some couples married twenty years haven’t gone through—and held it together. God, no one deserves it more. But he said, “Liz, things usually work out the way they’re supposed to. You need to have faith and think positive.”

Three

Since moving part of his family’s construction company to Virgin River, business had been good for Paul Haggerty. He was working on a new construction, a forty-five-hundred-square-foot house for a couple from Arizona. It would be their second home; the people were obviously stinking rich. He’d snagged the job out from under the local contractors by promising to deliver the finished home ahead of schedule. With the reputation of his family’s company in Grants Pass plus a little tour of a couple of his completed properties, it was a quick contract. In addition to getting the job, he’d convinced them to talk to Joe Benson, his best friend and architect from Grants Pass, about a design.

Now he had to deliver.

He had a couple of houses and three renovations in production. But business was only as good as his crews. He’d hired some solid, skilled people, and when someone messed up, didn’t show for work or couldn’t follow orders, he didn’t screw around—they were gone. Which meant the hiring and firing was a continual process.

He kept his office in a construction trailer at the big homesite. That was the project that was taking the most time. The weather was warming up a little, but it was still brisk in the mountains in March. He looked up from the schedule on his clipboard to see a man walking toward him holding a folded newspaper. Another job applicant. Well, good. With any luck he’d be hireable.

The man was good-sized and appeared strong. He wore an odd-looking cowboy hat, jeans, denim jacket and boots, looking so much like everyone else up here in the mountains. He was clean shaven and his clothes appeared to be fresh; Paul took that as a positive sign.

When he got up in front of Paul he stopped and said, “Hi. I’m looking for the boss at Haggerty Construction.”

Paul put out his hand. “Paul Haggerty. How you doin’?”

The man accepted the shake. “Dan Brady. Good. You?”

“Excellent. What can I do for you?”

“You advertised for a drywall man and painter. That spot filled yet?”

“I can always use help with that, if you have what I need. Let me get you an application.” Paul turned away to go into the trailer.

“Mr. Haggerty,” Dan said, stopping him.

Paul turned. He was used to being in charge, but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to being called mister by a man his age or older.

“I don’t want to waste your time or mine. I served some felony time. If that’s going to stop you cold, let’s not go through the routine.”

“For what?” Paul asked.

“Farming the wrong produce, you might say.”

“Anything else on your sheet?” Paul asked.

“Yeah. I turned myself in.”

“Any other arrests? Of any kind? Even misdemeanor?”

“That’s it. Isn’t that about enough?”

Paul didn’t respond or react. He’d keep secret the fact that he’d feel better hiring a pot grower than someone who’d had a bunch of DUIs. One thing that could really mess up the works and get people hurt was drinking on the job. “Do you have a parole or probation officer you report to?” Paul asked.

“I do,” he said. “Parole. I was released early, if that matters.”

“How long have you been out?”

“Not long. Six weeks. I checked in with the family and relocated.”

“Why here?” Paul wondered aloud.

“Because Virgin River is known for discouraging marijuana growing.”

“Well, Dan, my business isn’t limited to Virgin River. There’s lots of work around these mountains and I’m willing to take any good bid if I have the crews to cover it. There could be a job in a place that caters to illegal growing, like Clear River. That going to be a problem for you? Or for me?”

Dan grinned. “Old acquaintances of mine aren’t likely to be doing honest work. I think it’ll be all right.” Then he shook his head. “One of ’em might order up a big house, however. I just hope not.”

Paul laughed in spite of himself. He wasn’t going to be doing business in cash. If that ever came up, they’d have to use a bank, and growers didn’t like banks. “Then the next step is your application. I’d like to see what you’ve done in construction, then we’ll talk.”

“Thank you, Mr. Haggerty. Thank you very much.”

Paul got him an application, gave him a pen and clipboard. Dan sat on the steps to the trailer and filled it out. A half hour later he handed it to Paul who scanned it.

“You’ve had a lot of construction experience,” he said, surprised. He looked up. “Marine Corps?”

