A Virgin River Christmas (19 page)

Her face was bright red, like a sunburn, and her hairline was singed. Little black squiggles seemed to sprout from her forehead. Her eyebrows, which weren’t much to start with and were nearly blond, seemed to be even less significant, and if she was seeing correctly—her
lashes
were shorter!

Ice,
she thought. Something cold to relieve the burn before it blistered and swelled.

She ran back inside, turned off the little stove and cursed at it, then started digging around for a cloth. He always laid these things out for her on bath days, but there was nothing handy right now. She was finally pushed to look through the trunks. The first one in which she looked held clothing, but in the second she found some towels and washcloths. She grabbed one, wet it from the chilled water that came straight from the sink pump and pressed it to her face. “God,” she said in relief. “Oh, God.”

An hour later when Ian walked into his cabin, what he saw startled him. Marcie was lying on the couch in his shirt and her boots, her legs bare, with a cloth pressed over her face. He knelt beside the couch in a near panic and gently pulled her hands away. “Marcie?” he asked softly.

When she lowered her hands along with the cold, wet cloth, he gasped. “Are you having a relapse? Fever? Should I take you to—”

“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.

So he warmed her stew, scooped it into a big mug, and let her have it. Then he tucked her in, gave her cough medicine, and told her to close her eyes. And he sang to her. Everything was soft but deep and resonant. “New York, New York,” the slow version. “When I Fall In Love.” “You Don’t Know Me,” which she tried not to read anything into. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid he’d stop. There were a lot of old, sweet, mellow Sinatra and Presley songs.

She found herself thinking about Abigail Adams, managing five children and running a farm single-handedly while her husband worked to found America. Marcie had always admired and honored Abigail. Was it so much trouble to go across the yard to the john? Even if you did have to carry a heavy skillet to ward off wildlife? Or heat your water? What
did
she need? One thing she knew for a fact: she sure didn’t need an eyebrow wax.

Marcie drifted off to sleep dreaming of Abigail and Ian’s voice. In the morning when she woke, the coffeepot was on the woodstove, which had burned low as usual. There was a note on the table.

Don’t light the Coleman stove unless you’re sure you know how.

And it made her laugh.

Marcie was almost halfway through a novel in which the hero was just about to grab the heroine by the waist, slam her against him and just kiss the stuffing out of her when something occurred to her. Her letters.

In addition to those letters she’d written to Ian about Bobby when Ian was still in Iraq, letters he had answered, she’d written him regularly for a couple of years, to general delivery. They’d neither been answered nor returned. What were the chances…?

She dove off the couch and went first to that little tin box where he put his money every night. She noticed he had stopped locking it. It didn’t hold very much—the deed, which she didn’t bother with, a few pictures. She was distracted by the pictures. They were very telling in number and subject. A family picture when Ian was a young teen, fourteen or fifteen. A beautiful picture of Shelly, a black wrap over her shoulders, perhaps a college or sorority picture. A picture of Ian and Bobby wearing BDUs, rifle straps over their shoulders, grinning. One with his dad when he was a bit older, his father unsmiling.

It distracted her from her search. A couple of things about them were telling—there were only a few photos, and they were of the most special people he’d had in his life. They marked his passage, from a boy in what looked like an average, middle-class family, to a young man with an unhappy father, to a marine. Then there came the woman, then the friend. Then…Nothing.

Underneath the photos were his medals. The ones she’d received for Bobby had come in fancy boxes. Ian’s were loose. But at least he hadn’t thrown them away in a fit of anger or depression.

She tucked everything away very carefully and closed the lid, feeling guilty about going through his things. He deserved his privacy, but there were things she wished to understand. So she went to the trunk that held his clothing and slipped her hand slowly down all four sides. She felt something and gently parted the carefully folded clothes to strike oil. A rubber band held about a dozen long white envelopes, all to him, all from her. All sealed. Never opened, yet saved.

She stared at them in wonder. Now whatever could that mean?

