A Virgin River Christmas (12 page)

He just let his breath out in a long sigh. Then he began rinsing her hair.

While she was towel drying her hair, he pulled a clean shirt from his trunk and handed it to her. This time it was an old soft denim one with fraying around the cuffs and collar and mismatched buttons. “You better wear this,” he said. “That plaid flannel is about ready to walk to the laundry and throw itself in.” When he turned away, she pulled it out and surreptitiously sniffed it herself.

“Smart-ass,” she muttered under her breath.

Once the tub was poured and he’d refilled the big pots for his own bath, setting them to heat, he left her. She could hear the whistling and thumping of logs while she did, indeed, shave her legs. And armpits. The whistling wasn’t just meaningless tweeting—he was gifted. The melody was clear, twirls and whorls and everything. She longed for the singing, but today, he just whistled.

When he came back inside, she was wearing the fresh shirt. She puzzled over the mismatched buttons, then realized he must replace buttons as he lost them, keeping even his oldest clothes as functional as possible for as long as he could. A very peculiar man. He lived in such a rustic, gone-to-the-devil lifestyle—his hair and beard gone mad—yet he seemed to take such jealous care of old, worn clothing.

To her surprise, he aped her routine exactly, leaning into the sink to suds his hair and beard while a second and third pot of water cooked, except he accomplished it bare-chested. She tried to read his library book while he did this, but she found herself continually peeking around the covers to get a good view of that broad expanse of back, that firm male butt. He kept the fitness of his body pretty-much concealed under his clothing, but really, he had the body of a god. Small wonder he’d be built so powerful, with the work he did. He chopped down trees and split logs all the time, loaded at least a cord of wood a day into his truck, then unloaded it when he delivered it—he was cut like a wrestler on steroids.

When she’d caught sight of him before, she’d whirled away too quickly to appreciate his physique. Given the fact that his hair and beard were so thick and full, she was expecting a gorilla with hair on his back. But, no—there was just a hairy chest that was broad and hard, biceps like small melons, back wide and muscled, waist narrow. He had tattoos on each upper arm—an eagle on the right, a banner that said USMC on the left.

He slicked back the hair on his head, retied it, and combed through his beard with an old brush while his bath water heated. She finally understood the reason for all the big pots stacked beside the kitchen cabinet—not for cooking big meals since there was but one resident, but for heating water.

He obviously trimmed his ponytail and beard occasionally. She just wondered, did he ever trim it enough to make a real difference, or did he let it go crazy and sometimes lop off an inch or two from the bottom? His hair and beard were both plentiful and thick with lots of curls, the hair on his head light brown and on his chin, reddish-brown. With those brown eyebrows, which were healthy, if he frowned, he looked beastly.

Maybe this was all just part of his hiding. Tucked away in the mountains, incognito behind that uncanny red beard and thick brown hair.

She plopped herself on the sofa with his book on her raised knees. When he dumped the water into the tub and began to unbuckle his belt, she sank into the sofa and put the book right over her face, blinding her against an accidental glance at more of him. She heard him chuckle lightly right before he said, “I’ll tell you when I’m done.” She heard the splashing and swishing of the water, and not ten minutes later he said, “I’m done.” But she gave him an extra couple of minutes. He was just contrary enough to trick her.

When he gathered up the dirty clothes and stuffed them into a laundry bag, she turned over a couple of pair of jeans, four pair of socks, two sweatshirts and some sweatpants. She kept her undergarments to herself. When he left the next morning, she placed a big pot of water on top of the wood-burning stove and, when it was finally just a bit more than warm, she washed out her own underwear in the sink and draped her panties and bras along the rim of the tub to dry in front of the stove. When driven to the outhouse by sheer urgent need, she carried the big iron skillet. If that beast showed up again, teeth bared, she’d knock him into the middle of next week. She might not be a hunter, but she’d been a damn fine softball player in her day. Then, tired and coughing, she took her medicine and napped.

He came in carrying a long, rectangular cardboard box inside of which were neatly folded clothes. He put it down on one of his trunks and lifted a pair of panties off the rim of the tub. “I hope you’re starting to feel better,” he said. “I don’t think I’m up to a lot of this. Old Raleigh is probably spinning in his grave…”

And she bolted off the couch, snatched up her dainties and tucked them into her duffel even though they weren’t entirely dry.

