Hidden Summit

Conner followed the directions to Virgin River. Conner Danson had formerly been Danson Conner, owner of Conner’s Hardware, so the name change had been merely a reversal, which was a little easier to get used to than an entirely new one. Danson was an old family name—some ancient great-grandfather. His parents, sister, nephews and ex-wife had always called him Danny. But at work he had been called Conner or sometimes Con or even Connie by quite a few. It wasn’t difficult to remember to respond to the new name. He was tall, had brown hair, blue eyes, a small scar over his right eye, one slightly crooked tooth and a dimple on his left cheek.

The past five years had been a challenge and the past year, a nightmare.

Conner and his sister, Katie, had inherited their father’s business—Conner’s Custom Carpentry and Hardware. Construction work and running a hardware store was no walk in the park, it was very physical. His muscles had been hard-earned. They’d outsourced custom kitchen and bathroom jobs to builders and sold commercial hardware, cabinetry, fixtures, accessories and lumber used by contractors. Conner had managed it full-time with about ten employees and Katie had done the books, mostly from home so she could take care of her twin boys. Their merchandise had been high-end; the business had done well.

When Conner had been thirty, Katie’s army husband had been killed in action in Afghanistan—she had been twenty-seven, pregnant and ready to give birth. At that point, Conner had had to take over their support. They couldn’t sell the family business—their source of income would have dissipated in no time. And Katie couldn’t contribute enough time to the family business to draw an adequate salary for herself and her sons. So—Conner had worked a little more than full-time, Katie had worked part-time and Conner had picked up the slack so Katie and the boys could live in their own home, independent.

Those days had been long, the work demanding. Many days had ended with Conner feeling as if he’d been married to a store, and while he loved his family, he hadn’t had a life. Still, hard work never bothered him, and he’d remained good-natured and quick-witted. His customers and employees had enjoyed his laugh, his positive attitude. But he had needed something more.

And then he’d found the perfect woman—Samantha. Beautiful, funny and sexy Sam with the long, black hair and hypnotizing smile. And God, going to bed with her had just wound his clock! She was a whiz of an interior decorator who had helped Katie slap her little three bedroom into a showplace in nothing flat. She’d wanted him constantly. Loved sex.

Little had he known.

One year of marriage later and he’d found out she was cheating—and not with a guy, but with every guy she met.

“She’s sick,” Katie had said. “It’s not even like she’s unfaithful, she’s a sex addict.”

“I don’t believe in sex addicts,” Conner had said.

“She needs help,” Katie had said.

“I wish her luck with that,” he had replied.

Of course they divorced. He ended up paying for an expensive treatment program, but escaped alimony. He hadn’t recovered from that before things got worse.

All he’d been doing was taking trash out to the Dumpster in the alley behind the store. A man in a black town car had gotten out, walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and put a bullet in the head of his passenger. Conner had crouched behind the Dumpster while the man, whom he’d unfortunately gotten a very good look at, had pulled out the victim’s body and used Conner’s Dumpster as the coffin. Then he’d calmly gotten back in his fancy car and driven out of the dark alley.

This was the point at which Conner would have done a few things differently, because he had seen the man and the license plate and the dead body. It would have probably been a lot easier all around if he’d pretended he hadn’t seen a thing, but calling the police was an automatic response for him. Unfortunately, Conner’s name had appeared on the warrant—it was how the police had been able to get it signed by a judge. Within a couple of days someone had burned the hardware store to the ground.

The ground.

At that point, even the decision not to testify would have come too late. Mr. Regis Mathis was a very important man in Sacramento. He endowed Catholic charities and supported high-profile politicians. Of course, he’d been investigated a few times by the feds for tax evasion and had a reputation for professional gambling—very successful legal gambling—but he was also a successful developer who sold golf course condo lots. He had never been indicted.

His victim, who had been found with his hands and ankles bound by duct tape, a strip across his mouth as well, had been his opposite—Dickie Randolph had been a low-class thug who’d owned a number of questionable establishments like massage parlors, strip clubs and adult clubs, all with the reputation of illegal drug use, prostitution and sex play. The two men had had nothing in common but there’d been hints of association—silent partner association that would be difficult to impossible to prove.

Immediately following the phone threat, Conner and the D.A., Max, had packed Katie and the boys off to Burlington, Vermont. Max knew of a friend of a friend’s small rental house there and the same friend had hooked them up with a pediatric dentist who’d been looking for an accountant. Katie would be comfortable, independent and far, far away.

As much as Conner had wanted to accommodate his hostess, Brie Valenzuela, it had been hard to be cheery. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time—right on his own property—and now he’d lost too much. He missed Katie and the boys. He was going to work construction for a while before he had to testify and then get permanently relocated before Mathis could exact his revenge.

The guy who’d been upbeat in spite of everything was no more.