“Yes, sir. I started working construction at eighteen, Marine Corps at twenty-five.”

“The Corps came kind of late for you. A lot of us went in younger…”

“I thought about it for a long time first. And the military benefits seemed worth the time. Not a lot of benefits in the construction trade.”

“I offer medical benefits for full-time crew,” Paul said.

“That’s no longer a priority,” he said.

“You have an address in Sebastapol.”

“That’s my folks’ place—my permanent address. I haven’t found anything around here yet, but I have the camper shell, so I’m good while I look.”

“You’re a framer, too. I need framers.”

“I could probably do it, but I have an unsteady leg. Since Iraq. I do a lot of other things that don’t go fifteen feet off the ground and that would probably keep your workman’s comp manageable.”

Paul pondered the application for a good two minutes. The guy looked real good on paper. He’d been a felon, but then again, Paul had fought wildfire as a volunteer beside incarcerated felons recruited for that purpose. “What are the chances of getting a letter of recommendation?”

“Slim. But the sheriff’s department might be willing to confirm that I was a cooperative suspect. I guess my parole officer might step up. I could ask, but you know that won’t guarantee I’d be a good employee.”

“How bad you want a job?” Paul asked without looking up.

“Bad.”

“Bad enough to take a urine test every now and then?”

Dan Brady laughed. “Sure. But I can make that easy on you. I can sign a release to give you access to the parole officer’s random urine test, then you don’t have to pay for a lab. I don’t do drugs. Never did.”

“Then why?” Paul asked, mystified.

“Money,” he said with a shrug. “It was for the money.”

“Do you regret it?” Paul asked.

Dan Brady paused a long moment before he said, “I have a list of regrets about a hundred miles long. That would fall in there somewhere. At the time, I needed the money. Times were hard.”

“Are times still hard?” Paul asked.

“Those times are past. Oh, I still need money, but it’s all different now. Prison changed a lot of things, believe me.”

“Says here you do just about everything—drywall, texturing, painting, plumbing, wiring, counters, roofing—”

“Roofing—there’s that high-up thing again. Sorry, you have to know the truth, my unsteady leg can take me by surprise. I’ll do anything, but you should have the truth about that for both our sakes. One, I don’t want a broken back, and two, you don’t want an injured jobber on your insurance.”

“When was the last time you took a fall from that leg?”

“Well,” Dan said, scratching his chin, “a couple of years ago, I fell in my mother’s upstairs bathroom, and that wasn’t even high beams. I didn’t hurt myself much, but one minute I was standing up, the next I was on my ass. Like I said, I could get up there on the roof, if that’s the price of getting the job, but I’ve made it a policy to stay close to the ground if at all possible. In case.”

Paul laughed. “How’d you like the Marines?”

“The truth? I think I was a decent Marine, but I didn’t love it. I got mostly shit assignments. I went to Iraq right off the bat, when things were as bad as they could get. When I was discharged, it was one of the happiest days of my life.”

“I did my four and joined the reserves and went back to Iraq a second time. One of us was smarter. I vote for you. But that felony thing—”

“I understand….”

“What if I give you a shot? Think I’ll regret it?”

“Nope. I’m good in construction. Before I started doing it for a living, I helped my dad build our house. And I’ll pee in a cup for you. I don’t steal or get in fights. But if I were you, I’d keep me close to the ground. I’ll get a lot more done.”

Paul smiled and put out his hand. “Well, what the hell, Dan. You paid your debt. But I am going to check in with the parole officer, just to get another read on you.”

Dan put out a hand. “Knock yourself out there, sir. He thinks I have potential.”

“Then we’re off to an excellent start. If you have any talent, you’re coming on at a good time. This company is young and growing.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”

Dan Brady worked the rest of the week for Haggerty Construction. He was moved around so Paul could see his work. He did some drywall and texturing, hung a couple of big, carved front doors with leaded-glass windows, spackled, fitted countertop, even helped with some wiring. “Do you do everything in construction?” Paul finally asked.

