A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(28)

“Wow,” she said. “That’s sure generous, that you’d do all that for me…”

“For us, Marcie. I’ll get a bath after you. And tomorrow I’ll stop at the coin laundry and wash up the dirty clothes. I’ll take any of yours you’d like me to. Just because you haven’t been feeling too good…”

She shifted from foot to foot, chewing on her lower lip.

“What’s the matter? You don’t want a bath?”

“I’d die for a bath,” she said. “It’s just that…. I couldn’t help but notice, there doesn’t seem to be a separate room with a door that closes…And I also noticed that doesn’t seem to bother you too much.”

The corners of his lips lifted. “I’ll load the truck with tomorrow’s wood while you have your bath,” he finally said.

She thought about this for a second. “And I could sit in my car during your bath?” she suggested.

“I don’t think so—your car is almost an igloo now. Just a little white mound. Not to mention mountain lions.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you can take a nap, read a little of my book, or close your eyes. Or you could stare—get the thrill of your life.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You really wouldn’t care, would you?”

“Not really. A bath is a serious business when it’s that much trouble. And it’s pretty quick in winter.” He started to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, a little irritated.

“I was just thinking. It’s cold enough in here, you might not see that much.”

Her cheeks went hot, so she pretended not to understand. “But in summer, you can lay in the tub all afternoon?”

“In summer, I wash in the creek.” He grinned at her. “Why don’t you comb the snarls out of your hair? You look like a wild banshee.”

She stared at him a minute, then said, “Don’t flirt with me. It won’t do you any good.” Then she coughed for him, a long string of deep croaks that reminded them both she had had a good, solid flu. Also, it covered what happened to be amused laughter from him.

While he pumped water into a big pot, he said, “Take your medicine. That sounds just god-awful. And I, for sure, don’t want it.”

It took a good thirty minutes to get the sink full of warm water. She was rolling up the sleeves of the overlong shirt, turning under the collar to keep it from getting wet, and grabbed the shampoo out of her duffel. He held out his hand. “What?” she said.

“Put your head in the sink,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll be hard for you to know if the soap’s out. It’ll be faster and easier if I just do it for you.”

She picked up the towel he’d laid out on the short counter, pressed it against her face and bent at the waist, dipping her head in the warm water. She could feel him use a cup to wet her hair, then begin to gently lather it. Those big calloused hands were slow and gentle, his fingertips kneading her scalp in a fabulous massage. She enjoyed it with her eyes closed, trying not to moan in pleasure. Finally she said, “You aren’t going to offer to shave my legs for me, too, are you?”

His hands suddenly stopped moving. There was a stillness and a silence for such a drawn out moment, she wondered if she had somehow offended him. “Marcie,” he finally said. “Why in the world would you shave your legs?”

“They’re hairy!”

“So what? Who’s gonna care?”

She thought about this for a second. She was on the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere with a man who looked like Grizzly Adams in a place that didn’t even have indoor plumbing. Why would she shave her legs? And armpits? Finally, in a little voice, she said, “I would.”

He just let his breath out in a long sigh. Then he began rinsing her hair.

While she was towel drying her hair, he pulled a clean shirt from his trunk and handed it to her. This time it was an old soft denim one with fraying around the cuffs and collar and mismatched buttons. “You better wear this,” he said. “That plaid flannel is about ready to walk to the laundry and throw itself in.” When he turned away, she pulled it out and surreptitiously sniffed it herself.

“Smart-ass,” she muttered under her breath.

Once the tub was poured and he’d refilled the big pots for his own bath, setting them to heat, he left her. She could hear the whistling and thumping of logs while she did, indeed, shave her legs. And armpits. The whistling wasn’t just meaningless tweeting—he was gifted. The melody was clear, twirls and whorls and everything. She longed for the singing, but today, he just whistled.

When he came back inside, she was wearing the fresh shirt. She puzzled over the mismatched buttons, then realized he must replace buttons as he lost them, keeping even his oldest clothes as functional as possible for as long as he could. A very peculiar man. He lived in such a rustic, gone-to-the-devil lifestyle—his hair and beard gone mad—yet he seemed to take such jealous care of old, worn clothing.

To her surprise, he aped her routine exactly, leaning into the sink to suds his hair and beard while a second and third pot of water cooked, except he accomplished it bare-chested. She tried to read his library book while he did this, but she found herself continually peeking around the covers to get a good view of that broad expanse of back, that firm male butt. He kept the fitness of his body pretty-much concealed under his clothing, but really, he had the body of a god. Small wonder he’d be built so powerful, with the work he did. He chopped down trees and split logs all the time, loaded at least a cord of wood a day into his truck, then unloaded it when he delivered it—he was cut like a wrestler on steroids.