“Does she have family who will take care of her?”
“That’s the thing—old Silas was a widower. He had one daughter and she married a serviceman, moved away more than twenty years ago. Silas’s ranch and stable sold immediately. The remaining animals—horses and dogs—were sold or placed. I don’t think the daughter was even back here for the sale. I could call around, see if anyone knows where she is. But that could take time old Lucy doesn’t have. She didn’t take on any of her father’s other animals. And we don’t even know if this is—”
“Old Lucy?” Noah asked.
“I didn’t mean it like that. She’s not that old. Three or four, maybe. Silas had a pack of ranch dogs. Herders. But Lucy was a favorite and went everywhere with him. She’s a mess.”
“Can you do anything for her?”
“Listen, I can start an IV, treat her for a possible head injury, find the source of bleeding, clean her up, sedate her if she needs it, run some antibiotics, transfuse her if necessary—but you’re looking at a big expense that Silas’s only daughter might not be willing to pick up. People around here—farmers and ranchers—most of ’em aren’t real sentimental about their dogs. They wouldn’t spend more than the animal’s worth.”
“I’m beginning to understand that,” Noah said, pulling out his wallet. He extracted a credit card and said, “I don’t have a phone yet—I just got here and there’s no reception for the cell. I’ll call in or stop by. Just do what you can do.”
“Nothing wrong with just letting her go, Noah,” he said gently. “As banged up as she is, that’s what most people would do. Even if she pulls through, there’s no guarantee she’ll be much of a dog.”
He stroked the dog’s head and thought, No guarantee any of us will be much of anything, but we still try. “Be sure to give her something good for pain, all right? I don’t want her to be in pain while you see what can be done.”
“You sure about this?” Nathaniel asked.
Noah smiled at him. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow afternoon. And thanks.”
The next day, Noah learned that Lucy had a few cracked ribs, a couple of lacerations and scrapes, was malnourished and infested with tics and maggots, and had a systemic infection. She might recover, Dr. Jensen said, but her condition was poor. If she did get stronger, Dr. Jensen insisted she should be spayed. So on top of everything else, poor Lucy was going to have a hysterectomy. He gave Nathaniel Jensen the phone number for the bar next door to the church, in case something came up. It turned out Doc Jensen knew the owner, Jack.
Noah soon discovered that Virgin River’s Communication Central was located right next door to the church—at Jack’s Bar. Jack was a very nice guy who seemed to know everyone and everything. He quizzed Noah briefly about his denomination, education, what plans he had for the church, and that was all it took for the entire town to be informed. Noah had expected some rude jokes and at the very least some good-natured ribbing about being the pastor who bought an old church on eBay, and he hadn’t been disappointed. But it also seemed the people in town were relieved to learn he was an ordained minister, since he looked pretty much like an out-of-work lumberjack; all the thin white scars on his hands and forearms from work on the boats and docks undoubtedly set him up as a man who did hard, physical labor.
Noah explained that the building officially belonged to the church but that it would be governed by a group of church elders once they were functional and had a congregation. Ownership would hopefully, in time, pass to the congregants, as they amassed and grew and gathered the funds to support it. His plans? “How about a low-key, friendly place for people to gather, support each other, worship together?” Noah had answered. “No revivals or animal sacrifices till we’re all better acquainted.” And then he had grinned.
Not only did Jack give him good press, which Noah appreciated, but in short order Jack began to feel like a friend. Noah checked in daily at Jack’s, usually having at least a cup of coffee, and through Jack he met many of the locals. And Jack’s phone was the hotline to the veterinarian. “Nate called in, Noah,” Jack reported. “That dog of yours is still hanging in there. Doing better.”
“She worth more than my truck yet?” Noah asked.
Jack laughed. “I saw that old truck, Noah. I suspect she was worth more than that when you scraped her off the road.”
“Funny,” Noah said. “That truck gets me where I’m going. Most of the time.”
Jack’s partner and cook, known as Preacher, invited Noah to jump on their satellite wireless-Internet connection so Noah could use his laptop for e-mails and research on the Net, but cautioned him against buying anything else Hope McCrea might be selling.
