A Virgin River Christmas

by Robyn Carr

  She glanced at her naked wrist again and shivered. She started counting in her head to mark the passing of the minutes. How long does a small lion wait for his prey? He had a coat, so they weren’t matched opponents. She started thinking; if she opened the door and he was nowhere to be seen, could she make the mad dash for the cabin? But first, she should do what she came to do, so she wouldn’t have to use the little blue pot.

  Task finished, she sat a few minutes longer, very quietly. Then she sheepishly opened the outhouse door, cursing the squeaking hinges as she stuck her head out. She saw nothing, so she took a careful step outside. She heard a hiss and snarl and saw the cat lurking around the shed, twenty feet away. She retreated, slamming the door. “Shit,” she said aloud. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  So she brought up her feet so that her heels rested on the seat and pulled the huge flannel shirt over her knees, hugging them. There was nothing in the outhouse with which to defend herself. In fact, there was also no reading material—not even a truck or sports magazine. Leave it to Ian—bare to the bone. No extras. He didn’t even keep a book in the house unless it came from the library. After a little while, she began to shake with cold. It didn’t help that she began coughing, even though she tried to control it, stop it, muffle it; the big cat could probably hear her and know his prey was still alive, trapped.

  So be it. She would freeze to death. She didn’t remember anything from the last time she nearly froze to death. Remembering nothing implied it was painless.

  Then she heard the sound of Ian’s truck come up the road. There was no mistaking that engine; it was rough and growly. She sprang to her feet, because suddenly her only thought was that Ian could be attacked by the feline beast that waited for her. She pressed her ear against the rough wooden door. She heard nothing until the screech of Ian’s truck door opening. She flung the door to the outhouse open and yelled, “Ian! Look out! There’s a—”

  She was cut off by the snarl and lunge of the cat at the door. She ducked in quickly with a scream, inexplicably happy that the cat had come after her and not gone after an unprepared Ian.

  So, she thought, here we are. I’m trapped in the john and he’s trapped in either the truck or the cabin. And it’s colder than hell. Great. And to think I was wishing for a microwave.

  But only seconds seemed to have passed before there was a huge blast that caused her to sit up straight and catch her breath. Then the outhouse door opened sharply, and Ian stood there with a startled look on his face and a big gun in his hand. “How long have you been in here?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I think maybe d-d-days.”

  He got a sheepish look on his face. “You about done in here?” he asked.

  She burst into laughter, which brought another coughing spasm, then laughter again. “Yes, Ian,” she finally said. “I’ve widdled and wiped. Can I please go home now?”

  “Home? Marcie—that car of yours—”

  “The cabin, Ian.” She laughed. “Jesus, do you have no sense of humor?”

  “That wasn’t so funny. I can’t imagine what he was doing around here. I don’t keep food out or small livestock…”

  “He was hanging around the shed. You think maybe he likes chicken soup?”

  “I’ve never had a problem like that before. That’s bold, getting out where people can see him, challenge him—”

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Puma,” he said. “Mountain lion.”

  “I knew that was a lion.” She stopped suddenly. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

  “Marcie, he wanted to eat you! Are you worried about his soul or something?”

  “I just wanted him to go away,” she said. “I didn’t want him to go dead.”

  “I just scared him off. Listen,” he said, walking her quickly to the cabin, “if it had been down to you or him, could you have shot him?”

  “No,” she said.

  “No?” he asked.

  “Well, I’ve never fired a gun, so I don’t like my chances. If I’d had a big gun like that in my hands I could’ve probably shot you or the cabin or shot the crap out of that outhouse…” She burst into laughter at her pun. “But he was way smaller. You have a frying pan, right? A big iron one, right?”

  “What for?”

  “So, in future, I can get to the bathroom with some protection. I was once a very good hitter in softball.”

  He stopped walking and looked down at her. “Jesus, there’s always the blue pot.”

  “Yeah, but there are some things a lady will risk her life to keep private.”

  He smiled. He actually smiled. “Is that so?”

  Six

  T he very next day when Ian came home, he caught Marcie standing at the sink in his flannel shirt and calf-high boots. No pants. Panties maybe; he tried not to think about that. She was rubbing her face with a washcloth, and her hair was so bushy it looked like a clown’s wig. He put the sack on the table. “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “I must be,” she said. “I’d kill for clean hair.”

  “You want to wash your hair?”

  “It was tempting, but I didn’t know if a cold, wet head was the best idea. The water out of this pump is freezing.”

  He chuckled. “I can’t believe you’ve been here for days and haven’t figured out much. Not like you to not pay attention to details, is it? So. Good day for bath day,” he said.

  “Have you had a bath since I’ve been here?” she asked.

  “I admit, I’ve been putting that off, making do with a pot of hot soapy water at the sink, but not just because you’re here. Have you noticed, it’s a little cold?”

