A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(48)

“It’s not a fever!” she nearly shouted at him.

“But your face—”

“Is bright red! I know. And my hair is burned off around my face. And if you bother to look, there don’t seem to be eyebrows there either, not that I ever had much for eyebrows.”

“Jesus,” he said in a breath, sitting back on his heels.

“I was trying to heat up the coffee on the propane stove—and apparently I don’t know how to use the stove.”

“What happened?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

“Hurt? I’m pretty ugly, but I don’t know if it’s permanent.” She relayed the events of lighting the stove, coming too late with the match or too early with the gas and how it all poofed in her face and scorched her.

His rough finger glanced along the hair above her face and beneath that massive beard his lips twitched slightly. “I have some salve. And this will probably grow back…”

“You’re laughing!” she accused. “You are fucking laughing!”

He shook his head vigorously but he still showed teeth. Teeth she’d rarely seen. “No. No. It’s just that—”

“What? It’s just that what?”

“I’m sorry, Marcie. I’m sure it’s all my fault. I should have showed you how to—”

“You’re damn straight it’s all your fault! Starting with roaring at me like a goddamn lion and making me scared and making me stubborn and then not showing me how to light the damn stove and then—”

Suddenly he was all teeth behind his red beard. “Making you stubborn?” he asked, barely concealing the laughter.

“Well, I’m at my best when people just do what I ask! And what’s so goddamn funny?”

His arms went around his torso to hug himself and he rolled backward onto the floor, erupting into laughter. His mouth opened wide, his eyes squinched and he bellowed. Between gasping and belly laughs, he choked out—“You’re bright red! And it’s my fault for making you—stubborn! God—you’re priceless!” And he laughed himself crazy. She sat on the edge of the couch, boots on the floor, red face staring down at him, glowering.

It took him a while to get himself under control. His laughter ebbed into pants and gasps; he wiped at his watering eyes. Then he finally looked at her.

“I’m surprised you didn’t fart from laughing,” she said, not the merest hint of a smile on her face.

He huffed a couple of times and said, “It took some doing.” He sat up, recovered himself and asked, with a twitch of his lips, “Are you in pain?”

She lifted her chin. “Somewhat.”

“Let me find that salve,” he said, getting to his feet. He went into one of his cupboards and produced a tin of salve, gently smearing it over her burned face, his lips wriggling in the temptation to laugh the whole time.

“Is it that damned funny?” she finally demanded.

“It’s pretty funny, Marcie. There was a perfectly good starter on that stove, but it broke a while back and it was easier for me to light it than get it fixed. See, that’s the kind of thing that happens when you live alone—you don’t make a house for a family. You get by. It’s lazy, I know…”

“But you’re not lazy. You work hard!”

“Okay then, it’s just one more thing I don’t have to do,” he said. “Really, it’s not that bad, your face…” Then he chuckled.

“I have black squiggles where I used to have bangs.”

“I know, honey. But it’ll all come back just fine.”

Honey? Did he just call me honey? Is he feeling sorry for me? Being sweet to me because I’m scorched? Finally she said, “The salve is good. What is it?”

“Something the vet uses on horses.”

“Oh, terrific!”

“No, it’s good stuff! Better than what you can get over the counter or from the doctor, thanks to the FDA. I swear.” But then he laughed.

“Are you still laughing because I look ridiculous, or because you just got one over on me—giving me horse medicine?”

“I’m laughing because—” he gulped “—how about I grease you up and feed you something to eat? While you’re trying to recover from your burn, I could read one of those sloppy romances to you, if you like.”

“Read to me?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Sometimes I read to Raleigh, when he was feeling real bad.”

“No,” she said. “Food, yes. Reading would be nice, but singing would be better. I want you to sing to me.”

“Aw, Marcie…”

“I’m a burn victim. Try to be accommodating.”

He sighed heavily and went to his cupboard. There were a couple dozen large cans of Dinty Moore beef stew in there. He pulled a couple out and she said, “Good God, are you expecting nuclear war?”

“No,” he laughed. “I’m ready for snow. My road to Highway 36 is long. You can get real hungry up here if you’re not prepared.”

“And you exist on canned stew?”

“It’s good,” he said. “I’d buy something else if something else tasted better.” He emptied it into a pan and put it on the stove. She watched while he lit it. First the match, then the gas. Perfect. Well, that made sense.