That night’s dinner was boiled potatoes, a few fresh, soft-cooked eggs and some thick chunks of ham. And then they talked a little as they ate: about his day, his customers and routine, but afterward, before she could sneak up on the subjects that brought her here, he said it was time for quiet so that he could read a little and sleep. She granted this without argument—he’d lived alone for a long time and it didn’t mean he was unkind or cruel.

She began to relish the small things—his occasional subdued laughter. No one could call it an actual laugh, but he did cave into amusement if she shot him a smart-ass comment. He smiled at her from time to time—behind that bushy red-brown beard he had beautiful, healthy teeth.

But she was getting lonely. She wondered if she could wait out his silence.

One afternoon, she witnessed a most remarkable thing. He had been whistling while piling his wood in the truck and had finally started to sing, quietly at first and then louder, that incredible voice just making her heart flutter. Suddenly all sound stopped; no more logs, no more singing. And yet the door didn’t open. At first, she thought he’d made a pass by the outhouse, but time stretched out. Finally, she stepped out the front door and quietly looked around the side of the cabin. She saw Ian out by the shed. He was standing in front of a very large buck with a huge, beautiful rack that must span over three feet. His hand was out and the buck seemed to be eating out of it; Ian was talking softly to the deer, stroking its jaw with the other hand.

She was frozen in the moment, silently watching as Ian and the deer, like best friends, spent this quiet, companionable time together. There was a kindness in this man that calmed the most skittish of wildlife. Would she ever be in touch with that side of his nature, she wondered? Did he only roar at people who frightened him?

She had frightened him with the past when she arrived. She’d been very careful not to do that again. A little time, a little more trust, and she would sneak up on those old issues carefully. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him. She knew that he was a good person.

How could a father have turned a cold shoulder to this man?
she asked herself.
How?

The deer took a couple of steps back, turned, and pranced back into the trees. Ian turned back to his work and caught sight of her standing there. He walked over to her.

“You saw my buddy, Buck,” he said. “I keep an apple in my pocket when I work outside. Sometimes he shows up. If the apple starts to get soft before he comes, I eat it.”

“How do you do that?” Marcie asked, entranced.

“It’s not a trick. I found him when he was young. He was nicked by a hunter’s bullet, separated from his mother, all spooked and confused and bleeding. So I kind of caught him. The old man, Raleigh, he said his eyes weren’t any good anymore and he couldn’t do anything, but I could do something about that wound, take care of him, give him a couple of apples and let him go. Which is what I did. I closed him in the shed, fed and watered him, gave him apples and when he was fine, I turned him loose. That’s all.”

“And he comes back?”

“Not regularly. I’m just happy he hasn’t told his friends.”

Marcie put her hand against her chest, touched. “Ian, that’s incredible.”

“Don’t get sloppy, Marcie. If I had a freezer, I might shoot him.”

“You
wouldn’t!
”

He smiled at her. “I like venison. Don’t you?”

She thought about that chili Jack had given her, how it melted in her mouth. But she said, “Not that much!” And she whirled and went into the house, his amused laughter at her back.

Midmorning, Marcie heard an engine and knew it wasn’t Ian; the motor was too smooth. She opened the cabin door and saw the nurse, Mel, get out of a big Hummer with her bag in hand. “Well, hello,” Mel said. “You must be feeling better.”

“Much, thanks,” Marcie said. “Alone this time?”

Mel came up to the door. “I thought I’d just drop by, see how you’re doing.”

Marcie laughed at her. “You don’t just stop in here. I remember how hard this place was to find. Come in. I’m afraid I can’t fix tea and cookies.”

“Marcie—I talked with your sister. I thought maybe I should tell you about it.”

“Oh, God. Was she mean as a badger about this? Did she totally freak out?”

Mel chuckled a little. “Totally? No. But she has some strong opinions where this visit is concerned. I’ll tell you how it went.”

