A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(54)

For the first time since he hit this county, he wanted things. Like soup bowls instead of mugs and cans to eat soup out of. Things he thought he didn’t need, like a few creature comforts. A radio. She was right—a person who loved music should hear some from time to time.

And he wanted someone to care enough about him to try to find him. He wanted someone to love him. It had been so long since anyone had loved him.

But the worst thing she’d made him realize was that this skinny little redhead had held up through Bobby’s devastating demise better than he had. And she’d had to work through it every day, every damn day, while he’d merely run away from it. I’m the weak one, he thought dismally, and she’s the one with the strength of a thousand soldiers.

He went to his trunk, dug deep, and brought out the stack of letters. He put them on the table under the light. Then he went to the cupboard, reached far into the back and located a bottle of Canadian Mist that had barely been tapped, putting it on the table with the letters. He found a glass, poured himself a shot and threw it back.

And then, without warning, the door to his cabin opened and she walked right in as if she owned the place. She toted all her gear: sleeping bag, duffel, backpack and purse, dropping it all where it had been previously stowed, at the foot of that sagging couch. He hoped all the hair on his face hid the elation that he could feel glow there. “I could’ve been naked,” he said.

She smiled and walked over to the table, pulled out the chair and sat down opposite him. “Ah yes—that would be the thrill of my life, right? We drinking tonight?”

“I decided it was cold enough for a shot.”

“Can I join you?”

“Your sister waiting outside?” he asked, getting up to find another glass. He turned up a plastic tumbler and gave it to her.

Marcie poured herself a little splash of the whiskey. “Nah. I sent her home. I had to promise to call every couple of days and get home by Christmas, so I guess I could be some trouble for you. I mean, some more trouble. Sorry.”

“What’s your mission here? Exactly? You think you’re going to straighten me out, clean me up presentable, do some kind of good deed?”

“Oh brother, are you ever feeling sorry for yourself. You probably shouldn’t drink if you’re that screwed up—this stuff is a depressant, you know.” He stiffened abruptly. “My mission, as you call it, is pretty simple. There are these stupid baseball cards. Bobby told me in letters that you were a collector, too—I brought them. Bobby’s cards.”

She went to her duffel, dug around and brought out an album in which Bobby’s collection was carefully preserved. She put it on the table.

“This is difficult to explain. For some reason, the idea of the two of you talking about these baseball cards in the middle of a war, in a desert, staying alert for bombs and snipers was something I never got over.” She took a breath. “I want you to understand—they’re hard to let go of, only because they were his. He thought they were awesome. He’d want you to have them.”

Ian didn’t touch the album. “Why didn’t you just give them to me right away?”

She sighed. “Because I was sick. And you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think I could.” He stared down at the table for a moment, then lifted his eyes. “That’s it, then? The baseball cards?”

“There was a time, way back, when we wrote, kind of leaned on each other because Bobby got hurt. Then you dropped out of sight. Went missing. So, I came to meet you, or re-meet you, to thank you, make sure you were all right, tell you about your father. And, as it turns out, you seem to be fine. In some ways, better off than me. You live exactly as you like, talk to people when you want and seek solitude when it feels good, have a relationship with nature and aren’t burdened with worries or things. You don’t carry much of a load, on the outside at least—you have only what you need. And I don’t think you need cleaning up presentable. You look just fine.”

“You said I looked like a wild man.”

“You do.” She grinned at him. “I’m used to it now.”

“What were you going to thank me for?” he asked, replenishing his glass.

“You’re kidding, right? Come on! For saving Bobby’s life!”

“You shouldn’t do that. You shouldn’t even think that. I have a lot of regrets, kid, but that’s at the top of the list.”

“Saving him? Look, we’re all sorry he was so badly hurt, that he was a helpless invalid. Beyond anyone’s control…”

“You think so? Because I think maybe I knew,” he said. “I lifted him and he was limp and heavy. There was a split second when I faced a choice. There was no muscle tension in his body—he was nothing but dead weight. I could’ve put him down right where he was, covered his body with mine to keep him from getting hit worse and waited it out—the end. And then you wouldn’t have been saddled with the burden and pain you’ve had to carry for three years and he’d have been free. God, you were just a kid. And I knew Bobby didn’t want that life—men in combat talk about things like that. But I was selfish. I was thinking about myself—I acted the way I was trained to react, and I just couldn’t face letting him go. I was acting like I wanted to be a goddamn hero.”