A Virgin River Christmas (11 page)

“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.

The fact was, she’d been living in one of Ian’s flannel shirts for four days, sleeping in it, eating in it, wandering out to the loo in it, with only her boots in addition. She ran a hand over her head; it felt as though her naturally curly, bright copper hair was standing on end, big as a house. She’d managed a little teeth brushing and panty changing, but other than that, nothing. She must look like a vagrant. A homeless person hiding out in Ian’s outhouse.

She glanced at her naked wrist again and shivered. She started counting in her head to mark the passing of the minutes. How long does a small lion wait for his prey? He had a coat, so they weren’t matched opponents. She started thinking; if she opened the door and he was nowhere to be seen, could she make the mad dash for the cabin? But first, she should do what she came to do, so she wouldn’t have to use the little blue pot.

Task finished, she sat a few minutes longer, very quietly. Then she sheepishly opened the outhouse door, cursing the squeaking hinges as she stuck her head out. She saw nothing, so she took a careful step outside. She heard a hiss and snarl and saw the cat lurking around the shed, twenty feet away. She retreated, slamming the door. “Shit,” she said aloud. “Shit, shit, shit!”

So she brought up her feet so that her heels rested on the seat and pulled the huge flannel shirt over her knees, hugging them. There was nothing in the outhouse with which to defend herself. In fact, there was also no reading material—not even a truck or sports magazine. Leave it to Ian—bare to the bone. No extras. He didn’t even keep a book in the house unless it came from the library. After a little while, she began to shake with cold. It didn’t help that she began coughing, even though she tried to control it, stop it, muffle it; the big cat could probably hear her and know his prey was still alive, trapped.

So be it. She would freeze to death. She didn’t remember anything from the last time she nearly froze to death. Remembering nothing implied it was painless.

Then she heard the sound of Ian’s truck come up the road. There was no mistaking that engine; it was rough and growly. She sprang to her feet, because suddenly her only thought was that Ian could be attacked by the feline beast that waited for her. She pressed her ear against the rough wooden door. She heard nothing until the screech of Ian’s truck door opening. She flung the door to the outhouse open and yelled, “Ian! Look out! There’s a—”

She was cut off by the snarl and lunge of the cat at the door. She ducked in quickly with a scream, inexplicably happy that the cat had come after her and not gone after an unprepared Ian.

So, she thought,
here we are. I’m trapped in the john and he’s trapped in either the truck or the cabin. And it’s colder than hell. Great. And to think I was wishing for a microwave.

But only seconds seemed to have passed before there was a huge blast that caused her to sit up straight and catch her breath. Then the outhouse door opened sharply, and Ian stood there with a startled look on his face and a big gun in his hand. “How long have you been in here?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “I think maybe d-d-days.”

He got a sheepish look on his face. “You about done in here?” he asked.

She burst into laughter, which brought another coughing spasm, then laughter again. “Yes, Ian,” she finally said. “I’ve widdled and wiped. Can I please go home now?”

“Home? Marcie—that car of yours—”

“The cabin, Ian.” She laughed. “Jesus, do you have no sense of humor?”

“That wasn’t so funny. I can’t imagine what he was doing around here. I don’t keep food out or small livestock…”

“He was hanging around the shed. You think maybe he likes chicken soup?”

“I’ve never had a problem like that before. That’s bold, getting out where people can see him, challenge him—”

“What the hell
was
that?”

“Puma,” he said. “Mountain lion.”

“I
knew
that was a lion.” She stopped suddenly. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

“Marcie, he wanted to
eat
you! Are you worried about his soul or something?”

“I just wanted him to go away,” she said. “I didn’t want him to go dead.”

“I just scared him off. Listen,” he said, walking her quickly to the cabin, “if it had been down to you or him, could you have shot him?”

“No,” she said.

“No?”
he asked.

“Well, I’ve never fired a gun, so I don’t like my chances. If I’d had a big gun like that in my hands I could’ve probably shot you or the cabin or shot the crap out of that outhouse…” She burst into laughter at her pun. “But he was way smaller. You have a frying pan, right? A big iron one, right?”

“What for?”

“So, in future, I can get to the bathroom with some protection. I was once a very good hitter in softball.”

He stopped walking and looked down at her. “Jesus, there’s always the blue pot.”

“Yeah, but there are some things a lady will risk her life to keep private.”

He smiled. He actually smiled. “Is that so?”

