“That with him there was one bad thing after another, and they were always his fault. Which is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. But I read in all the stuff they gave us and the stuff I found online, some wounded military guys go through this kind of thing. They feel as if it’s their fault or something. As if they don’t deserve to be loved. What the hell is that? Why doesn’t he blame me for all the stuff that’s gone wrong since we’ve been together? Why don’t I blame me?”

Jerry smiled a little, tilting his head. “If you’ll remember, we worked through some of that.”

“We did, huh?” she said, suddenly reminded. She straightened. “Yeah, we did. I did blame myself before. I thought I’d done something wrong to make the baby die. Like I ate the wrong things or didn’t eat the right things. Or slept on my back or something. Yeah.” She actually smiled, though it was a weak and sad smile. “That’s right. But I never broke up with Rick because I thought I wasn’t good enough for him.”

“We went over some of this, too,” Jerry reminded her. “Everyone has an individual response to crisis, grief, et cetera. I don’t say this to you to influence the direction you take in your situation, Liz, but you do have to keep that in mind. He has many adjustments to make that might not make sense to you. Just like if you’d told him you were guilty, as if you’d hurt the baby, it might not have made sense to him. The important thing is that you understand yourself.”

She made a face, lowered her gaze. “Having a little trouble there,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“My feelings are so hurt. And I drove out of town, parked and cried. But before I even got done crying, I was so mad. I’m still so mad. Instead of studying like I should be, I just go into these mental arguments with him, yelling at him in my head.”

“Can you play some of those tapes for me?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What are you yelling in your head?”

“Oh, things like, Who do you think you are? You think you’re the only one who ever felt terrible and scared and alone? Who felt loss? Who felt you weren’t good enough? Don’t you think I’d have given up both legs if it could have saved the baby’s life? Things like that. I mean, I went through a real bad time with the baby, you know.”

“I do know. Did he help you with that at the time?” Jerry asked.

She was quiet a moment. Finally she said, “Totally. He did everything he could think of. Even though it hurt him just as much. I know it did. After the baby was born, when he was holding me and the baby together, he was touching his little-bitty hand and tears were falling on my hair and the baby’s head. But he held me. He came to Eureka almost every day. He called to see how I was twice a day…. And now…he won’t let me be there for him,” she added quietly. “He wants to do this alone. And he can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“When we went out to talk, we made love…. Well, not like we used to. He was a little nuts, grabbing me. I tried to slow him down a little, shushing him, kissing him softly, but he was just gone. That’s what makes me confused—he doesn’t want us to be together anymore, but he can’t control himself when he’s with me. Explain that to me.”

Jerry deferred. Instead, he said, “Did he hurt you, Liz?”

“Physically? Of course not,” she said, shaking her head. “He even said he was sorry while he was trying to get my jeans off. Like he was sorry he was so desperate or something. Because he didn’t stop.”

“And you didn’t stop him?”

“No, I didn’t care. He’s been away a long time, he’s been through so much, and I was missing him, too. I wanted him—that wasn’t the problem. The problem came after when he said, ‘See? We can’t be together.’ And I thought—what was that? That was together. I understand it—I read all the stuff. He’s pushing me away. But at the same time, I don’t understand it.”

“Now what?” Jerry asked.

“Now? Now nothing. From me, anyway.”

“Can you explain that, please?”

“I took him back to his grandmother’s house and told him to get out of my car. I reminded him that he knew how to find me. I’ve spent months reaching out to him. I don’t think it would be good for either one of us if I pushed on it anymore.”

“Think you’re going to be able to follow through on that?” Jerry asked.

Her lips pursed, her eyes watered, a trembling hand rose up to her chest and just as a giant tear rolled down her cheek, in a voice so soft Jerry had to strain to hear her, she whispered, “My heart hurts. Hurts so bad. I…I just don’t want him to see me cry anymore….” She hiccuped and blinked until her cheeks were wet. Jerry didn’t hand her a tissue; she knew where they were. She’d used up his supply several times. “If I didn’t love him so much, I’d hate him.” She swallowed and reached for a tissue. “My heart hurts so bad….”

By the time May was full on the land, the afternoons were almost always sunny and warm. The forest animals were out of hiding, often with new babies, along the meadows and river at dawn and again at dusk. Spring wildflowers were in full glory along roadsides, up the mountainsides and through the meadows. Virgin River was at its most beautiful in spring.

And Dan Brady was glad he’d made the decision to come here. He’d given it a lot of thought. Indeed, there’d been lots of time to think about where he’d settle while he cooled his heels in Folsom Prison. He was a low-profile prisoner—just a pot grower. He didn’t even take a hit for dealing—he’d only been caught growing, but the assumption was, he grew it to sell it. It was the pedophiles and rapists who were in constant danger from other inmates. And there was fighting among the gangs. Dan just did his time quietly. And thought.