“Just about,” Dan answered with a shrug. “I started when I was fifteen, trained by the toughest boss in construction. The man was a tyrant.” Then he grinned proudly.

“Your dad,” Paul said.

“You work for him, too?” Dan asked facetiously.

“Tell you what, you stay out of trouble, you might work out.” Then Paul slapped him on the back.

Dan worked on Saturday as well; they were pressed for time on the big house. But the crew supervisor told everyone to knock off at two in the afternoon and be back Monday morning bright and early.

Dan had less than forty-eight hours to get a few things done. He had to do some laundry, buy some nonperishable food he could keep in his camper shell, and he should see what he could find out about renting a room, apartment or small house. But first, he was due a beer. He might be able to accomplish more than one chore by stopping in that little bar in Virgin River. The guy who owned the place might know if there was anything to lease in the area. Just on principle, Dan didn’t want to ask his new boss.

He walked into the bar and a couple of seconds later Jack came out from the back.

“Aw, Jesus Christ,” Jack said. “You again.”

Dan took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Aw, man—you’re the one. Paul hired you!” Jack stepped up behind the bar, hands on his hips. “He said he hired a big guy who wore a funny-looking cowboy hat. Guess he doesn’t know a Shady Brady when he sees one.”

Dan just shook his head and gave a half smile. “You hold some kind of grudge or something? What’d I ever do to you?”

“Just seems like when you’re around, there’s some kind of trouble.”

“Yeah, and sometimes when I’m around, someone needs a lift. Didn’t I pick you up off a dirt road in the middle of a wildfire? Jesus, some people have no gratitude. Can I get a beer or are you going to glare at me all day?”

“You got clean money this time? I don’t take money that smells like fresh-cut cannabis.”

“Didn’t you get the word? I’m rehabilitated. I work construction, and that’s all.”

Jack lifted one eyebrow. “You went to jail?”

“For a while, yeah. Paul didn’t tell you?” Jack shook his head. “How about that,” Dan said. “He’s a gentleman, too.”

Jack pulled a cold Heineken out of the cooler, remembering the man’s preferred brew, popped the cap and put a chilled glass on the bar. “Listen, he’s a good man. He works hard, he’s honest, he treats people right. He’s a family man and has good friends around here. Real good friends. You better not screw with him.” Jack nodded at the beer. “You need a Beam to go with that?” It was usually a boilermaker—Heineken and Jim Beam.

Dan smiled. “No thanks, this is fine. Look, buddy, all I want to do for your friend is construction. He gave me a job. I need a job.” He put out his hand. “Dan Brady.”

“Brady?” Jack asked with a laugh. “Had to be Brady.”

“Interesting, huh?” He put the hat on the bar. “My signature.”

Jack hesitated a moment before he put his hand out and shook Dan’s. “Jack Sheridan.”

“Yeah, I know. Now, can we move on? No reason we have to go head to head every time we see each other. I’m hoping to live here. At least for a while.”

“Why here?” Jack asked suspiciously.

“I’m not likely to run into any old business associates in here.” He grinned. “The bartender won’t take stinky money.”

“You saying we understand each other?” Jack asked.

“I never had a problem understanding you, pal. Fact is, if this were my bar, I wouldn’t have taken my money either. But that’s all in the past. And I need some information, if you have it.”

“We’ll see,” Jack said.

“First of all, I’m bedding down in a camper shell and it’s fine, but I thought you might know of something to rent around here.”

Jack knew of a number of possibilities. Luke Riordan had six cabins on the river, recently updated. There was a couple in town who let out a room over their garage from time to time. And Jack had his cabin in the woods. But there was a vast difference between giving the man a job and watching him work and inviting him to spend the night. “Sorry,” Jack said. “That’s the thing about these mountain towns. Rentals and property sales come up so seldom, Paul’s company is doing well. People have to build from scratch or remodel.”

