A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(74)

B y the time Ian walked into his cabin, it was after eight at night. He was so tired and chilled, he thought it would be half the night before he’d warm up, much less be able to load the pickup with the next day’s firewood. He didn’t even have the door closed behind him when he heard a wild shriek and Marcie leaped at him, her arms around his neck and her legs wrapped around him.

“Hey,” he laughed, holding her clear of the floor. “Hey. You’re on me like a tick.” She leaned away from his face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m freezing and hungry. Were you scared?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “Did you find the boy?”

“He was found,” Ian said. “Hurt and cold, but he’s going to be all right. Can you warm and feed me? Would Abigail Adams do that?”

“She would, and in between, she’d plow two fields and give birth.” Marcie grinned at him.

God, she’s so alive, he thought. It would be a travesty to hide her away on a mountaintop. But for now, having her on top this mountain was like the answer to a prayer.





Ian had to dig his way out to the john early the next morning, shoveling a path for Marcie to use when she woke. Then he loaded up the back of the truck with firewood, feeling better than he had a right to, since she hadn’t let him sleep that much during the night. Then, rather than going straight to that intersection where he liked to sell firewood, he drove in the opposite direction a couple of miles, adjusted the blade on the plow, and cleared a path up to his neighbor’s house. He didn’t like what he saw upon pulling up. There was no homey curl of smoke from the chimney; no sign of life. His first thought was—if I have to hold another ice-cold body against my chest…

But the front door creaked open. The old man stood there in the frame, wearing his boots and coat.

“I cleared your road, in case you need someone to get in or need to get out.”

“Obliged,” he said.

“Listen—how you fixed for firewood? You got some canned food you can open up while the snow’s heavy?” Ian asked.

“I’ll get by,” he said.

Typically, that’s when Ian would give him a small salute, then turn and head out down the drive to Highway 36, to get on with the things he had to do. Instead, with a muffled curse, he lifted up the tarp covering his load and filled his arms with split logs. He walked right up to the front door with the wood and the old guy barred the way. Ian stared down at him. “Come on,” he said. “I brought you wood for your stove.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the guy let him in, grimacing. On his way to put the logs beside the stove, Ian caught a whiff of something disgusting. He kept his mouth shut, having an idea what the problem might be. When he crouched to stack the logs by the stove, he pulled off a glove and touched it. It was ice-cold. He stood and went back out the door and loaded up another big batch of logs. On his way to the door he glanced along the property and saw what he expected—the outhouse was buried in a couple feet of snow and there was no path. The old boy couldn’t split his own logs, if he had any to split, and he either couldn’t get to the outhouse or was worried about falling in the snow and not being able to get up. As for shoveling, he likely just didn’t have the stamina. He’d been making far too much use of some indoor make-shift chamber pot that he’d empty when he could get to the john. It was horrid.

Ian delivered a third load of wood and said, “Get your fire going. I’m going to clear your path for you. Where’s the shovel?”

“Don’t bother. I’ll—”

“Don’t argue with me about it—where’s the damn shovel?”

He tilted his head out the door. Ian went out, looked around to the side of the house and found the shovel leaning against the house, nearly buried by the snow. Well, he was missing his usual firewood crowd and he was in a hurry—so it would have to be a narrow path. But this had to be done. Only a damn fool would let pride cause him to freeze to death in his own filth.

And that won’t happen to me, because I won’t let it. Just like he’d always believed he wouldn’t let himself turn into his father? It gave him pause…

When he’d cleared the path, he pounded on the man’s door. “You like Dinty Moore beef stew?” he asked shortly.

“Why?”

“I have a surplus. I thought I’d leave some off later.”

“No need to do that.”

“Come on, man—it’s a friendly gesture. The woman at my place hates that stuff and won’t eat it—I’ll leave by a few cans. If it’s not going to be too big a burden for you to take it off my hands.”

He shrugged. “You grow weed over there on that ridge?”

“Hell, no. What makes you ask that?”

“What you do over there?”

“I cut down trees and sell firewood out of my truck. I fish some. Lately I shovel and plow a lot. I don’t know your name.”

“We’re even,” the old boy said. “Since I never knew yours.”

“Ian Buchanan,” he said, not putting out his hand.

“Michael Jackson,” the old boy said, and Ian let a burst of laughter escape. The old man frowned darkly and Ian realized, too late, that this fella probably hadn’t seen television in decades, if ever.