A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(47)

And that was that. Silence reigned in the truck the rest of the way up the hill and she was afraid she’d made him very angry. She wondered if this was the point at which he’d load her up in his truck—maybe first thing the next morning—and take her to town, to Mel at the clinic, turning her over. This could be the point at which he was through putting up with her and all her talk about what had happened four years ago.

When they made the top of the hill, they each took their turns in the outhouse before entering the cabin. She dutifully took her cough medicine, hacking the whole time, and he turned his back while she got down to just his shirt and her panties and planted herself on the couch. He fed the woodstove, prepared his coffeepot for morning, rolled out his pallet and heavy blanket for bed.

Then he came to the couch. He scooted her over with a brush of his hand and sat on the edge.

“While I was in Iraq, Shelly was planning our wedding. It was set to happen a few weeks after I got back, and while I was gone, it turned into a frickin’ coronation. My fault—I’d said, ‘Anything that makes you happy.’ But when I got back I told her I needed some time, that I was in no shape to be a husband. I was barely in shape to be a marine, which was supposed to be my life’s work. I asked her to postpone the wedding—but she was in full bride mode. There are things I barely remember about that talk—something about the dress being fitted, invitations out, deposits made. I tried to convince myself to just close my eyes, lock up my brain for a few weeks and get it done. But I knew I’d be letting her down, letting a lot of people down. I knew I was screwed up and needed to decompress. Also, I knew she had no earthly idea what was happening to me—how could she? I barely knew. She said a lot of things, but what I remember most was that she said if I didn’t let this wedding she’d worked so hard on happen, I could go straight to hell.”

Marcie’s eyes were wide, bright green. “Ian, I—”

“I don’t want to hear her version,” he said, holding up a hand. “I hope she’s happy. I hope I didn’t screw up her life too much. Believe me, if I’d married her then, it would have been worse for her. Now—you get some rest. I’ll be back early in the day tomorrow. Don’t do too much. Read one of your books. And take the medicine.”

“She’s married,” Marcie said softly. “Pregnant.”

“Good for her,” he said easily. “It all worked out, then. Now, tomorrow try to get a handle on the cough.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Of course, yes.”

Ten

M arcie had slept surprisingly well, despite her conversation with Ian right before falling asleep. She could see him in her mind—a thirty-year-old marine, home from some devastating war experiences, still scarred from being wounded—scarred on the inside from all he’d been through. And the love of his life doesn’t have a care about any of that as long as she gets to wear a white lacy dress on her special day.

This brought some things to mind for Marcie, things she hadn’t even considered when she’d gone to see Shelly to ask if she’d ever heard from Ian. Shelly had still been angry and had no interest in knowing whether Ian was all right. But after hearing Ian’s side of things, Marcie recalled a conversation she’d had with Shelly when their men were in Iraq together. Marcie had called Shelly, suggesting they meet since their husbands were such good friends. But Shelly was very busy. “Planning a big wedding is a lot of work,” Shelly had said by way of an excuse.

“I’d be happy to help,” Marcie had offered.

“Thanks, but between my mother, aunts and bridesmaids, I’m up to my eyeballs in help. Still, it seems to take every spare minute I have.”

“Maybe you’ll come up with a break in your schedule and we could meet for coffee,” Marcie said. “Since our guys are best friends and we live not ten minutes from each other.”

And Shelly had said, “Give me your number and if I find the time, I’ll give you a call.”

But she never did. Clearly, never intended to. And for the first time ever, Marcie wondered—would we have been invited to the wedding?

Ian had left a half pot of coffee on top of the woodstove but, while Marcie had slept, the fire had died down. The coffee had cooled. She remembered having that great, rich, steaming hot coffee at Jack’s, and it set up a real craving in her. Ian’s coffee wasn’t bad, but it would be a lot better if it was hot.

She fed the stove, but she didn’t have the patience to wait for it to flare and heat that coffee. She eyeballed the little propane stove and thought, that’s a quicker option. She took the pot to the stove and studied the dials carefully. Gas on. Simple enough. She turned the dial but nothing happened. She blew on it like she had to do on her dad’s old stove. Nothing happened; there was no spark. She smelled the gas however. She gave it a second and said a chant over it—light! Heat the coffee! She turned the knob again—and again there was no spark and the smell of gas was evident. A third try produced nothing.

Then she noticed the matches on the counter and thought, so that’s it. Turn on the gas, light the stove! With the pot on the burner, she turned on the gas again and struck a match. And poof! The flame shot about three feet in the air, hitting her square in the face.

She shrieked and whirled, patting her face and hair, running her hands over the rest of her wild red mop to check for fire. She felt the burn on her face. When she looked at the little stove, the flame was just normal, burning nicely under the pot, but her face felt as hot as a poker!