A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(29)

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.