A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(59)

She looked up at him and forgot everything. “What have you done?”

He walked straight to the table and put down his sacks. “I have more stuff to get, so sit tight.” And he left the cabin again. When he returned with a couple of boxes stacked high on top of each other, she was sitting in the same place. He put those on the table, as well. Then he finally turned toward her, letting her look him over. She stood and took slow steps toward him and her hand rose to touch his cheek. Where there had been a good five or six inches of bushy beard was now less than a half inch of brownish-red beard, combed into place, soft as down. Even his neck was shaved.

“Where is my wilderness lunatic?”

He frowned at her and touched her cheek gently. “Have you been crying?”

She glanced away. “I’m sorry. I had one of those days.”

He put his thumb and forefinger on her chin and pulled her eyes back to his. “What’s up?” he asked softly. “Need to talk about it?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I know you don’t want to—”

“It’s okay. What made you cry? Homesick? Lonesome?”

She took a deep breath. “It was a year ago today. Snuck up on me, I guess.”

“Ah,” he said. He put his big arms around her. “That would make some tears, I guess. I’m sorry, Marcie. I’m sure it still hurts sometimes.”

“That’s just it—it doesn’t exactly hurt. It’s just that I feel so useless.” She leaned against him. “Sometimes I feel all alone. I have lots of people in my life and can still feel so alone without Bobby.” She laughed softly. “And God knows, he wasn’t much company.”

He tightened his embrace. “I think I understand.”

Yeah, she thought, he might. Here was a guy who was around people regularly, yet completely unconnected to them. She pulled away and asked, “Why did you do this?”

“I thought I could clean up a little and take you somewhere.”

“Wait. You didn’t think I needed you to do this for me, did you? Because of Erin?”

He laughed, and she could actually see the emotion on his face, given the absence of wild beard. “Actually, if you’d asked me to, I probably wouldn’t have. You really think you can match me for stubborn? Probably not. I kept the beard because of the scar,” he said, leaning his left cheek toward her. “That, and maybe a bit of attitude of who cares?”

She gently fingered the beard apart to reveal a barely noticeable scar. “It’s hardly there at all. Ian, it’s only a thin line. You don’t have to cover it. You’re not disfigured.” She smiled at him. “You’re handsome.”

“Memories from the scar, probably. Anyway, tonight is the truckers’ Christmas parade. A bunch of eighteen-wheelers in the area dress up their rigs and parade down the freeway. I see it every year—fantastic. You think you’re up to it? With it being that anniversary?”

“Maybe it’s a good idea,” she said. “Getting out, changing the mood.”

“We’ll eat out and—”

“What’s all this?” she asked, looking at the bags and boxes.

“Snow’s forecast. It’s just what you do up here. Be ready. But this time I got some different things, in case you’re sick of stew. And I never do this—but you’re a girl, so I bought some fresh greens. And fresh eggs. Just enough to last a couple of days. No fridge; and they’ll freeze if we leave ’em in the shed.”

“Ian, what about the bathroom? What will we do about the bathroom if there’s a heavy snow?”

He laughed at her. “No problem. We’ll tromp out there fine—but I’ll shovel a path. And I’ll plow out to the road, but it’s slow going and if the snow keeps coming, it’s going to be even slower.”

“Wow. Is it safe to leave tonight? For the parade? Will we get back in?”

“We don’t have blizzards, Marcie. Snow falls slow, but steady. Now, I’m thinking bath day. How about you?”

She put her hands on her hips and looked up at him with a glare. “All right, be very careful here. I’ve had my bath. And a hair wash. I’m wearing makeup, Ian. Jesus. You wanna try to clean me up?”

His eyes grew large for a moment. Then he said. “Bath day for me, I meant. I knew. You look great.” His thumb ran along her cheek under one eye. “Just a couple of tear marks, but you can take care of that. Let me put this stuff away and get my water ready. You have something to read? Or are you looking for the thrill of your life?”

“I have something to read,” she said. And, she thought, at the end of the day, they all turn out to be just men.





Ian had in mind an Italian restaurant in Arcata, a place he’d been a time or two. When he’d been before, he always just ate at the bar, alone. This time, at a table with a glass of red wine each, there was talking. It was hardly possible to remember the man who merely grunted or complained that he didn’t need to have people around. Marcie made no comment about the change; tomorrow would mark ten days. One more week would bring Christmas. He wanted to know what kind of little girl she had been.

“Bad, very bad. I took the term tomboy to the next level. I didn’t have any little girlfriends, just the boys. I could take all of ’em, but even though I thought I was a boy I fought like a girl—biting, hair pulling. I went from slingshots to spitballs and my dad got called to school a lot. I was a bratty little carrottop, the smallest, meanest one in my class.”