A Virgin River Christmas
Page 12

“Couldn’t scare any brains into you, though,” he interrupted.
“Well, that’s more my problem than yours. When I get my mind made up about something, it’s hard to move me in any direction. But when I went to my car to eat the packed lunch I had, while the sun was setting and the snow started to fall, I thought I’d never in my life seen a more beautiful place. There was a rainbow in the snow! And I wasn’t afraid, because it was just pristine and glorious. You can have all the extras in the world in the city, but this is something you just can’t buy.”
He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You know what Bobby said about you? He said you were a real pistol.”
She watched his eyes. “That’s almost talking about it,” she said.
“Then pretend I didn’t say anything. You should be in bed.”
“When was the last time you slept?” she asked him.
“I should pull out my pallet, and you should be asleep again,” he said. “Besides, this is more talking than I’m used to and I think I’m worn out.”
“All right,” she said. She stood from her chair and looked down at the book. “Thomas Jefferson?” she asked. “Did you ever read John Adams?”
He nodded.
“Me too. I loved that book. What I loved was Abigail—she was amazing. Old John left her with a farm, children, very little money in a country in revolution and she did it all. She was my idol. If I could be anyone, I’d be Abigail Adams.”
“Because she did it all?” he asked.
“Because she was glad to do it all and never complained, that’s how committed she was to what John was doing. I know—as a woman, a feminist, I’m not supposed to admire a woman who’d do all that for a man, but she was doing it for herself. As if that was the contribution she could make to the founding of America. And they wrote each other letters—not just romantic, loving letters, but letters asking each other for advice. They were first good friends, two people who respected each other’s brains, and then obviously lovers, since they had a slew of kids. True partners, long before true partners were fashionable. And she—”
“I like biographies,” he said, cutting her off as though he’d heard enough about Abigail. “Don’t ask me why, I couldn’t tell you.”
She went to her couch and pulled off her boots. “Maybe you like figuring out why peoples’ lives turn out the way they do. It’s always a mystery, isn’t it?”
He pumped some water into the sink and cleaned up the mugs and spoons. Then he covered the pot of soup, not responding.
“Hey—you don’t have a refrigerator…”
“I have a shed,” he said. “It’ll keep some food cold enough for another day. Can’t keep eggs or milk—they’ll freeze. But if the soup freezes, we’ll thaw it and cook it again.”
“A shed for a refrigerator,” she said, lying back on the sofa. “Is the truck loaded for morning?”
He nodded. “If I’m gone when you wake up, you think you’ll be okay to walk out back on your own? Because there’s always the blue pot…”
“If I’m shaky, I’ll take advantage of the blue pot—but really, I’m feeling very much better. Just a little tired.”
“Besides bread, peanut butter, honey and juice in here, there’s also lots of stuff in cans you can open. Beans and soup,” he said. “I’ll probably be back and forth some tomorrow, loading and delivering.” Then he headed out the door with his big pot of chicken soup.
“Thank you, Ian. For taking such good care of me. I know I’m a terrible imposition.”
He didn’t say anything, but he did stop in the doorway for a moment before going out.
She settled back on the couch. It wasn’t much, this little cabin. It was less than not much—it was stark and only the most absolutely necessary things were supplied. But considering she’d finally found him, it was extremely comfortable for her. If it was her cabin, she’d have soup bowls and plates, better furniture, an indoor biffy. She remembered Mel’s words, “I have to ask him, in case his means are slim…” Really, there was no telling about that. Oh, he seemed to have very little money, but who knew how much of this mountain had been left to him and whether it was worth anything? It could be it was a little patch of worthless land. Or maybe it was vast and he had no idea the value. He didn’t seem real focused on that.
She loved that he knew how to get by like this—and that he’d be willing to let her stay when she was so dependent. And there was also the fact she represented the very thing he was determined to forget, the past he was running from.
When he came back, he fed the fire, rolled out his pallet, turned off the light and laid down. After several minutes of quiet darkness, she heard his voice. “Sorry if I scared you. I don’t roar that often.”
A slow smile spread on her lips and she snuggled in under the old quilt, more content than she’d been in a while.
In the morning when she woke, Ian and the truck were gone. She pulled on her jeans and boots and headed for the loo. Halfway there, she heard a cry and looked up to see the soaring beauty of an American Eagle.
Over the next couple of days, Marcie got lots of sleep. Not only was she fighting off that flu, but there was absolutely nothing to do. Ian would come home in early afternoon and be busy with his chores, his work. He’d always bring a little food with him and simmer something for evening, like kidney beans and a ham shank or canned tomatoes thickened with paste for a kind of red sauce to pour over noodles.
He’d split some logs, reload his truck for the next day, work outside, then come in and wash up at the sink. She’d wake from a long nap to find he’d changed into indoor clothes—sweats, socks and a T-shirt.