When he wasn’t cleaning out the church or getting himself settled in town, every other day Noah visited Lucy at Jensen’s Stables and Vet Clinic. Since the weather was warm, Nate was keeping her in an empty stall and Noah would spend an hour or so just sitting on the ground beside her, talking to her, petting her. By the time she’d been there a week it was apparent she was going to pull through. After ten days she was walking around, if slowly. “Don’t show me the bill,” Noah said to Nate Jensen during one of his visits. “I don’t want to cry in front of you.”
There was no parsonage for Noah to call home, but he was comfortable in the RV and he had the truck for getting around the mountains. He did a little door-knocking, letting the folks know he was new to town and planned to get that church going. He had hoped some volunteers would materialize to help with the cleanup, but he refrained from asking and so far no one had offered. People seemed extremely friendly, but Noah thought they might be holding off a little to see what kind of minister he stacked up to be. There was a good chance he wasn’t what they were looking for at all, but only time would tell.
He’d collected enough cakes and cookies for a bake sale. The women in town had been dropping by, bearing sweets and welcoming him to the neighborhood. Even though Noah had a scary-powerful sweet tooth, he was getting a little tired of feasting on desserts. He even gave a passing thought to holding a bake sale.
Another thing Noah did was visit the nearest hospital—Valley Hospital. He called on the sick and bereaved. Preaching might be his job, but bringing comfort was his calling.
Since there was no hospital chaplain, they relied on the local clergy to visit, so Noah just asked a hospital volunteer to point him toward anyone who might need a friendly visit. She looked him up and down doubtfully; he was dressed as usual in his jeans, boots and flannel shirt…He wore the T-shirt without holes. If he hadn’t had a Bible in his hand, he had the impression the volunteer would have seriously questioned him. Clearly, the pastors hereabouts must spruce up a bit before visiting the patients.
His first client was an elderly man, a real sourpuss, who eyed the Bible and said, “I ain’t in the mood.”
Noah laughed. “Since I can’t fit the Bible in my pocket, why don’t you tell me what you’d like to do. Talk, tell jokes, watch some TV?”
“Where you from, boy?” the old man asked.
“I’m from Ohio originally, most recently from—”
“No! I mean, what religion you from!”
“Oh. Presbyterian.”
“I ain’t been in a church in fifty years or more.”
“You don’t say,” Noah replied.
“But when I was, it sure as hell wasn’t Presbyterian!”
“I see.”
“I was born Catholic!”
“No kidding?” Noah said. “Well, let’s see.” He dug around in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a rosary. He dangled it. “You have any use for this?”
“What the Sam Hill is a Presbyterian fella doing with one of those? You using those now?”
“No, we’re still sticking to the basics, but I’m a pretty all-purpose preacher. You want it?”
“I won’t use it,” he said defiantly. “You can leave it, but I won’t use it.”
“Sure,” Noah said. “So, what’s that you got on TV?”
“Andy Griffith,” he answered.
“All right! I love that show. You ever see that one when Barney had the motorcycle with the sidecar?” Noah moved into the room and took the chair beside the old man’s bed, draping the rosary across his arthritic hands.
“I seen it. You see the one where he locks himself in the cell?”
“Didn’t he do that every few weeks?” Noah asked with a smirk. “How about when Aunt Bea accidentally got drunk? You see that one?”
“Otis, the town drunk, now there’s a character,” the old fella said.
It took a while, but he learned this man was Salvatore Salentino, Sal for short. They went over their favorite episodes for a while, then Sal needed assistance to the bathroom, then he wanted to talk about his old truck, which he missed like crazy since being put in a nursing home. Next, he spoke about his grown daughter who’d moved out of the mountains and rarely came back. Then he got onto how much he hated computers. Finally, he asked Noah if he’d be back this way anytime soon because he was returning to the nursing home in a couple of days. “I could stop by there if you’d like me to, Sal,” Noah said.
