A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(23)

“Technically,” Marcie agreed. “I couldn’t be sure what you would be like now, but I couldn’t believe you’d changed that much. And see—I was right. You turned out to be a nice guy.”

He snorted.

“We could talk about other things.” She touched the book that sat on the table, gave it a close look. “Like what you’re reading. You go to the library?”

“It’s free,” he said dismissively. “I use the old library card that was left behind by the man who lived here before. No one questions that, though I’m sure they know. But I’m regular and never late, so it doesn’t matter to anyone.”

“That’s something you could tell me about. The man who lived here before. Dr. Mullins said you took care of him.”

Ian took a couple more bites. “After a while. First he took care of me, in a way.”

She waited, but nothing came.

“In what way?” she asked.

He lifted his mug and drained it of soup, putting it back on the table. “I was camping on his land and he spotted me. He was old—older than dirt. Didn’t have hardly a tooth left in his head, skinny as a pole. He’d been out here, alone, long over fifty years with no wife, no family, and he found me asleep in my sleeping bag under about four inches of snow. And he kicked me.”

“He kicked you?” she repeated, appalled.

“Kicked me, and I jumped a foot. And he said, ‘So, you’re not dead yet. Good thing, because you’d just be food for the wildlife if you were—I sure as hell can’t bury you. Ground’s too hard and I’m too old.’ That was our introduction. After a little glaring back and forth, he said that if I wanted, I could sleep indoors and eat from his cupboard if I’d keep the stove fed and help out when he needed it. I wasn’t thinking real clear back then and didn’t have a lot of options. I hadn’t even thought about winter at five thousand feet. I froze my ass off for a couple more nights before knocking on his door and all he said was, ‘’Bout time. I figured you were dead.’ It was a pretty simple arrangement. We hardly talked.”

“Ever?” she asked.

“After a month or two conversation picked up, but not a lot. He’d been alone so long, he didn’t much care to talk, kind of like me.” He added a brief glare. But then he went on. “So I chopped wood, caught fish sometimes and used his rifle to shoot a bird or rabbit now and then. I kept the snow off his roof and the shed and the outhouse roof and drove the truck for him when he went for errands, like to pick up his social security check and to buy food. We ran out of firewood pretty quick and I had to chop more. I wasn’t even sure how much of this land was his, but it’s all trees and you can’t see a neighbor. First tree I cut down damn near hit the house. He talked then—I thought he’d never shut the hell up. Then a few months later, we went for supplies and to the post office and he took me to the library and told me to pick out a book if I felt like it. He checked out picture books and sometimes children’s books—small words and big print. I never asked but I don’t think he got much school. When the weather warmed, he told me where he wanted the garden, made me re-dig the outhouse and showed me the tools in the shed. He said if I chopped enough wood in spring and summer and cured it, I could sell firewood out of the back of the truck if I wanted to. I got right on it, having no other way to earn money. That’s just about the whole story.”

“Must have been a little miserable—living with someone like that,” she said.

“I’ve had experience with mean old men,” Ian said unemotionally.

She finished her mug of soup and he shot to his feet to refill both their mugs. “Just half,” she said, nibbling on the bread.

“Listen, eat as much as you’ll hold. I think you lost a little flesh…”

“Yeah, maybe,” she said. “But I lose weight real easy. I know I get skinny and looking kind of malnourished if I don’t watch it.”

“And you haven’t been watching it,” he said.

“Well, I was saving money for gas,” she said softly.

“Did you just say you were saving money for gas? Looking for me?”

She looked up. “Have you noticed the price of gas lately?”

“Holy God,” he said, shaking his head. “While you’re here—you eat. There’s bread, peanut butter, juice, fruit, jelly—”

“So, he got sick, didn’t he?” she went on, interrupting him. “So I bet that was just the beginning of the story, you living here for chores.”

“It just kind of happened,” he said with a shrug. “I can’t say we ever did get chummy—but I owed him for the roof over my head and brought in more than my share of food. When he got sick, I went for the doctor. It was a lesson—when people out here get sick, they don’t go for tests and such, not if they’re in their late eighties for sure. The old doc told Raleigh…that was his name, Raleigh…Doc Mullins said he could take him to Valley Hospital and medicare would take care of him and Raleigh said he’d shoot himself in the head first. It was settled that fast. Doc left some medicine and came back a few times. Then after about six months of that, Raleigh died in his sleep, and I went and got the doctor. He showed me that Raleigh had dictated him a note while he was sick that said, ‘The man, Ian Buchanan, can have the house, truck, land and any money left, minus what’s needed for burial. No tombstone.’ He signed it, in his way, and Doc Mullins witnessed. I didn’t think it would hold up. There was just about enough cash in that tin box to bury him real simple like he wanted. When I asked the old doc what I was supposed to do about the cabin and land and truck, he said, don’t borrow trouble.”