A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(48)

She started to whimper like a baby, all shook up by what could have been a disastrous accident. She rushed to the couch, pulled on her boots and, in Ian’s chambray shirt, she ran outside to her car, disregarding all manner of possible vicious wildlife. There wasn’t a mirror in the entire house; that much she already knew. She used the sleeve of the shirt to wipe off the little bug’s side mirror and took a look. Then she screamed.

Her face was bright red, like a sunburn, and her hairline was singed. Little black squiggles seemed to sprout from her forehead. Her eyebrows, which weren’t much to start with and were nearly blond, seemed to be even less significant, and if she was seeing correctly—her lashes were shorter!

Ice, she thought. Something cold to relieve the burn before it blistered and swelled.

She ran back inside, turned off the little stove and cursed at it, then started digging around for a cloth. He always laid these things out for her on bath days, but there was nothing handy right now. She was finally pushed to look through the trunks. The first one in which she looked held clothing, but in the second she found some towels and washcloths. She grabbed one, wet it from the chilled water that came straight from the sink pump and pressed it to her face. “God,” she said in relief. “Oh, God.”

An hour later when Ian walked into his cabin, what he saw startled him. Marcie was lying on the couch in his shirt and her boots, her legs bare, with a cloth pressed over her face. He knelt beside the couch in a near panic and gently pulled her hands away. “Marcie?” he asked softly.

When she lowered her hands along with the cold, wet cloth, he gasped. “Are you having a relapse? Fever? Should I take you to—”

“It’s not a fever!” she nearly shouted at him.

“But your face—”

“Is bright red! I know. And my hair is burned off around my face. And if you bother to look, there don’t seem to be eyebrows there either, not that I ever had much for eyebrows.”

“Jesus,” he said in a breath, sitting back on his heels.

“I was trying to heat up the coffee on the propane stove—and apparently I don’t know how to use the stove.”

“What happened?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

“Hurt? I’m pretty ugly, but I don’t know if it’s permanent.” She relayed the events of lighting the stove, coming too late with the match or too early with the gas and how it all poofed in her face and scorched her.

His rough finger glanced along the hair above her face and beneath that massive beard his lips twitched slightly. “I have some salve. And this will probably grow back…”

“You’re laughing!” she accused. “You are f**king laughing!”

He shook his head vigorously but he still showed teeth. Teeth she’d rarely seen. “No. No. It’s just that—”

“What? It’s just that what?”

“I’m sorry, Marcie. I’m sure it’s all my fault. I should have showed you how to—”

“You’re damn straight it’s all your fault! Starting with roaring at me like a goddamn lion and making me scared and making me stubborn and then not showing me how to light the damn stove and then—”

Suddenly he was all teeth behind his red beard. “Making you stubborn?” he asked, barely concealing the laughter.

“Well, I’m at my best when people just do what I ask! And what’s so goddamn funny?”

His arms went around his torso to hug himself and he rolled backward onto the floor, erupting into laughter. His mouth opened wide, his eyes squinched and he bellowed. Between gasping and belly laughs, he choked out—“You’re bright red! And it’s my fault for making you—stubborn! God—you’re priceless!” And he laughed himself crazy. She sat on the edge of the couch, boots on the floor, red face staring down at him, glowering.

It took him a while to get himself under control. His laughter ebbed into pants and gasps; he wiped at his watering eyes. Then he finally looked at her.

“I’m surprised you didn’t fart from laughing,” she said, not the merest hint of a smile on her face.

He huffed a couple of times and said, “It took some doing.” He sat up, recovered himself and asked, with a twitch of his lips, “Are you in pain?”

She lifted her chin. “Somewhat.”

“Let me find that salve,” he said, getting to his feet. He went into one of his cupboards and produced a tin of salve, gently smearing it over her burned face, his lips wriggling in the temptation to laugh the whole time.

“Is it that damned funny?” she finally demanded.

“It’s pretty funny, Marcie. There was a perfectly good starter on that stove, but it broke a while back and it was easier for me to light it than get it fixed. See, that’s the kind of thing that happens when you live alone—you don’t make a house for a family. You get by. It’s lazy, I know…”

“But you’re not lazy. You work hard!”

“Okay then, it’s just one more thing I don’t have to do,” he said. “Really, it’s not that bad, your face…” Then he chuckled.

“I have black squiggles where I used to have bangs.”

“I know, honey. But it’ll all come back just fine.”

Honey? Did he just call me honey? Is he feeling sorry for me? Being sweet to me because I’m scorched? Finally she said, “The salve is good. What is it?”