A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(29)

When she’d caught sight of him before, she’d whirled away too quickly to appreciate his physique. Given the fact that his hair and beard were so thick and full, she was expecting a gorilla with hair on his back. But, no—there was just a hairy chest that was broad and hard, biceps like small melons, back wide and muscled, waist narrow. He had tattoos on each upper arm—an eagle on the right, a banner that said USMC on the left.

He slicked back the hair on his head, retied it, and combed through his beard with an old brush while his bath water heated. She finally understood the reason for all the big pots stacked beside the kitchen cabinet—not for cooking big meals since there was but one resident, but for heating water.

He obviously trimmed his ponytail and beard occasionally. She just wondered, did he ever trim it enough to make a real difference, or did he let it go crazy and sometimes lop off an inch or two from the bottom? His hair and beard were both plentiful and thick with lots of curls, the hair on his head light brown and on his chin, reddish-brown. With those brown eyebrows, which were healthy, if he frowned, he looked beastly.

Maybe this was all just part of his hiding. Tucked away in the mountains, incognito behind that uncanny red beard and thick brown hair.

She plopped herself on the sofa with his book on her raised knees. When he dumped the water into the tub and began to unbuckle his belt, she sank into the sofa and put the book right over her face, blinding her against an accidental glance at more of him. She heard him chuckle lightly right before he said, “I’ll tell you when I’m done.” She heard the splashing and swishing of the water, and not ten minutes later he said, “I’m done.” But she gave him an extra couple of minutes. He was just contrary enough to trick her.

When he gathered up the dirty clothes and stuffed them into a laundry bag, she turned over a couple of pair of jeans, four pair of socks, two sweatshirts and some sweatpants. She kept her undergarments to herself. When he left the next morning, she placed a big pot of water on top of the wood-burning stove and, when it was finally just a bit more than warm, she washed out her own underwear in the sink and draped her panties and bras along the rim of the tub to dry in front of the stove. When driven to the outhouse by sheer urgent need, she carried the big iron skillet. If that beast showed up again, teeth bared, she’d knock him into the middle of next week. She might not be a hunter, but she’d been a damn fine softball player in her day. Then, tired and coughing, she took her medicine and napped.

He came in carrying a long, rectangular cardboard box inside of which were neatly folded clothes. He put it down on one of his trunks and lifted a pair of panties off the rim of the tub. “I hope you’re starting to feel better,” he said. “I don’t think I’m up to a lot of this. Old Raleigh is probably spinning in his grave…”

And she bolted off the couch, snatched up her dainties and tucked them into her duffel even though they weren’t entirely dry.

That night’s dinner was boiled potatoes, a few fresh, soft-cooked eggs and some thick chunks of ham. And then they talked a little as they ate: about his day, his customers and routine, but afterward, before she could sneak up on the subjects that brought her here, he said it was time for quiet so that he could read a little and sleep. She granted this without argument—he’d lived alone for a long time and it didn’t mean he was unkind or cruel.

She began to relish the small things—his occasional subdued laughter. No one could call it an actual laugh, but he did cave into amusement if she shot him a smart-ass comment. He smiled at her from time to time—behind that bushy red-brown beard he had beautiful, healthy teeth.

But she was getting lonely. She wondered if she could wait out his silence.

One afternoon, she witnessed a most remarkable thing. He had been whistling while piling his wood in the truck and had finally started to sing, quietly at first and then louder, that incredible voice just making her heart flutter. Suddenly all sound stopped; no more logs, no more singing. And yet the door didn’t open. At first, she thought he’d made a pass by the outhouse, but time stretched out. Finally, she stepped out the front door and quietly looked around the side of the cabin. She saw Ian out by the shed. He was standing in front of a very large buck with a huge, beautiful rack that must span over three feet. His hand was out and the buck seemed to be eating out of it; Ian was talking softly to the deer, stroking its jaw with the other hand.

She was frozen in the moment, silently watching as Ian and the deer, like best friends, spent this quiet, companionable time together. There was a kindness in this man that calmed the most skittish of wildlife. Would she ever be in touch with that side of his nature, she wondered? Did he only roar at people who frightened him?

She had frightened him with the past when she arrived. She’d been very careful not to do that again. A little time, a little more trust, and she would sneak up on those old issues carefully. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him. She knew that he was a good person.

How could a father have turned a cold shoulder to this man? she asked herself. How?

The deer took a couple of steps back, turned, and pranced back into the trees. Ian turned back to his work and caught sight of her standing there. He walked over to her.

“You saw my buddy, Buck,” he said. “I keep an apple in my pocket when I work outside. Sometimes he shows up. If the apple starts to get soft before he comes, I eat it.”

“How do you do that?” Marcie asked, entranced.