A Virgin River Christmas (28 page)

Then he put the rifle strap over his shoulder and scooped up Travis in his arms. Immediately he remembered doing the same for Bobby. But this time it was different—there was muscle tension in Travis’s body. He was responding to the pain, maybe from the cold, maybe from having a mountain lion’s claws in his back.

“Wake up, Travis! Wake up! Did the cat get you, huh? Tell me,” he panted, walking as fast as he could. He hoped he wouldn’t fall. His torso was okay—he had on a T-shirt, sweatshirt and jacket, but his legs, knees and feet were now soaked with ice and snow. “You with me, buddy?”

“Who…you…?”

Ian laughed in spite of himself, just hearing the kid’s response. “Your guardian angel, my boy! You shoot at the cat?”

“I…think…”

“He left a bloody trail—you get a shot off?”

“I…I couldn’t a hit ’im,” Travis answered, his tongue thick.

“Yeah, bet you got lucky. He’s bleeding way worse than you. Good for you,” Ian said. “Talk. Keep talking. Tell me.”

His speech was slurred and labored, but Travis did as ordered. “Got me…from…the tree…I saw him…I had him…bastard got Whip…”

“Keep talking,” Ian said breathlessly, now laboring heavily under the weight of Travis combined with the difficulty of moving through the snow. “Almost there,” he said, but in fact, he wasn’t sure how far it was. He kept tromping. And tromping. But he knew the woods, knew the river’s edge that ran by his property. “Talk to me! Tell me about your girl!”

And the boy tried. He named her—Felicity. Must be the next generation’s girls’ names, Ian thought, almost laughing if he’d had the breath. “Keep talking!” he demanded. “This Felicity, you in love with her or something?”

“She’s a good girl…”

“That bites,” Ian said. “Sucks she couldn’t be a bad girl. You don’t know, bud—those bad girls, they get right under your skin. She pretty?”

“Pretty,” he said.

“Atta boy, keep talking,” Ian said, laying the boy carefully on the ground. “I’m going to fire a couple shots to let them know we’re coming.” And Ian quickly put another two in a fat tree, just to be sure there was some backup on the way. The kid was in rough shape so, if he had to, he’d take him out of here and come back in the dark of night for Jack, but it would be better if—

“Hey!” Jack shouted. “What you got?”

“Your boy,” Ian said in a weak breath. Then he saw the truck about a hundred yards down the road.

“Lemme help,” Jack shouted.

“I’ve got him. You drive.”

“I don’t know this road,” Jack said. “I can’t
feel
it.”

Ian let a laugh erupt. “I fucking
plowed
it for you! Let’s get going!”

When they got to the truck, Ian balanced Travis on his thighs and pulled the keys out of his pocket, pitching them to Jack. Then he climbed into the cab with a boy the size of a man on his lap. Travis’s head was lolling back and forth and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Before Jack had the key in the ignition, Ian had ripped open Travis’s jacket and shirt, tearing his undershirt open, then he did the same with his own three layers. He pressed Travis’s bare chest to his own and hugged his body close, warming him with his own body heat.

Jack carefully turned the truck around and headed out. “The plow is down. Should I stop and put it up?”

“Nah. The county should thank us.”

“Could hurt the plow blade.”

“Who cares?”

“Where we headed?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know. We need medical help. You tell me. We can call his parents from wherever…”

“Virgin River, I guess,” Jack said. “It’s just as quick to drive him straight to town where Mel and Doc can look at him as to call them from the farm. Besides, they have the Humvee ambulance. What’s his condition?”

“He tried to bury himself to keep from freezing to death, and he did a good job of it. But another couple of hours and we’d be outta luck,” Ian said. He absorbed the boy’s cold into his body. “He also got mauled by the cat, but the temperatures were low and the bleeding doesn’t look serious—but then what do I know? Plow faster, huh?”

“You got it, sir,” Jack said.

Ian settled back in the seat and pressed Travis’s face against his bare shoulder, feeling his carotid pulse picking up as he held him chest to chest. Momentarily, he felt him stir on his lap. Within fifteen minutes the boy’s eyes had drifted open. Surprise dawned on his face. “Who are you?” he asked weakly.