“Can if you want,” the old fella said. “But don’t get the idea you’re going to turn me into some goddamn Presbyterian!”
Noah smiled and said, “Good grief, no. I just haven’t had anyone to watch Andy with in a long time.”
There wasn’t much to salvage in the old church. The pews had been removed, the appliances in the church kitchen ripped out, the pulpit, altar and baptistery gone, not an accessory in sight—all sold off when the church had closed its doors. There was, however, that incredible stained-glass window at the front of the church. It was an amazing, valuable work of art.
The first thing Noah had done when beginning the cleanup was borrow a ladder from Jack and tear the plywood off the outside of the church. The daylight revealed a far larger and more beautiful stained-glass window than he imagined a poor church could afford, and he was surprised it hadn’t been removed and sold or transported to another church. When he stared up at it, it gave him a feeling of purpose, of belonging. It was an image of Jesus, white robed, arms spread, palms out and accessible. On his shoulder was a dove. At his feet a lamb, a rabbit, a fawn. In the setting sun the light caught the eyes of Christ and created a beam of light that shone down into the church; a path of light in which he could see the dust motes dancing. He had no prie-dieu kneeler, but he would stand in front of that beautiful creation, hands deep in his pockets, staring up at the image and repeat the most beautiful prayer he knew. The prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi. Lord, make me an instrument of your peace….
By his third week in Virgin River, Lucy had been released into Noah’s care. Dr. Nathaniel Jensen gave him Lucy’s bill, and Noah folded it in half, stuffed it in the pocket of his Levi’s and refused to look at it until he had Lucy home. When he looked at the statement, he grabbed his heart. “Really, I should be able to drive you,” he said to the dog. Lucy licked his hand. “Remind me to keep my eyes on the road when I’m driving through the mountains,” he said.
Lucy was still a long way from being a frisky pup—she was on a special recovery diet, along with vitamins and antibiotics. She was a black-and-white border collie, maybe a bit of something else in the mix, and she had the most beautiful, large brown eyes that could look very pathetic and sad. Noah purchased a soft dog bed that he carried from the RV to the church office to accommodate her lingering aches and pains. Preacher agreed to fix a special chicken-and-rice meal for her twice a day, since Noah’s cooking facilities were a bit restricted in the RV. Lucy could manage the three steps up to the bar porch, where she took many of her meals, but she had a terrible struggle getting up the stairs to the church office. Noah usually ended up carrying her.
What with the community outreach, caring for Lucy and the slow progress on the church cleanup, Noah realized he was going to need some help. So, once the phone line was installed, he advertised for a pastor’s assistant. He fielded many more calls than he expected, but once he’d answered a few questions about hours, pay and benefits, most of the callers said “they’d get back to him.” The duties weren’t typical—there would be cleaning and painting, as well as setting up an office—and he guessed the callers found the work too hard. He made appointments for three women who hadn’t bothered to ask questions. With Lucy settled on her pallet beside the old desk that had been left behind, he prepared to interview the first round of candidates.
The first was Selma Hatchet, a portly woman of sixty who walked with a three-pronged cane. “You the pastor?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, rising. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Please, have a seat,” he said, indicating the chair that faced his desk. When they were both seated, they proceeded to visit a bit. The lady had raised a family and a couple of grandkids for her working daughter, done a great deal of volunteer work, and had been quite involved in the Grace Valley Presbyterian Church for the past twenty years.
“Mrs. Hatchet, this position will evolve into secretarial work, but right now it’s going to be a very physical job. I not only need help organizing an office and library, but scrubbing, painting, spackling and probably a lot of heavy lifting. It might not be what you’re looking for.”
She stiffened and lifted her chin. “I want to do the Lord’s work,” she said tightly. “I’ll willingly carry any load the Lord entrusts me with.”
Noah briefly wondered if Mrs. Hatchet thought he had workmen’s comp for when she threw out her back or took a tumble off a ladder. “Well, that’s admirable, but in this case the Lord’s work is going to be dirty, messy and the only praying will probably be for Bengay.”