Marcie threw her arm toward the table with the two chairs and Mel took one. She got right to the point. “I think I did what you asked. I told her you had found Ian Buchanan, you were visiting with him, planned to stay a while and would call her when you were in town next. I honestly don’t think I got out much more than that. She wanted to know why, if you found him and talked to him, you’re not on your way home.”

“Oh, holy cow. No—holy sister.” Marcie put her head in her hand. “Well, because I got sick, but I wouldn’t want her to know that. She might come up here with an ambulance. She can move mountains when she wants to. Mobilizing the National Guard wouldn’t be impossible for Erin.”

“I kind of got that impression.”

“But this flu turns out to be a blessing. Because Ian’s very slow to get close, and he’s awful used to not having anyone to talk to. Just being here for a few days has gotten him used to me a little. We’ve nibbled around the edges of our individual lives without talking about things like the war, my late husband Bobby, what drove him to leave the Marines, his hometown, all that. But I’m getting closer. Because he’s stuck with me, we’ve been getting acquainted. Reacquainted really—we were in touch right after Bobby was hurt—briefly. So, I’m trying to build trust and friendship. One of these days he’s going to really talk to me.”

“And?”

Marcie shrugged. “Mel, I don’t know why I had to do this—come here like this. It was just something I couldn’t live without doing. When I understand the man who saved my husband’s life—”

“Wait a minute,” Mel said. “He saved your husband’s life?”

“Uh-huh,” Marcie said. “Didn’t I tell Jack that?”

“I guess not. At least Jack never mentioned it.”

“Well, he did. He risked his life to save Bobby and was injured himself in the process. It’s not Ian’s fault Bobby lived with terrible disabilities. I appreciate that he did everything he could. I don’t know if you can understand this, but despite the fact that Bobby might have lived too long in a dysfunctional body, with no concept of what was happening around him, I got to—” Marcie glanced away, swallowed back tears and said, so softly, “I was with him a little longer. I’m very grateful for the time I had with him. Unfair as that might seem to Bobby.”

Mel took a deep breath. Jack was her second husband; she’d been widowed when she lost her first husband to a violent crime. She wasn’t even tempted to explain the details at the moment. Instead she put her hand on Marcie’s arm and said, “I understand completely.”

“There are other things. The way Bobby felt about Ian—how much he admired him, for one thing. Bobby thought Ian was the greatest man ever, he wanted to be like him. And this great man—he ran away from everything and everybody. It doesn’t add up. And then there’s something so silly—baseball cards. They both collected baseball cards ever since they were boys and while they were sitting in the desert on the lookout for bombs and snipers, they talked about those stupid baseball cards. There are things I want to know. You see?”

Mel smiled. “I see,” she said quietly.

“I tried to explain all this to Erin, but she doesn’t get it. I think it’s because I’m her first concern. All she thinks about is keeping me safe and from getting hurt any more than I’ve been over the last few years. I know Ian might never open up to me—I have to be prepared for that. He’s been very blunt—he doesn’t want to talk about any of it. Whatever happened left a very big hole in his heart.”

“Okay,” Mel said, leaning her elbows on the table. “I don’t have a lot of experience with this sort of thing, but I do have a little. I have myself a marine who’s been to war way too much and he has a shaky, vulnerable side. I don’t know all the triggers. I wouldn’t want you at risk when you finally decide to confront these things—”

“He’s not going to snap,” Marcie said. “In fact, I don’t think he even realizes it, but he is
not
a tortured man. Maybe he was a few years ago, and maybe those memories are still disturbing, but now he’s just a man who lives in the mountains…in a simplified life…and he lives alone. It’s less complicated than it seems. At least, that’s my opinion.”

“I know. He sings,” Mel said with a smile.

“It’s not just that. He talks to me about other things. About the old man who gave him the cabin, about the deer that comes visiting. He washed my hair for me. He heated water so I could take a bath. He goes to the library and he reads every day—he doesn’t read books about how to build bombs or make poisons—he has a big stack of biographies. He’s intelligent. Has a sense of humor he doesn’t really want me to see—I’m sure he thinks I’ll get the misguided impression he’s enjoying me.”

“Still—”

“No, he’s not on a hair-trigger,” Marcie said, shaking her head. “For some reason he thinks being alone is better for him…Eventually I’ll figure that out.”