“The Christmas fairy,” Ian said. “You’re going to be okay, kid.” Ian pulled the bottle of water out of his jacket pocket and held it to Travis’s lips. “Take a little drink. Slow and easy.” Finished, Ian’s arms came around him tight, holding him against him. “I’m gonna get the heater fixed in this truck, if it’s the last I do. I think you got that cat, boy.”

“I shot at him, but he still lunged at me and I butted him in the head hard as I could. He just ran…”

“He was bleeding good. You must’ve hit him plenty hard.”

“I didn’t get him,” he said slowly. “Scared him away long enough to bury myself.”

“I had a dog,” Ian said. “My best friend for years. She used to sleep on my bed. She was a good dog…”

“Whip was a good dog,” he said.

Ian ruffled the kid’s hair. “I loved my dog. I’d have done the same as you. That cat’s a bad cat. I’ve seen it around.”

“You’ve seen it?”

Ian nodded. “I should’ve killed it. This is my fault—I should’ve shot the cat. He had my girl trapped in the outhouse for hours, in the cold, but I shot over its head to run him off. I’m sorry, kid. I should’ve killed the cat.”

“I should’ve, too,” the kid said, sleepily, laying his head against Ian’s shoulder.

“Drink another couple swallows,” Ian said, holding up the water for him.

A few minutes later Jack drove into Virgin River pounding the horn in long, urgent blasts that brought people out of the bar, including Mel and Doc Mullins. Jack pulled right up to the Hummer while Ian, bare-chested, carried Travis out of the truck and, as they were accustomed to doing, Mel and Doc sprang into action. They lifted the hatch on the Hummer, pulled out the gurney and Ian placed the boy there.

After a quick check of his vitals, Ian told them about the lacerations on his back from the mountain lion he’d been tracking. Mel rolled him onto his side while Doc lifted the jacket and glanced at the injury. “Not so bad. Hypothermia. Melinda, you get in back—start an IV and get him warmed up while I drive. Valley Hospital can deal with this, no problem. The boy’s going to pull through fine.” To Jack he said, “Call the farm—tell his parents.”

“Will do,” Jack said. “Then I’ll go out and fire a flare for Preacher, Mike, and the rest of the search party. You saying we’re home free?”

“Good as it gets,” Doc said. “Come on, Melinda! You slowing down on me?”

“Oh, shove it, you old goat,” she snapped, climbing in. “Jack—mind the baby.”

He grinned largely. “You bet, my love.”

Through it all Ian thought,
I’m part of a unit.
Even out here in the middle of nowhere, there were people to belong to. He’d always known that, but never thought he’d slip into their fold.

Jack just stood there, looking at Ian. He lifted one brow. “Your girl, huh?” he asked.

“I was just talking to the kid,” Ian said.

“Uh-huh. You better head for home, pal.”

Fifteen

B
y the time Ian walked into his cabin, it was after eight at night. He was so tired and chilled, he thought it would be half the night before he’d warm up, much less be able to load the pickup with the next day’s firewood. He didn’t even have the door closed behind him when he heard a wild shriek and Marcie leaped at him, her arms around his neck and her legs wrapped around him.

“Hey,” he laughed, holding her clear of the floor. “Hey. You’re on me like a tick.”

She leaned away from his face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m freezing and hungry. Were you scared?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “Did you find the boy?”

“He was found,” Ian said. “Hurt and cold, but he’s going to be all right. Can you warm and feed me? Would Abigail Adams do that?”

“She would, and in between, she’d plow two fields and give birth.” Marcie grinned at him.

God, she’s so alive, he thought. It would be a travesty to hide her away on a mountaintop. But for now, having her on top this mountain was like the answer to a prayer.

Ian had to dig his way out to the john early the next morning, shoveling a path for Marcie to use when she woke. Then he loaded up the back of the truck with firewood, feeling better than he had a right to, since she hadn’t let him sleep that much during the night. Then, rather than going straight to that intersection where he liked to sell firewood, he drove in the opposite direction a couple of miles, adjusted the blade on the plow, and cleared a path up to his neighbor’s house.

He didn’t like what he saw upon pulling up. There was no homey curl of smoke from the chimney; no sign of life. His first thought was—if I have to hold another ice-cold body against my chest…

But the front door creaked open. The old man stood there in the frame, wearing his boots and coat.

“I cleared your road, in case you need someone to get in or need to get out.”

“Obliged,” he said.

