A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(27)

So she brought up her feet so that her heels rested on the seat and pulled the huge flannel shirt over her knees, hugging them. There was nothing in the outhouse with which to defend herself. In fact, there was also no reading material—not even a truck or sports magazine. Leave it to Ian—bare to the bone. No extras. He didn’t even keep a book in the house unless it came from the library. After a little while, she began to shake with cold. It didn’t help that she began coughing, even though she tried to control it, stop it, muffle it; the big cat could probably hear her and know his prey was still alive, trapped.

So be it. She would freeze to death. She didn’t remember anything from the last time she nearly froze to death. Remembering nothing implied it was painless.

Then she heard the sound of Ian’s truck come up the road. There was no mistaking that engine; it was rough and growly. She sprang to her feet, because suddenly her only thought was that Ian could be attacked by the feline beast that waited for her. She pressed her ear against the rough wooden door. She heard nothing until the screech of Ian’s truck door opening. She flung the door to the outhouse open and yelled, “Ian! Look out! There’s a—”

She was cut off by the snarl and lunge of the cat at the door. She ducked in quickly with a scream, inexplicably happy that the cat had come after her and not gone after an unprepared Ian.

So, she thought, here we are. I’m trapped in the john and he’s trapped in either the truck or the cabin. And it’s colder than hell. Great. And to think I was wishing for a microwave.

But only seconds seemed to have passed before there was a huge blast that caused her to sit up straight and catch her breath. Then the outhouse door opened sharply, and Ian stood there with a startled look on his face and a big gun in his hand. “How long have you been in here?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “I think maybe d-d-days.”

He got a sheepish look on his face. “You about done in here?” he asked.

She burst into laughter, which brought another coughing spasm, then laughter again. “Yes, Ian,” she finally said. “I’ve widdled and wiped. Can I please go home now?”

“Home? Marcie—that car of yours—”

“The cabin, Ian.” She laughed. “Jesus, do you have no sense of humor?”

“That wasn’t so funny. I can’t imagine what he was doing around here. I don’t keep food out or small livestock…”

“He was hanging around the shed. You think maybe he likes chicken soup?”

“I’ve never had a problem like that before. That’s bold, getting out where people can see him, challenge him—”

“What the hell was that?”

“Puma,” he said. “Mountain lion.”

“I knew that was a lion.” She stopped suddenly. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

“Marcie, he wanted to eat you! Are you worried about his soul or something?”

“I just wanted him to go away,” she said. “I didn’t want him to go dead.”

“I just scared him off. Listen,” he said, walking her quickly to the cabin, “if it had been down to you or him, could you have shot him?”

“No,” she said.

“No?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve never fired a gun, so I don’t like my chances. If I’d had a big gun like that in my hands I could’ve probably shot you or the cabin or shot the crap out of that outhouse…” She burst into laughter at her pun. “But he was way smaller. You have a frying pan, right? A big iron one, right?”

“What for?”

“So, in future, I can get to the bathroom with some protection. I was once a very good hitter in softball.”

He stopped walking and looked down at her. “Jesus, there’s always the blue pot.”

“Yeah, but there are some things a lady will risk her life to keep private.”

He smiled. He actually smiled. “Is that so?”





Six



T he very next day when Ian came home, he caught Marcie standing at the sink in his flannel shirt and calf-high boots. No pants. Panties maybe; he tried not to think about that. She was rubbing her face with a washcloth, and her hair was so bushy it looked like a clown’s wig. He put the sack on the table. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“I must be,” she said. “I’d kill for clean hair.” “You want to wash your hair?”

“It was tempting, but I didn’t know if a cold, wet head was the best idea. The water out of this pump is freezing.”

He chuckled. “I can’t believe you’ve been here for days and haven’t figured out much. Not like you to not pay attention to details, is it? So. Good day for bath day,” he said.

“Have you had a bath since I’ve been here?” she asked.

“I admit, I’ve been putting that off, making do with a pot of hot soapy water at the sink, but not just because you’re here. Have you noticed, it’s a little cold?”

“I saw the tub of course, but I couldn’t imagine how…”

He just shook his head. “You’re right, you’re not used to roughing it. Here’s how it’s going to work—I’ll put a big pot of water on the woodstove, feed it real good so we get the room nice and warm. I’ll get another one going on the Coleman stove—that goes a lot faster—and we’ll fill the sink with hot water for your hair and while we’re taking care of that, get a second one going on the Coleman. By the time your hair is clean, we’ll have two pots of near-boiling water for the tub. I’ll add some cold from the pump and you take a little dip. Can’t screw around—I can’t get the tub full. If I just keep heating and adding water, by the time I get a boiling pot, the one in the tub has already turned cold. So it’s a shallow bath, but it’s warm and gets the job done.”