Shelter Mountain Read Online Free PDF Page B

old. Some new. She couldn’t spot a fiction title—all nonfiction, all military or political subjects.Maybe they had belonged to his father or an uncle. He didn’t exactly look like a big reader, though he sure looked like a weight-lifter.
    When Chris was done with his breakfast, she put on his jacket, then her own, picking up the quilted bag to hang over her shoulder. She left the suitcase, packed, on the bed and carried the breakfast tray down the back stairs. John was in the kitchen wearing an apron, flipping sausage patties, an omelet pan steaming over a high flame. “Go ahead and set that down right on the counter and give me one minute,” he said. “I’ll walk you over.”
    “I could wash these up,” she said meekly.
    “Nah, I got it.” Paige watched as he pressed the patties with his big spatula and sprinkled cheese on the omelet, then deftly folded and flipped it. Toast popped up, was buttered and everything put on a large oval plate. He took off his apron and hung it on a hook. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that was stretched so tight across the broad expanse of his chest it looked like it should split. The biceps on the man were like melons. If he’d been wearing a white T-shirt, he’d look like Mr. Clean.
    He plucked a denim jacket off the peg and shrugged into it. He picked up the plate and said, “Come on,” and walked into the bar. He put the plate down in front of a man who sat at the bar, quickly refilled the man’s coffee and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Here’s the pot. Jack’s out back if you need anything.”
    Paige stole a look out the back door window where she saw a man in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt hefting an ax over his head and bringing it down to split a log. That had been what woke her. She took note of the muscular shoulders and broad back—not as pronounced as John’s, but still impressive.
    Wes was not nearly as big as either of these men; he was about six feet and in good shape, but as for muscles,nothing by comparison, even with his chemical assistance. If John raised a fist to a woman the way Wes had done, she wouldn’t live to tell about it. She shuddered involuntarily.
    “Look, Mommy,” Chris said, pointing to the mounted stag’s head over the door.
    “I see. Wow.” The place did look like a hunting lodge.
    John stuck his head out the back door and yelled, “Jack! I’m walking over to Doc’s. Be right back.”
    Then he turned toward her and gave a nod. He opened the door for her to follow him outside. “How’s he feeling this morning?” he asked.
    “He ate breakfast. That’s good.”
    “That’s good,” John agreed. “The fever?” he whispered.
    “I don’t have a thermometer with me, so I’m not sure. He feels a little warm.”
    “Good to let Mel check, then,” he said, walking alongside her but careful not to get too close. She held her son’s hand, but Preacher put his in his pockets. He glanced at the boy; the boy glanced around his mother at him. They eyed each other warily. “It’ll be okay,” he said to her. “Mel’s the best. You’ll see.”
    Paige looked up at him, smiled sweetly, and it made him feel all soupy inside. Her eyes were so sad, so scared. She couldn’t help it, he understood that. If it weren’t for the fear, he might actually take her hand to give her courage—but she wasn’t just afraid of whoever did that to her. She was afraid of everything, including him. “Don’t be nervous,” he said to her. “Mel’s very kind.”
    “I’m not nervous,” she said.
    “After I introduce you, I’ll go back over there. Unless you want me to stay? In case you need me for anything?”
    “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
     
    Melinda sat on Doc’s front steps with her morning coffee, listening to the loud crack of Jack’s ax as he splitlogs. He had called her when he got to the bar and said, “Put a wiggle in it, babe. Preacher’s got a patient for you.”
    “Oh, yeah?” she asked.
    “Some woman