A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(43)

“It’s not trust and you know it—it’s him! I don’t know him, I only know that when you were up to your neck taking care of Bobby and Ian Buchanan was out of the Corps, he never even called to ask—”

“He saved Bobby’s life,” Marcie shot back. “He risked his life to save my husband. What more do I need to know? I want to thank him, I want to—”

“Saying thank you should take about five minutes,” Erin interrupted.

“I’m not talking about this anymore. I’ll call you in a few days—and work on calming down in the meantime. Erin, do not mess this up for me!” She disconnected the line with an angry poke of one finger.

And looked up into those dark, brooding eyes of Preacher’s. Beneath the scowl was a lift of his lips. “Well,” Preacher said. “That’s a new twist to the story. He saved your husband’s life? Hoorah.”

“I thought you knew,” she said.

“All I knew was you’re widowed,” he said. “How about this guy? He seem an okay guy?”

She took a breath. “Wild animals will eat out of his hand.”

“That a fact?” Preacher said. “I trust wild animals more than a lot of tame men. You should stay for dinner.”

“I was hoping to, but why?” she asked, thinking hard on the previous comment.

“It’s meat loaf night,” he said simply. “It’s the best ever.”

“Oh.”

“And it’s a special night. Mel, Jack’s wife, she found the perfect topper for that tree and now we can finally return the cherry picker. Half the town’s turning out for the lighting. Should’ve come a lot sooner, but we couldn’t do it until she was okay with the topper. The woman looked at every angel and sparkle-ball and star in three counties and rejected them all. But now she has it—so we’re going to fire it up. Next year, we’ll get it done earlier.”

“Cool.” Marcie smiled. “What time on the tree?”

He looked at his watch. “About an hour from now.”

Nine

M arcie joined Ian at the bar and sat up beside him. Jack was there instantly. “What can I get you?” he asked with a wipe of the bar in front of her.

“I think—I’d like a glass of wine. How about a nice merlot? And two meat loaf dinners. And whatever you do, do not let this guy get the check—I invited him, and it’s my treat. My turn. He’s been feeding me since I got here.”

“You bet,” Jack said.

Ian turned toward her. “I’m not sure about staying long…”

“If you have an anxiety attack, we can go. But if you can hang in there a little while, I bet the meat loaf will amaze you. This cook, Preacher? He’s unbelievable. I had some of his venison chili when I first got to town and it almost made me pass out, it was so good.”

His lips curved in a smile. “You ate venison, Marcie?”

“I didn’t have a relationship with the deer,” she explained.

“You don’t have a relationship with my deer either,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but I have a relationship with you—you’ve seen me in my underwear. And you have a relationship with the deer. If you fed him to me, it would be like you shot and fed me your friend. Or something.”

Ian just drained his beer and smiled at her enough to show his teeth. “I wouldn’t shoot that particular buck,” he admitted. “But if I had a freezer, I’d shoot his brother.”

“There’s something off about that,” she said, just as Jack placed her wine in front of her. “Wouldn’t it be more logical if hunters didn’t get involved with their prey? Or their families? Oh, never mind—I can’t think about this before eating my meat loaf. Who knows who’s in it?”

Ian chuckled at her. “You’re right about one thing. Not a bad little bar here. I never checked it out before.”

“Toldja,” she said, sipping her wine. “What would you like to talk about?”

“We’ve talked all day. I haven’t talked this much in four years. I think I might be losing my voice.”

“I haven’t talked this little…”

“I kind of assumed that…”

Just then Jack delivered two steaming plates that he held with towels. He reached beneath the bar and produced a couple of sets of utensils wrapped in napkins and asked, “Another beer?”

“Why not?” Ian said in what was an unmistakably friendly voice. “The lady’s buying.” And then he put his napkin on his thigh.

Marcie stared at that thigh for a long moment. This was the sort of thing that had her confused. He looked a little crazy, till you got used to him. He could act as if he had needs barely above the animal kingdom, taking roughing it to the next level. When he was in his working clothes, he looked as if he barely subsisted. He could growl and snarl like a lunatic. But he had intelligent diction, good table manners, and while he might not be terribly social and on the quiet side, he had no trouble being around people. He was perfectly cordial.

She had expected a man completely screwed up by his past, by his war experiences, someone hard to reach and nearly impossible to change—a difficult situation, but easy to understand. Instead, what she found was someone pretty normal. It left her with many more questions than answers.