A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(25)

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 na**d 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.