One afternoon she rolled over on the couch, opened her eyes and saw him naked as he stood at the sink. She blinked a couple of times, taking in his lean, muscular back complete with ponytail that hung down right between his shoulder blades, his long legs and tight butt before she realized he was bathing. He was rubbing a soapy cloth under one arm, then around his neck. With a shriek of embarrassment, she rolled over and faced the back of the couch. He never said a word, but she heard his deep chuckle; it rumbled in her mind for hours. And when they sat at the table together for dinner, her face was as red as the tomato sauce on her noodles. That she should be surprised to catch him washing more than his hands was silly—after all, he smelled good; he kept himself clean. He had to do it sometime and somewhere. It wasn’t as though he could excuse himself and go to the powder room. She managed to wash her face and brush her teeth while he was away, but he had no other choice—she was a fixture on his lumpy couch.
It might’ve been nice if he’d awakened her to say, “I’m getting naked to wash now, so if you don’t want to be embarrassed, close your eyes.” But then, no—Ian wouldn’t do that. It was his cabin. And he was a man. It had always intrigued her the way men could stalk around naked, proud as lions, completely unconcerned about being seen, judged.
They ate at the table together in the evening, talked a little bit, but not so much. When dinner was over he’d say, “I usually turn in right after dinner; the day starts real early for me.”
And although she’d have slept away most of the day, she found that, after a while of lying on the couch in the warm, dark cabin, she’d nod off again and not wake until he was gone the next morning.
Their dinner conversations were a wonderful diversion for her, and sometimes she could get him to talk about things she’d been wondering about for too long, but there was always a line she didn’t dare cross. When she started to tell him about Bobby’s large and devoted family, he pinched his eyes closed briefly, just enough of a message to say that he couldn’t go there. The whole Fallujah event that left Bobby physically disabled and Ian emotionally crippled was off-limits.
“I visited your father,” she bravely told him over dinner. Ian’s brown eyes lifted and the amber in them sparkled. “He’s very sick,” Marcie said.
Ian just looked down at his plate and shoveled more hamburger gravy and boiled potatoes into his mouth.
“He’s not particularly friendly,” she courageously pointed out.
Ian chuckled and it was an unmistakably sardonic tone. “He isn’t now, is he?”
“I assumed it’s because of age, illness—”
“Don’t assume. He’s never been easy.”
“I thought maybe because he’s unwell—”
Ian’s eyes snapped up, angry. “My father and I have never been close. Mostly because of that unfriendly nature.”
She took a couple of bites that were hard to swallow. “I thought you’d want to know.”
He took a breath and she could tell it took effort to keep his voice even. “Listen, he’s not worried about me, all right? It’s not keeping him up nights wondering where I am. What I’m doing with myself.”
“But if he’s just not well—”
“Marcie. My mom died when I was twenty. I checked in regularly to see if the old man was all right, but the fact is, he didn’t write or call for seven years. Seven.”
She swallowed hard. “But you called him?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking back to his plate, scooping up some food. “Yeah.”
“That must have hurt.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Maybe when I was younger,” was all he said.
“What an old fool,” she muttered, digging back into her own plate, angrily. “The idiot.” She took a couple more bites, small ones. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
After a moment, Ian said, “You didn’t know.”
“Well, all I can say is, his loss. That’s all.”
Again, there was quiet. Ian scraped the last of his food off his plate. Then he rose and began to rinse the dishes in the sink. Finally the words came that ended the talk for the evening. “Time for bed.”
Marcie was on her fourth day at Ian’s. Her cough was still hanging on but she was feeling very much better—enough so that the boredom was getting to her. She rose after Ian was gone, ate bread and honey, walked out back to the facilities, drank the lukewarm coffee Ian had left sitting on the woodstove, and tried reading some of his library book. She had no idea what time it was when she walked out back again.
The air was clear and crisp, the sky blue, the ground covered with a couple of inches of packed snow. She hadn’t even bothered to pull on her jeans, though she had put on her jacket. Her legs were bare between her calf-high boots and thigh-long flannel shirt. She might have wandered around a bit, but the woods were so dense beyond his lot, she was a little afraid of getting lost. A trip to the john was about all she dared.
She was near the outhouse door when she heard a noise and the hair on the back of her neck crinkled up. She turned to see an animal standing right between two big trees at the tree line. As she stared, wide-eyed, the animal crouched and hissed, baring its fangs. It was some sort of big cat. It looked like a small jungle cat—a tawny and unspotted animal. She’d never seen anything like it except in a zoo; it was as big as a good-sized golden retriever. She glanced at the cabin, at the outhouse. And then the cat darted across the yard.
In two long strides Marcie dashed into the outhouse, slamming the door. She sat down on the seat just to get her wits. There was a bang on the door as if the beast had hurled himself at it, then came a scratching and a snarling. Oh shit, she thought—he’s out there, after me! Waiting for me!
Well, it was cold, but it was probably better to freeze to death than to be mauled by some mysterious wild cat. So she stood up, lowered the seat—which was just an old Home Depot toilet seat, and tried to get comfortable, though the cold seeped through that flannel shirt pretty quickly, freezing her buns. Stupid not to even put her jeans on for this trek, but then she hadn’t been expecting company. She glanced at her wrist—of course she hadn’t even been wearing her watch.