It was a logical decision for him. Virgin River was a quiet, decent town. There were people there he thought highly of—Mel and Jack being two. Preacher was an oddball, but good-hearted and helpful. Paul Haggerty was a stand-up boss. Of course, he’d had no expectation that they’d come to respect him, but to his amazement, they were perfectly friendly toward him. And the job with Haggerty—pure luck. If he’d been Haggerty, he’d never have hired himself. But it was working out great. There was plenty of overtime when he wanted it. Haggerty paid a fair wage and the benefits were good. The men he worked with were quality crews. Haggerty had high standards.

It didn’t leave him much spare time, but what was he going to do with spare time? He’d always been a loner, something that intensified when he was growing pot. It was a habit he was slowly trying to break—it made sense for him to come out of the darkness and have people in his life, like he used to. They might not trust him, but he trusted them. They were transparent, to the last one—not real complicated, living authentic lives, invested in their families and friends, protective of their own, their town. So he had begun to slowly enter their world. He picked up a packed lunch from the bar every morning at about 6:00 a.m.—Preacher made it the night before. Then a couple of nights a week he’d take dinner and a beer there and catch up on local gossip and national news on the bar’s TV. The rest of the time he either worked or tinkered around the rental house.

His father taught him something real useful when it came to fixer-uppers—always do what shows the most first. So the first thing Dan did was replace the window glass in that one broken window and reinforce and repair the front porch. Took him a day and a half. Then he hired some of Haggerty’s boys to scrape and paint the house while he painted the porch—he wasn’t going up on those ladders. Dan wasn’t about to invest in a new roof if he didn’t own the place, but he did have the existing roof repaired so he wouldn’t drown in the next big rain.

Next, he pulled weeds, threw down some topsoil, tore out the cracked sidewalk with a crowbar and shovel and put down patio stones instead. He planted flowers along the front of the house. A little daily sprinkling and some spring sunshine and he had a green yard bordered by colorful flowers and a pretty little yellow house, trimmed in white.

Once he was inside, which was about three weeks into his tenancy, he could work evenings when he felt like it. He tackled the easiest and most visible stuff first. He washed the nicotine off the living-room and dining-room walls, patched and painted. He borrowed a big industrial floor sander from Paul and turned the living/dining area into a beautiful L-shaped room in about ten days with paint, stain, varnish and floor wax. He scrubbed up the stone fireplace and it was looking good. Then he scrubbed down and painted the bedroom—it took only a few evenings. The only furniture he had was a bed and a small table with two chairs that he left in the dining room while he tore apart the kitchen.

He’d been in Virgin River six weeks, in his little rental for just over four, and he was really pleased with what a minimal amount of money and some work could do. The kitchen was going to take more than a couple of weeks, and would be a lot more expensive than the work he’d done so far, but he was making good money and he’d take it slow. He scraped off the old, damaged linoleum floor and removed all the cupboards, since some were already missing doors and they were too old to be a standard size. He ripped out the counters, keeping just the sink and moving the appliances away from the walls.

He got rid of the old, peeling, yellowed wallpaper, textured the kitchen walls and was painting away a Sunday afternoon when there was a knock at the door. He went, roller in hand, and opened the door. “Well,” he said, grinning. “My landlady. Funny, I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”

“The house,” she said. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were huge. “Good God!”

“Oh, is it okay?” he asked her.

She shook her head and he thought, for a second, she was going to say he’d gone too far and she hated it.

“I never even imagined it could look like this. It’s incredible. When I pulled up, I thought I had the wrong house.”

He grinned at her. “I should probably stop. If I do a good enough job, you’re going to want it back and I’ll be in the camper shell again.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said. “I’m never living here again.”

“I’d given up on you. I asked Jack if he thought you’d be back and he said he didn’t really know. He thought there was a chance you’d just let the house go. Can’t imagine why you’d do that….”

“No, you probably couldn’t. Chalk it up to some bad memories.”

“Must have been horrific,” he said, and she merely nodded.

The house wasn’t the only thing that looked different. She was looking pretty good herself. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been hauling trash all day, but even after that, she had strong looks that held up. He put her at somewhere around thirty. Maybe five foot six or so. Slender but not skinny; long legs, good hips. She had an unfussy style—hair that curled under just above her shoulders, makeup he could see her freckles through.

“I’m owing you rent,” he said, pulling out his wallet from his back pocket. But she just walked past him into the kitchen.

“Holy cow,” she said. “Stripped bare.”

“Uh, yeah. This is going to take a while because of the cost. Couple of months, at least, depending on things like overtime. It needs everything. I’m doing the floor and walls first, cupboards and counters next, and appliances one at a time. This is also going to be more expensive than some grass seed and paint. Lots more. I hope you’re planning to let me stay here cheap for a while to make up for the investment.”

“Sure. I don’t want it.”