  “I saw the tub of course, but I couldn’t imagine how…”

  He just shook his head. “You’re right, you’re not used to roughing it. Here’s how it’s going to work—I’ll put a big pot of water on the woodstove, feed it real good so we get the room nice and warm. I’ll get another one going on the Coleman stove—that goes a lot faster—and we’ll fill the sink with hot water for your hair and while we’re taking care of that, get a second one going on the Coleman. By the time your hair is clean, we’ll have two pots of near-boiling water for the tub. I’ll add some cold from the pump and you take a little dip. Can’t screw around—I can’t get the tub full. If I just keep heating and adding water, by the time I get a boiling pot, the one in the tub has already turned cold. So it’s a shallow bath, but it’s warm and gets the job done.”

  “Wow,” she said. “That’s sure generous, that you’d do all that for me…”

  “For us, Marcie. I’ll get a bath after you. And tomorrow I’ll stop at the coin laundry and wash up the dirty clothes. I’ll take any of yours you’d like me to. Just because you haven’t been feeling too good…”

  She shifted from foot to foot, chewing on her lower lip.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t want a bath?”

  “I’d die for a bath,” she said. “It’s just that…. I couldn’t help but notice, there doesn’t seem to be a separate room with a door that closes…And I also noticed that doesn’t seem to bother you too much.”

  The corners of his lips lifted. “I’ll load the truck with tomorrow’s wood while you have your bath,” he finally said.

  She thought about this for a second. “And I could sit in my car during your bath?” she suggested.

  “I don’t think so—your car is almost an igloo now. Just a little white mound. Not to mention mountain lions.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Well, you can take a nap, read a little of my book, or close your eyes. Or you could stare—get the thrill of your life.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You really wouldn’t care, would you?”

  “Not really. A bath is a serious business when it’s that much trouble. And it’s pretty quick in winter.” He started to chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, a little irritated.

  “I was just thinking.
It’s cold enough in here, you might not see that much.”

  Her cheeks went hot, so she pretended not to understand. “But in summer, you can lay in the tub all afternoon?”

  “In summer, I wash in the creek.” He grinned at her. “Why don’t you comb the snarls out of your hair? You look like a wild banshee.”

  She stared at him a minute, then said, “Don’t flirt with me. It won’t do you any good.” Then she coughed for him, a long string of deep croaks that reminded them both she had had a good, solid flu. Also, it covered what happened to be amused laughter from him.

  While he pumped water into a big pot, he said, “Take your medicine. That sounds just god-awful. And I, for sure, don’t want it.”

  It took a good thirty minutes to get the sink full of warm water. She was rolling up the sleeves of the overlong shirt, turning under the collar to keep it from getting wet, and grabbed the shampoo out of her duffel. He held out his hand. “What?” she said.

  “Put your head in the sink,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’ll be hard for you to know if the soap’s out. It’ll be faster and easier if I just do it for you.”

  She picked up the towel he’d laid out on the short counter, pressed it against her face and bent at the waist, dipping her head in the warm water. She could feel him use a cup to wet her hair, then begin to gently lather it. Those big calloused hands were slow and gentle, his fingertips kneading her scalp in a fabulous massage. She enjoyed it with her eyes closed, trying not to moan in pleasure. Finally she said, “You aren’t going to offer to shave my legs for me, too, are you?”

  His hands suddenly stopped moving. There was a stillness and a silence for such a drawn out moment, she wondered if she had somehow offended him. “Marcie,” he finally said. “Why in the world would you shave your legs?”

  “They’re hairy!”

  “So what? Who’s gonna care?”

  She thought about this for a second. She was on the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere with a man who looked like Grizzly Adams in a place that didn’t even have indoor plumbing. Why would she shave her legs? And armpits? Finally, in a little voice, she said, “I would.”

  He just let his breath out in a long sigh. Then he began rinsing her hair.

  While she was towel drying her hair, he pulled a clean shirt from his trunk and handed it to her. This time it was an old soft denim one with fraying around the cuffs and collar and mismatched buttons. “You better wear this,” he said. “That plaid flannel is about ready to walk to the laundry and throw itself in.” When he turned away, she pulled it out and surreptitiously sniffed it herself.

  “Smart-ass,” she muttered under her breath.

  Once the tub was poured and he’d refilled the big pots for his own bath, setting them to heat, he left her. She could hear the whistling and thumping of logs while she did, indeed, shave her legs. And armpits. The whistling wasn’t just meaningless tweeting—he was gifted. The melody was clear, twirls and whorls and everything. She longed for the singing, but today, he just whistled.

  When he came back inside, she was wearing the fresh shirt. She puzzled over the mismatched buttons, then realized he must replace buttons as he lost them, keeping even his oldest clothes as functional as possible for as long as he could. A very peculiar man. He lived in such a rustic, gone-to-the-devil lifestyle—his hair and beard gone mad—yet he seemed to take such jealous care of old, worn clothing.