Dan watched Jack’s eyes as he said this and he knew he wasn’t getting the whole truth. He didn’t blame the guy. It was going to take a while to prove he wasn’t a low-life criminal. He knew there’d be a price when he made the decision to enter the marijuana trade. Right now he could probably get assistance from someone still growing, but Dan didn’t want to go that route. He meant it when he said that was in the past.

“Okay,” Dan said, “I get that. And like I said, I’m not uncomfortable. I park at a rest stop at night. There’s hot water and facilities. What are your hours of operation? I’m looking for an occasional hot meal and a packed lunch to take on the job.”

“We can handle that for you. I’m usually here by six-thirty and Preacher lives on the property. He has the coffee on by six. We stay open till about nine at night, later if someone asks us to stay open. If you let Preacher know in advance, he can have a packed lunch ready for you in the early morning. If you need any—” The phone rang in the kitchen. “Give me a second. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” Dan said.

While Jack was gone, Dan wondered, just curiously, if the till was locked. Would Jack Sheridan leave him alone in the bar with a money drawer open? Did he trust him a little bit, or not at all? He wouldn’t blame Jack if it took him some time to warm up to Dan—after all, this was the first hour of the first day they had a legitimate relationship. But Dan and Jack had history. Lots of history. And it wasn’t all so good.

The first time they’d crossed paths, Dan had to get the local midwife to help him with a birth gone bad at an illegal grow site. That midwife was Jack’s woman, and that whole episode went over like a turd in a punch bowl. The next time they came into contact, Dan had actually rear-ended that same midwife, and she was nine months pregnant. Again, not an auspicious beginning for their friendship.

But then he’d redeemed himself. Dan was in the area when some local men were searching for Preacher’s wife, who’d been abducted by her homicidal ex-husband. It hadn’t been Dan’s plan to save the day, but the rest of these louts couldn’t hack it and someone had to act. So Dan whopped the ex-husband on the head with his flashlight, knocked him cold and facilitated rescue.

Then there was the forest fire last summer. By the sheerest coincidence, Jack was sitting by the side of the road, hurt and dehydrated, as Dan was making his escape from a couple of lunatic growers. He picked Jack up and got him to safety.

Jack had apparently forgotten the good parts. Or decided they weren’t good enough.

Shortly after that fire, there had been a warrant for Dan’s arrest and that’s when he’d turned himself in. By virtue of being highly cooperative, he’d only served six months of a three-year sentence. But still, he was now and forever an ex-con.

His beer was long gone. Whoever was on the phone must be important or Jack Sheridan wouldn’t leave someone he didn’t trust alone in his bar. Hell, he wouldn’t even take his money if it smelled like—

His thought was cut off as Jack wandered back into the bar, his face white and his eyes unfocused. He clutched a piece of paper in his hand and he didn’t look at Dan. He didn’t go behind the bar, but stood just outside the kitchen door and stared blankly at nothing.

“Hey, man,” Dan said. “Hey, Sheridan.”

Jack didn’t respond. He was a million miles away.

Dan got up and approached him warily. He looked weird, and weird could sometimes mean unstable. Unstable could mean anything.

“Sheridan? What’s up, man?”

Jack’s unfocused eyes slowly pivoted toward Dan. He licked his dry lips, blinked a couple of times. “My boy, Rick,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“What?” Dan asked a little frantically. He’d had a boy of his own once. He’d probably worn those same eyes at the time. “What about your boy Rick?”

“Rick,” he said, and lifted the piece of paper on which he’d scrawled notes. Haditha, Al Anbar, hostile, critical, grenade, Landstuhl Medical Center, Germany.

“Shit,” Dan said. “Hey! Snap out of it! What happened?” He gave Jack a couple of pats on the cheeks, carefully. He didn’t slap him; Jack might be reactive enough to coldcock him. “Whoa, buddy.” He grabbed a bottle off the glass shelf behind the bar and tipped a shot over a glass. “Hey,” he said, lifting the glass to Jack’s lips. “Come on, burn it down, buddy. Get a grip.”