“Listen—how you fixed for firewood? You got some canned food you can open up while the snow’s heavy?” Ian asked.

“I’ll get by,” he said.

Typically, that’s when Ian would give him a small salute, then turn and head out down the drive to Highway 36, to get on with the things he had to do. Instead, with a muffled curse, he lifted up the tarp covering his load and filled his arms with split logs. He walked right up to the front door with the wood and the old guy barred the way. Ian stared down at him. “Come on,” he said. “I brought you wood for your stove.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the guy let him in, grimacing. On his way to put the logs beside the stove, Ian caught a whiff of something disgusting. He kept his mouth shut, having an idea what the problem might be. When he crouched to stack the logs by the stove, he pulled off a glove and touched it. It was ice-cold. He stood and went back out the door and loaded up another big batch of logs. On his way to the door he glanced along the property and saw what he expected—the outhouse was buried in a couple feet of snow and there was no path. The old boy couldn’t split his own logs, if he had any to split, and he either couldn’t get to the outhouse or was worried about falling in the snow and not being able to get up. As for shoveling, he likely just didn’t have the stamina. He’d been making far too much use of some indoor make-shift chamber pot that he’d empty when he could get to the john. It was horrid.

Ian delivered a third load of wood and said, “Get your fire going. I’m going to clear your path for you. Where’s the shovel?”

“Don’t bother. I’ll—”

“Don’t argue with me about it—where’s the damn shovel?”

He tilted his head out the door. Ian went out, looked around to the side of the house and found the shovel leaning against the house, nearly buried by the snow. Well, he was missing his usual firewood crowd and he was in a hurry—so it would have to be a narrow path. But this had to be done. Only a damn fool would let pride cause him to freeze to death in his own filth.

And that won’t happen to me, because I won’t let it. Just like he’d always believed he wouldn’t let himself turn into his father? It gave him pause…

When he’d cleared the path, he pounded on the man’s door. “You like Dinty Moore beef stew?” he asked shortly.

“Why?”

“I have a surplus. I thought I’d leave some off later.”

“No need to do that.”

“Come on, man—it’s a friendly gesture. The woman at my place hates that stuff and won’t eat it—I’ll leave by a few cans. If it’s not going to be too big a burden for you to take it off my hands.”

He shrugged. “You grow weed over there on that ridge?”

“Hell, no. What makes you ask that?”

“What you do over there?”

“I cut down trees and sell firewood out of my truck. I fish some. Lately I shovel and plow a lot. I don’t know your name.”

“We’re even,” the old boy said. “Since I never knew yours.”

“Ian Buchanan,” he said, not putting out his hand.

“Michael Jackson,” the old boy said, and Ian let a burst of laughter escape. The old man frowned darkly and Ian realized, too late, that this fella probably hadn’t seen television in decades, if ever.

“Nice to meet you,” Ian said. “Mr. Jackson.”

“You sure you don’t grow weed? Because I don’t get mixed up with growers for Dinty Anything.”

“I’m sure,” Ian said. “I’ll drop some canned goods by later on, but for now you can get to the john and heat up the house.”

Ian went back to his truck, adjusted the plow so it wouldn’t scrape on the highway and turned around to leave. There was no thank-you, no pleased to meet you. But then, Ian had been taking care of the old guy’s drive for over two years without any exchanging social graces.

But, no doubt about it, things were declining some for the old man. Mr. Jackson had been able to plow his drive till now, but now he couldn’t even make his way out back to the toilet and it was possible there was no food in the house. Remembering how Doc checked on old Raleigh at the end, he decided he would mention this situation to Doc. He couldn’t have Michael Jackson on his conscience; his conscience was pretty full right now.

It took him longer than usual to deliver his wood. He had to wait for both his customers to go to their ATM’s to withdraw cash as he couldn’t afford to take a bad check at this point. By the time he got back to his cabin, it was afternoon and he’d been gone eight hours. When he came in, Marcie had his bath water simmering on the stove. “Well, Abigail,” he said, smiling at her. “I see you’re ready for me to come home. Tell me, do you have the back forty plowed?”

“And the barn rebuilt,” she said, smiling. “You took a long time today.”

“Some days are easier than others,” he said. “I have to make a quick run. Not fifteen minutes.” He walked over to his cupboard. “How much of this beef stew you willing to part with?”