LITMIR.BIZ

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in charge and neither was I. We did well with what we had to manage. But, Conner, I have to make a change. Charlie was completely devoted to me, he was the most committed man I’ve ever known—to me, to the army, to his boys in Special Forces. And he wanted me in every sense of the word, and let me know it. I still miss that, Conner. I miss him enough that I almost made a mistake that would not only affect me, but the boys. I have to find a better way.”

       “You do great, Katie,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

       “Thanks, but I have to do great on my own. It’s okay for the boys to depend on you, but I have to grow some independence. I want you for a brother, not the man I continually lean on. I’m going to lean on myself. Until I figure that out, I’m dangerous as a single woman on the hunt. Know what I mean?”

       “Not really,” he said.

       “I know what you mean,” a woman said.

       Katie jumped in surprise, sloshing her coffee a little bit. There was a woman standing in the kitchen archway, a purse slung over her shoulder and some brown take-out bags in her hands.

       “Hi, I’m Leslie,” she said, smiling. She put the bags on the table.

       “I didn’t hear you come in, honey,” Conner said, standing up to give her a kiss.

       “There’s a car parked out front, a movie playing to a couple of sleeping little boys in the living room, so I was extra quiet.” She gave Katie a quick squeeze. “I know what you mean. I was in that exact place a year ago.”

       The open road or up in the air, rain or shine, were two of Dylan Childress’s favorite places to think. In fact, that was how he met Walt, years ago. Walt had come through Payne, Montana, where Dylan and Lang operated their own small, fixed base operation and charter air service. They rode together for a day, Dylan introducing Walt to some of his favorite mountain trails and off-road routes with the best views. Dylan took Walt up in the Bonanza, a six-seater airplane for a different perspective on the views and Walt had loved that. And Walt, who had gone back to Sacramento to open a bunch of Harley franchises, had kept in touch, eager to return the favor someday.

       The time had come. Living in Montana, there were only a few months of the year Dylan, Lang and the head of their maintenance operation, Stu, could enjoy their motorcycles. They took very few vacations or days off, so once a year in summer they treated themselves to a road trip. The Harleys were cheap to operate and they usually camped. Dylan had begun to worry this might be the last time the three of them might indulge their annual road trip because the business was struggling, so he got in touch with Walt and asked for some of his best California routes. Walt insisted on setting up a ride and joining them.

       After arriving at the cabins Walt had reserved for them, all the riders wanted to do was warm up, dry off and have a stout meal. The first order of business was to check in, which amounted to meeting their landlord, shaking his hand and deciding who was staying with whom. There was a little grumbling about who would take the pull-out sofa beds because God knew, men couldn’t share a mattress!

       As far as Dylan was concerned, Luke Riordan’s cabins by the river were a custom fit, and he was more than happy with the sofa. And not a little relieved that he wasn’t camping on the wet forest floor.

       When Dylan and one of his other pilots took a charter flight out of Payne or picked up passengers in Butte, Helena or some other city, they were frequently put up in nice hotels or lodges. A little luxury was granted the pilots since the kind of customers who could hire a jet could well afford it. But Dylan was a simple guy who preferred to relax in a more rustic setting. And this was definitely it.

       The four men used two cabins. Dylan doubled up with Walt which left Lang to listen to Stu grumble about not having had a good date lately. Walt, being about the size of Goliath, got the bed.

       Walt had found the Riordan cabins, operated by Luke, an ex-army Black Hawk pilot who owned his own Harley and had lots of tips about local, scenic, challenging rides. There were several things about this venue that Dylan looked forward to—maybe a little fishing in that river that ran by the cabin compound to see how it compared to some Montana rivers, the local bar and grill with the atmosphere and food Walt raved about, the challenge of the mountain roads around here, the remote location and, hopefully, some time with Luke, talking flying. Dylan would love to log a few hours in a Black Hawk.

       When the men told Luke they were going to dry off, clean up and get back on the bikes to head for Virgin River for dinner, Luke said, “In this weather? Walt, take my truck, we’re staying home tonight.”

       “That’s awful neighborly, Luke,” Walt said. “I’ll treat her real nice.”

       “I know you will. The last time you were here you tweaked the engine for me and it’s been purring like a kitten ever since. I appreciate it.”

       It took about thirty minutes to unload their packs into rooms, shower and pile in the truck, headed for town—enough bikes for one day. Walt took the wheel and talked the whole way about the cook who didn’t provide a menu, cooked what he felt like, catered to the locals and visiting sportsmen and was real proud of his stuff. “I’m thinking on a wet day like today, a soup or stew—and it’ll be something special.”

       Dylan and Lang had flown monied hunters to primo lodges all over the U.S. and Canada, but neither of them was prepared for Jack’s. It was simple, but classy—well constructed and beautifully maintained. The interior was all dark, glossy wood, the animal trophies advertised for local wildlife and the ambiance was upscale in its own unaffected way. Even though there were a dozen empty tables in the place, the four of them sat up at the bar and the bartender immediately stretched out a hand to Walt.

       “Hey! I’ve been wondering when you’d be back. This your crew?”

       “My boys,” Walt said. He indicated each one. “Dylan, Lang, Stu. We just got in about an hour ago, maybe less. Say hello, then tell me what’s doing in the kitchen.”

       “I’m Jack,” he said with a chuckle, introducing himself to each one. “And to the man with the appetite, you won’t be disappointed. It might sound like just another day in Virgin River, but you’ll be happy in the end. It’s rainy—so it’s soup. But you gotta trust Preacher—it’s thick and creamy bean with ham soup, full of the best ham and onion and secret stuff. He likes to sprinkle a little cheddar on top—makes it stringy and rich. And he made the bread today—he’s keeping it warm. He bakes when it rains, as predictable as my grandmother. And the pie of the day is apple from preserves he’s had hanging around. For you tenderfoots who don’t eat apple pie, there’s a chocolate cake that will knock you out. Now, anyone want a beer or drink?”

       “Bean soup?” Stu said under his breath.

       “Didn’t you hear the man? You gotta trust Preacher,” Dylan said. Then he laughed. “My grandmother practically raised me on bean soup. Not the kind we’re getting here, she could barely open a can. All she could do was scramble eggs, make toast, warm up soup and…” He laughed and shook his head. “She used to fry hot dogs, but she always bought all-beef so I’d have protein.”

       “You had a very strange childhood.”

       “You have no idea,” he said.

       When Dylan said his grandmother practically raised him on that soup, he wasn’t talking about his early childhood, but much later, when she brought him to Montana to take over parenting him. She must have had nerves of steel to do that; he was a screwed up, spoiled, arrogant, defiant fifteen-year-old boy. Not just a challenging teenager, but a star. How she pulled him through to normalcy was one of the great mysteries of the universe.

       Sometimes he felt like a Charles Dickens novel—the best of times, the worst of times.... Being yanked out of his acting role and badass public life and carted off to some one-horse town in Montana, he thought he’d reached hell. On the other hand, someone finally cared about him. Focused on him. Worried about him. The first time Adele had given him bean soup, he spat it out, outraged. He’d been used to the very best; people had scrambled to keep him happy because

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