A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(49)

“Something the vet uses on horses.”

“Oh, terrific!”

“No, it’s good stuff! Better than what you can get over the counter or from the doctor, thanks to the FDA. I swear.” But then he laughed.

“Are you still laughing because I look ridiculous, or because you just got one over on me—giving me horse medicine?”

“I’m laughing because—” he gulped “—how about I grease you up and feed you something to eat? While you’re trying to recover from your burn, I could read one of those sloppy romances to you, if you like.”

“Read to me?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Sometimes I read to Raleigh, when he was feeling real bad.”

“No,” she said. “Food, yes. Reading would be nice, but singing would be better. I want you to sing to me.”

“Aw, Marcie…”

“I’m a burn victim. Try to be accommodating.”

He sighed heavily and went to his cupboard. There were a couple dozen large cans of Dinty Moore beef stew in there. He pulled a couple out and she said, “Good God, are you expecting nuclear war?”

“No,” he laughed. “I’m ready for snow. My road to Highway 36 is long. You can get real hungry up here if you’re not prepared.”

“And you exist on canned stew?”

“It’s good,” he said. “I’d buy something else if something else tasted better.” He emptied it into a pan and put it on the stove. She watched while he lit it. First the match, then the gas. Perfect. Well, that made sense.

So he warmed her stew, scooped it into a big mug, and let her have it. Then he tucked her in, gave her cough medicine, and told her to close her eyes. And he sang to her. Everything was soft but deep and resonant. “New York, New York,” the slow version. “When I Fall In Love.” “You Don’t Know Me,” which she tried not to read anything into. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid he’d stop. There were a lot of old, sweet, mellow Sinatra and Presley songs.

She found herself thinking about Abigail Adams, managing five children and running a farm single-handedly while her husband worked to found America. Marcie had always admired and honored Abigail. Was it so much trouble to go across the yard to the john? Even if you did have to carry a heavy skillet to ward off wildlife? Or heat your water? What did she need? One thing she knew for a fact: she sure didn’t need an eyebrow wax.

Marcie drifted off to sleep dreaming of Abigail and Ian’s voice. In the morning when she woke, the coffeepot was on the woodstove, which had burned low as usual. There was a note on the table.

Don’t light the Coleman stove unless you’re sure you know how.

And it made her laugh.

Marcie was almost halfway through a novel in which the hero was just about to grab the heroine by the waist, slam her against him and just kiss the stuffing out of her when something occurred to her. Her letters.

In addition to those letters she’d written to Ian about Bobby when Ian was still in Iraq, letters he had answered, she’d written him regularly for a couple of years, to general delivery. They’d neither been answered nor returned. What were the chances…?

She dove off the couch and went first to that little tin box where he put his money every night. She noticed he had stopped locking it. It didn’t hold very much—the deed, which she didn’t bother with, a few pictures. She was distracted by the pictures. They were very telling in number and subject. A family picture when Ian was a young teen, fourteen or fifteen. A beautiful picture of Shelly, a black wrap over her shoulders, perhaps a college or sorority picture. A picture of Ian and Bobby wearing BDUs, rifle straps over their shoulders, grinning. One with his dad when he was a bit older, his father unsmiling.

It distracted her from her search. A couple of things about them were telling—there were only a few photos, and they were of the most special people he’d had in his life. They marked his passage, from a boy in what looked like an average, middle-class family, to a young man with an unhappy father, to a marine. Then there came the woman, then the friend. Then…Nothing.

Underneath the photos were his medals. The ones she’d received for Bobby had come in fancy boxes. Ian’s were loose. But at least he hadn’t thrown them away in a fit of anger or depression.

She tucked everything away very carefully and closed the lid, feeling guilty about going through his things. He deserved his privacy, but there were things she wished to understand. So she went to the trunk that held his clothing and slipped her hand slowly down all four sides. She felt something and gently parted the carefully folded clothes to strike oil. A rubber band held about a dozen long white envelopes, all to him, all from her. All sealed. Never opened, yet saved.

She stared at them in wonder. Now whatever could that mean?

And then she heard a motor. At first, assuming it was Ian returning, she replaced the envelopes and closed the trunk. By the time she got to her feet, she realized it wasn’t Ian’s truck, so she went to the door.

Well, she might’ve known. There, in a big, shiny new SUV was Erin Elizabeth Foley. Big sister. She folded her arms across her chest as Erin got out of the car.

Erin took one look at her and froze. She took two steps closer, her mouth agape and said, “Oh my God! What’s wrong with you?”

Completely forgetting about her red face and burned hair, she looked down at herself. She was wearing one of Ian’s shirts and her boots, bare, white legs sticking out between. “The floor is cold. Erin, what are you doing here?”