Redwood Bend

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 if he was happy, they made money.
It had been years before he realized that Adele didn’t exactly have a passion for bean soup or fried hot dogs,