Six

T
he very next day when Ian came home, he caught Marcie standing at the sink in his flannel shirt and calf-high boots. No pants. Panties maybe; he tried not to think about that. She was rubbing her face with a washcloth, and her hair was so bushy it looked like a clown’s wig. He put the sack on the table. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“I must be,” she said. “I’d kill for clean hair.”

“You want to wash your hair?”

“It was tempting, but I didn’t know if a cold, wet head was the best idea. The water out of this pump is freezing.”

He chuckled. “I can’t believe you’ve been here for days and haven’t figured out much. Not like you to not pay attention to details, is it? So. Good day for bath day,” he said.

“Have you had a bath since I’ve been here?” she asked.

“I admit, I’ve been putting that off, making do with a pot of hot soapy water at the sink, but not just because you’re here. Have you noticed, it’s a little cold?”

“I saw the tub of course, but I couldn’t imagine how…”

He just shook his head. “You’re right, you’re not used to roughing it. Here’s how it’s going to work—I’ll put a big pot of water on the woodstove, feed it real good so we get the room nice and warm. I’ll get another one going on the Coleman stove—that goes a lot faster—and we’ll fill the sink with hot water for your hair and while we’re taking care of that, get a second one going on the Coleman. By the time your hair is clean, we’ll have two pots of near-boiling water for the tub. I’ll add some cold from the pump and you take a little dip. Can’t screw around—I can’t get the tub full. If I just keep heating and adding water, by the time I get a boiling pot, the one in the tub has already turned cold. So it’s a shallow bath, but it’s warm and gets the job done.”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s sure generous, that you’d do all that for me…”

“For us, Marcie. I’ll get a bath after you. And tomorrow I’ll stop at the coin laundry and wash up the dirty clothes. I’ll take any of yours you’d like me to. Just because you haven’t been feeling too good…”

She shifted from foot to foot, chewing on her lower lip.

“What’s the matter? You don’t want a bath?”

“I’d die for a bath,” she said. “It’s just that…. I couldn’t help but notice, there doesn’t seem to be a separate room with a door that closes…And I also noticed that doesn’t seem to bother you too much.”

The corners of his lips lifted. “I’ll load the truck with tomorrow’s wood while you have your bath,” he finally said.

She thought about this for a second. “And I could sit in my car during your bath?” she suggested.

“I don’t think so—your car is almost an igloo now. Just a little white mound. Not to mention mountain lions.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you can take a nap, read a little of my book, or close your eyes. Or you could stare—get the thrill of your life.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You really wouldn’t care, would you?”

“Not really. A bath is a serious business when it’s that much trouble. And it’s pretty quick in winter.” He started to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, a little irritated.

“I was just thinking. It’s cold enough in here, you might not see that much.”

Her cheeks went hot, so she pretended not to understand. “But in summer, you can lay in the tub all afternoon?”

“In summer, I wash in the creek.” He grinned at her. “Why don’t you comb the snarls out of your hair? You look like a wild banshee.”

She stared at him a minute, then said, “Don’t flirt with me. It won’t do you any good.” Then she coughed for him, a long string of deep croaks that reminded them both she had had a good, solid flu. Also, it covered what happened to be amused laughter from him.

While he pumped water into a big pot, he said, “Take your medicine. That sounds just god-awful. And I, for sure, don’t want it.”

It took a good thirty minutes to get the sink full of warm water. She was rolling up the sleeves of the overlong shirt, turning under the collar to keep it from getting wet, and grabbed the shampoo out of her duffel. He held out his hand. “What?” she said.

“Put your head in the sink,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll be hard for you to know if the soap’s out. It’ll be faster and easier if I just do it for you.”

She picked up the towel he’d laid out on the short counter, pressed it against her face and bent at the waist, dipping her head in the warm water. She could feel him use a cup to wet her hair, then begin to gently lather it. Those big calloused hands were slow and gentle, his fingertips kneading her scalp in a fabulous massage. She enjoyed it with her eyes closed, trying not to moan in pleasure. Finally she said, “You aren’t going to offer to shave my legs for me, too, are you?”

His hands suddenly stopped moving. There was a stillness and a silence for such a drawn out moment, she wondered if she had somehow offended him. “Marcie,” he finally said. “Why in the
world
would you shave your legs?”

“They’re
hairy!
”

“So
what?
Who’s gonna care?”

She thought about this for a second. She was on the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere with a man who looked like Grizzly Adams in a place that didn’t even have indoor plumbing. Why
would
she shave her legs? And armpits? Finally, in a little voice, she said, “I would.”