And then she heard a motor. At first, assuming it was Ian returning, she replaced the envelopes and closed the trunk. By the time she got to her feet, she realized it wasn’t Ian’s truck, so she went to the door.

Well, she might’ve known. There, in a big, shiny new SUV was Erin Elizabeth Foley. Big sister. She folded her arms across her chest as Erin got out of the car.

Erin took one look at her and froze. She took two steps closer, her mouth agape and said, “Oh my God! What’s
wrong
with you?”

Completely forgetting about her red face and burned hair, she looked down at herself. She was wearing one of Ian’s shirts and her boots, bare, white legs sticking out between. “The floor is cold. Erin, what are you doing here?”

“I came to see this place, this man. You can’t possibly believe I’m just going to let you continue this insanity without knowing what we’re dealing with? And it’s a good thing I came to get you! Dear God—did he beat you?”

“Beat me? Of course not! And
we’re
not dealing with anything because this is not your deal! You’re going to spoil everything!”

Erin came closer, bringing the rich scent of Chanel’s Allure with her. She was decked in a tan leather jacket and matching boots with heels—probably Cole Haan, her favorite—and perfectly creased, expensive, chocolate-brown wool pants. She wore thin driving gloves and her strawberry-blond hair fell in perfect waves to her shoulders. There was, of course, gold jewelry and a colorful red, orange and purple Hermes scarf looped around her neck. “What happened to your face?”

Marcie’s hand rose to her cheek. It didn’t hurt so she had all but forgotten. “Oh. I had a little accident with the stove. It was entirely my fault. But I’m fine.”

“Have you been to the emergency room?”

“The what?” She started to laugh. “There’s an emergency room a couple of hours from here, but I have some stuff on it. A really good salve they use on horses.”

“Oh, for the love of God! You’ve completely lost your mind!”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Marcie said, feeling ten years old.

“But your hair. Your beautiful hair! And your…your…
eyebrows!
”

“I noticed,” Marcie said. “Really, Erin—why can’t you just leave me alone? I did what you asked—I called every couple of days, at least every few or had someone call you, I was careful, I—”

Erin’s lips firmed into that implacable “mother expression.” “Right. Finding him was one thing, staying with him in an isolated place without a phone and a—Dear God, is that what I think it is?” she said, pointing a finger toward the outhouse.

“The loo,” Marcie said, a tad amused. “No bidet.”

“I’m going to faint.”

“We have a little porcelain pot inside if you can’t weather the trek to the head.” She decided not to mention it would do well to carry a weapon when one ventured out there.

Erin actually swayed on her feet, her eyes closing briefly. Marcie had to hold in her laughter. If she thought her introduction to this cabin in the woods was interesting, the very thought of Erin slipping on her Cole Haans and trudging out in the morning to the facilities was enough to make her burst into hysterical laughter. “You should see how we manage on bath day,” Marcie said, finding it irresistible to bait her a little.

Erin’s eyes popped open. “Bath day suggests it’s not every day and it’s not convenient.”

“That would be a true statement.”

“And not particularly comfortable…” Erin went on.

“Well, since the only heat is a wood-burning stove, it’s quite quick.”

“Lord. Get your things.”

“No. No, you can look around and lift your prissy little nose and meet Ian if you insist, though you won’t like the look of him, I can assure you. And then you can depart before it becomes necessary for you to use the facilities. That’s as far as I go.”

“At least you’ll let me take you to the doctor,” Erin said.

“I’ve seen the doctor,” Marcie said before she could stop herself.

“And what did he say about you using horse medicine on your face?”

“Liniments. Horse liniments of some kind that work surprisingly well. But, actually, I didn’t need a doctor for that. Turns out the minute I got here and found Ian, I got sick. Flu. He went for the doctor, and the doctor and his nurse practitioner came out to the cabin, gave me a shot and Ian took very good care of me. He made chicken soup and everything.”

Erin put her fingers to her temples. She gave a little rub, then recovered herself, giving her head a shake. She glanced at the igloo-shaped mound right beside her big SUV with narrowed eyes.