A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(22)

The singing was a complete surprise. Bobby never mentioned it and it certainly hadn’t come up in their few exchanged letters. But then would a big tough marine serenade his troops? Would he tell a soldier’s wife that he loved to sing and had an angel’s voice?

Her joints ached and she was feeling warm again, so she rolled over and let herself go back to sleep. She was vaguely aware that Ian was in and out of the cabin. She drifted. Now and then, she could hear the wood chopping, whistling, thunking of firewood into the truck bed.

She had no idea how long she’d slept, when she roused to the most pleasant smell. She rolled over to find the room dim, just the glow from the woodstove and a na**d lightbulb hanging over the kitchen table. The sun had set and the big pot was steaming on the little stove. He was sitting at the table under that single light, looking down. She noticed that the things from her car—her sleeping bag, duffel, backpack and purse—were stacked at the end of the sofa. And he had changed clothes; he wore gray sweatpants and a navy blue T-shirt and socks. His former pants, shirt and jacket were draped over his trunk, near a stack of books piled on the floor.

She rose on her elbows. “What are you doing?” she asked him.

He flipped a book closed and looked up. “Just reading. You about ready for a little trip to the, ah, ladies’ room?”

She sat up and flipped her legs over the edge of the couch. “As a matter of fact,” she said, standing. That flannel shirt of his came nearly to her knees. She wobbled a little and it brought him instantly to his feet. She sat back down quickly. “Would you mind…handing me my jeans and boots?”

“Sure,” he said, pulling them off the chair and carrying them to her. The minute they were in hand, he went about the business of pulling on his own boots and jacket, his back toward her. “You need any help?” he asked, not facing her.

“I’m okay,” she said. First the jeans came up, then she sat again and pulled on her boots without socks. “Do I have a jacket around here somewhere?”

He fetched the down vest from the same chair back and held it for her.

“I’ll just be a minute—”

But he wasn’t having it. He swept her up in his arms and carried her to the door. “I don’t think you’re all that strong. Probably just being asleep for so long and all. But I don’t want to have to lift you up off the ground or anything. Let’s not take any chances.”

They were halfway across the yard to the outhouse when she said, “You let me stay.”

“It’s what you said you wanted, according to the nurse. Even if I can’t figure out why.”

“You like me,” she said, petting his thick, red beard. She put her head against his shoulder, arms about his neck. “Try to deny it.” And then she coughed, most unattractively.

He turned his face away from her germs and grunted. Stopping in front of the outhouse door, he set her gently on her feet. She entered and, a moment later, was out again. “I’ll walk, I think. If you don’t mind.”

“Don’t fall. It’s tougher to pick you up from the ground than from a standing position. Grab my arm if you need to.” Their feet crunched on the frozen ground as they headed back to the cabin. “Sorry I don’t have an indoor for you. Especially with you being sick.”

“Actually, it’s a luxury. I was hitting the gas stations for one last bathroom visit before bedding down in the car for the night. Usually I could make it till morning, but if I couldn’t, I had to make do. That usually meant a quick squat behind a bush on a deserted road. And it’s been real cold lately.”

As he looked down at her, his eyes were both warm and curious. “You don’t look as tough as that.”

“I don’t know how tough I am—look at me, sick as a pup. But I bet I can match you for stubborn.”

A sound came out of him.

“Holy shit, Ian—was that a laugh?”

“A cough,” he lied. “You probably got me sick.”

Five

B ack inside the little cabin, Marcie took her place on the couch while Ian went to his little propane stove and gave the pot a stir. “Can you eat a bit of soup?” he asked.

“I think so. It sure smells wonderful.”

“It’s not much. Just boiled down chicken…some vegetables,” he said simply. She watched as he ladled some into a large mug, plopped a spoon in it and put a slice of buttered bread on a saucer. Then he loaded that onto a flat board and brought it to her. “I don’t have things like a lot of different dishes—just what I need. Be careful, it’s hot.”

She balanced the board on her knees. “You sure can do a lot with a little bit, can’t you?”

He grunted an affirmative reply and went back to the pot, ladling some into a mug for himself. Then he sat at the table with his meal.

She took a couple of spoons of chicken soup. It was either delicious or she was ravenous. Then she walked over to the table with her board-tray. She put it down opposite him, then dragged the other chair the short distance to sit with him. He just lifted his eyebrows and watched her. “It’s very good, Ian. You suppose we could eat together?”

He just shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

“We could actually talk,” she suggested.

He put his spoon in his mug and leaned back in his chair. “Look, let me put this as simply as I can—I’ve spent the last few years trying to put all that business about Iraq out of my mind. Sometimes it would show up unannounced, give me headaches and cause dreams that weren’t so nice. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to answer a lot of questions about it.”