But as he made his way to the cabins on the river, sunlight broke through the clouds, sending a shaft of gold through the majestic redwoods. The early-March weather was wet and cold, but the beam of sunlight was promising. The green was so dense and bright with the sparkling wet of a recent rain, he was taken aback by the natural beauty of the place. Maybe, he thought… Maybe this isn’t the worst place to be exiled. Time would tell.

He pulled up to the house and cabins—it was a serene little complex, lush and green, a river rushing by. A man came out of the house at the sound of Conner’s truck. By the time he was getting out of the truck, the man had his hand out. “You must be Conner.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

He laughed. “You start sirring me and I’ll forget I’m civilian now. I’m Luke Riordan. My wife, Shelby, and I take care of these cabins. Number four is unlocked, but the key hangs on a hook by the door. We don’t do meals, but we have a phone you can use if you need to. There’s satellite internet hookup in case you brought a laptop. And there’s a kitchenette and coffeepot, but your best bet for tonight is Jack’s Bar, just ten minutes farther up 36 in Virgin River. The food is amazing and the company isn’t bad.”

“Thanks, I’ll check that out. Are the rest of your cabins full?”

“Nah, hardly anyone right now. We’re between hunting seasons, and the fishing is just starting to pick up. Deer hunting starts in the fall and then there’s water fowl through January. Salmon is great from late summer to December and then slows way down. Summer people start showing up in a couple of months, so from June through January we’re busy. I try to do repairs and upgrades these winter months.”

“Pretty wet around here,” Conner observed.

“The rain will let up in April. If we get a dry day, you’re welcome to use my grill anytime. It’s right in the storage shed. Also in the shed—rods and reels. Help yourself.”

Conner almost smiled. “Full-service lodge.”

“Not even close, my friend. We take care of the linens after you check out, but since you might be here awhile, you’ll have to make use of that little washer and dryer in the cabin. We have a man, Art, who will do some cleaning in there if you feel like a little help. You know—bathroom, floor, shower, that sort of thing. There’s a sign you can hang on the door if you want cleaning. He’s challenged—he has Down syndrome—but he’s smart and very competent. Good guy.”

“Thanks, but I’ve been cleaning for myself for quite a while. I’ll be fine.”

“Let me help you unload a few things,” Luke offered.

“I guess I’ll move in and go have a beer and some dinner.”

“Sounds like a good plan. You gonna be able to find your way back here?”

“I think so. Left turn at the dead sequoia?”

Luke laughed. “That’ll get you home.”

Home. It was a memory. But Conner said, “Thanks.”

Luke helped him move a couple of duffels and boxes into the cabin, shook his hand and went back to his house, his family. Alone once more, Conner unpacked some clothes into the one and only chest of drawers in the room. He plugged in his laptop to recharge it—he and Katie had changed all their accounts, user names and passwords. Although Brie hadn’t said anything, the D.A. had told him they could keep in touch by internet but recommended they not use their names or previously used ID’s, and they should resist the urge to Skype, just on the off chance their internet access was compromised.

What remained of the hardware store had been razed, and all that was left was the lot, but it was in a prime location. Conner had insurance money for rebuilding; it had been put in an investment account under his new identity and would be there for him when this nightmare ended. With his share of the sale of the lot and insurance on the building and stock, he could start over. But not in Sacramento, where he’d spent his entire life except for two years in the army.

He got to that little Virgin River bar just before six and damn near smiled in appreciation. Conner was a custom builder at the heart of things and this establishment was put together real nice. The bar itself was a fine piece of furniture. Someone here favored beeswax as a buffer and shiner, and he could almost smell it. The place was cozy, hospitable and clean as a whistle. He found himself a spot at the end of the bar where he could observe.

“Hey, pardner, what can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“I’ll take a light beer and how about a menu?”

“No problem on the beer, but I’m afraid we don’t have a menu. Our cook fixes up whatever he’s in the mood for. You lucked out there if you like fish—the trout are jumping and Preacher, that’s the cook, has been spending some time out at the river. He has a stuffed trout that will just bring you to your knees.”

“Sounds good to me,” Conner said.

He was immediately served up a beer, and the bartender said, “I’m Jack. This is my place. You passing through?”

“I hope so,” he said, lifting the beer to his lips.

Jack smiled. “Don’t be in such a hurry. This place is about to get real pretty, soon as the rain lets up. And when you see what the melting snowpack does to that river, you’ll just fall in love. No wonder our fish get so big.”

And then Jack was gone, wandering down the bar to take care of other patrons, serving a few plates, picking up a few. The atmosphere was real friendly; everyone seemed acquainted, and there was a small part of Conner that wondered, Can I make a life here? For a while? Imagine checking into a hotel and having the manager offer housekeeping if you were in the mood, no extra charge. Imagine a bar and grill that served up only what the cook felt like.

Jack returned a little later to ask, “How you doing on that beer? Dinner’s ready whenever you are.”