A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(24)

She laughed outright. “Now what does that mean?”

“I took it to mean I should just carry on and not pursue the matter, but in fact old Doc Mullins has a friend who’s a lawyer or judge or something and he had done the transfer of title on the deed, so old Raleigh died penniless in my care and there was no probate. Slick as snot,” he said. Then he looked up and said, “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I looked at the truck title and when I saw he’d signed it over—or Doc had—I got the plates in my name so I wouldn’t end up in jail. I keep up my driver’s license and that’s the total extent of my official paperwork. When the taxes come due on this property, I pay them with a money order.”

“Ian,” she said, momentarily surprised. “Do you own a mountain?”

“A mountain full of nothing. Logging’s prohibited up here. I have what I’ve always had—a cabin and some trees. And taxes. I manage, but it costs more than it yields most of the time. It still seems temporary. It could always just go away the first time I don’t make the taxes.”

“And if the day ever comes you can’t stay here anymore? Because it’s not permanent enough?”

He shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to think of something.”

She was quiet while she finished her soup. Then she said, “When he was sick, was he very sick? Did you have to care for him a lot?”

“I’d have to say, he was very sick. He didn’t get out of bed much for a long time. There used to be a small bed in here—a bunk bed, just the bottom, with a mattress so thin it was almost no mattress at all. He had some of those old-age problems. He couldn’t feed himself. Et cetera. When he passed, I burned the whole thing.”

“And you slept on the couch until I came?”

“I’ve never slept on that couch—it’s too short and it sags under me. I unroll a pallet by the stove—it’s exactly the way I want it. I could buy a used bed, if that’s what I wanted.”

“But it was hard work, Ian—caring for someone you barely knew. He must have been grateful—he left you all this.”

He roared with totally facetious laughter. He wiped his hairy mouth on his sleeve and said, “All this? Mother of God, I don’t even have something you can flush!”

“Is it because you can’t?” she asked him.

“When I showed up at his door, there was no Coleman stove—he lit the place with lanterns. Washed out of a bucket, when he washed. I added the generator, strung some lights, bought the tub, the stove. Some of the furniture was older than him and I brought in a new couch and chair. Well, they’re used, but better than what was here. The only thing I really miss is a shower—but I’d have no idea how to plumb a house.”

She let him finish laughing and when he was done, she said, “You know, that first night? When you snarled at me and tried to scare me? Well—you scared me pretty good—”

“Couldn’t scare any brains into you, though,” he interrupted.

“Well, that’s more my problem than yours. When I get my mind made up about something, it’s hard to move me in any direction. But when I went to my car to eat the packed lunch I had, while the sun was setting and the snow started to fall, I thought I’d never in my life seen a more beautiful place. There was a rainbow in the snow! And I wasn’t afraid, because it was just pristine and glorious. You can have all the extras in the world in the city, but this is something you just can’t buy.”

He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You know what Bobby said about you? He said you were a real pistol.”

She watched his eyes. “That’s almost talking about it,” she said.

“Then pretend I didn’t say anything. You should be in bed.”

“When was the last time you slept?” she asked him.

“I should pull out my pallet, and you should be asleep again,” he said. “Besides, this is more talking than I’m used to and I think I’m worn out.”

“All right,” she said. She stood from her chair and looked down at the book. “Thomas Jefferson?” she asked. “Did you ever read John Adams?”

He nodded.

“Me too. I loved that book. What I loved was Abigail—she was amazing. Old John left her with a farm, children, very little money in a country in revolution and she did it all. She was my idol. If I could be anyone, I’d be Abigail Adams.”

“Because she did it all?” he asked.

“Because she was glad to do it all and never complained, that’s how committed she was to what John was doing. I know—as a woman, a feminist, I’m not supposed to admire a woman who’d do all that for a man, but she was doing it for herself. As if that was the contribution she could make to the founding of America. And they wrote each other letters—not just romantic, loving letters, but letters asking each other for advice. They were first good friends, two people who respected each other’s brains, and then obviously lovers, since they had a slew of kids. True partners, long before true partners were fashionable. And she—”

“I like biographies,” he said, cutting her off as though he’d heard enough about Abigail. “Don’t ask me why, I couldn’t tell you.”

She went to her couch and pulled off her boots. “Maybe you like figuring out why peoples’ lives turn out the way they do. It’s always a mystery, isn’t it?”