  To her surprise, he aped her routine exactly, leaning into the sink to suds his hair and beard while a second and third pot of water cooked, except he accomplished it bare-chested. She tried to read his library book while he did this, but she found herself continually peeking around the covers to get a good view of that broad expanse of back, that firm male butt. He kept the fitness of his body pretty-much concealed under his clothing, but really, he had the body of a god. Small wonder he’d be built so powerful, with the work he did. He chopped down trees and split logs all the time, loaded at least a cord of wood a day into his truck, then unloaded it when he delivered it—he was cut like a wrestler on steroids.

  When she’d caught sight of him before, she’d whirled away too quickly to appreciate his physique. Given the fact that his hair and beard were so thick and full, she was expecting a gorilla with hair on his back. But, no—there was just a hairy chest that was broad and hard, biceps like small melons, back wide and muscled, waist narrow. He had tattoos on each upper arm—an eagle on the right, a banner that said USMC on the left.

  He slicked back the hair on his head, retied it, and combed through his beard with an old brush while his bath water heated. She finally understood the reason for all the big pots stacked beside the kitchen cabinet—not for cooking big meals since there was but one resident, but for heating water.

  He obviously trimmed his ponytail and beard occasionally. She just wondered, did he ever trim it enough to make a real difference, or did he let it go crazy and sometimes lop off an inch or two from the bottom? His hair and beard were both plentiful and thick with lots of curls, the hair on his head light brown and on his chin, reddish-brown. With those brown eyebrows, which were healthy, if he frowned, he looked beastly.

  Maybe this was all just part of his hiding. Tucked away in the mountains, incognito behind that uncanny red beard and thick brown hair.

  She plopped herself on the sofa with his book on her raised knees. When he dumped the water into the tub and began to unbuckle his belt, she sank into the sofa and put the book right over her face, blinding her against an accidental glance at more of him. She heard him chuckle lightly right before he said, “I’ll tell you when I’m done.” She heard the splashing and swishing of the water, and not ten minutes later he said, “I’m done.” But she gave him an extra couple of minutes. He was just contrary enough to trick her.

  When he gathered up the dirty clothes and stuffed them into a laundry bag, she turned over a couple of pair of jeans, four pair of socks, two sweatshirts and some sweatpants. She kept her undergarments to herself. When he left the next morning, she placed a big pot of water on top of the wood-burning stove and, when it was finally just a bit more than warm, she washed out her own underwear in the sink and draped her panties and bras along the rim of the tub to dry in front of the stove. When driven to the outhouse by sheer urgent need, she carried the big iron skillet. If that beast showed up again, teeth bared, she’d knock him into the middle of next week. She might not be a hunter, but she’d been a damn fine softball player in her day. Then, tired and coughing, she took her medicine and napped.

  He came in carrying a long, rectangular cardboard box inside of which were neatly folded clothes. He put it down on one of his trunks and lifted a pair of panties off the rim of the tub. “I hope you’re starting to feel better,” he said. “I don’t think I’m up to a lot of this. Old Raleigh is probably spinning in his grave…”

  And she bolted off the couch, snatched up her dainties and tucked them into her duffel even though they weren’t entirely dry.

  That night’s dinner was boiled potatoes, a few fresh, soft-cooked eggs and some thick chunks of ham. And then they talked a little as they ate: about his day, his customers and routine, but afterward, before she could sneak up on the subjects that brought her here, he said it was time for quiet so that he could read a little and sleep. She granted this without argument—he’d lived alone for a long time and it didn’t mean he was unkind or cruel.

  She began to relish the small things—his occasional subdued laughter. No one could call it an actual laugh, but he did cave into amusement if she shot him a smart-ass comment. He smiled at her from time to time—behind that bushy red-brown beard he had beautiful, healthy teeth.

  But she was getting lonely. She wondered if she could wait out his silence.

  One afternoon, she witnessed a most remarkable thing. He had been whistling while piling his wood in the truck and had finally started to sing, quietly at first and then louder, that incr
edible voice just making her heart flutter. Suddenly all sound stopped; no more logs, no more singing. And yet the door didn’t open. At first, she thought he’d made a pass by the outhouse, but time stretched out. Finally, she stepped out the front door and quietly looked around the side of the cabin. She saw Ian out by the shed. He was standing in front of a very large buck with a huge, beautiful rack that must span over three feet. His hand was out and the buck seemed to be eating out of it; Ian was talking softly to the deer, stroking its jaw with the other hand.

  She was frozen in the moment, silently watching as Ian and the deer, like best friends, spent this quiet, companionable time together. There was a kindness in this man that calmed the most skittish of wildlife. Would she ever be in touch with that side of his nature, she wondered? Did he only roar at people who frightened him?

  She had frightened him with the past when she arrived. She’d been very careful not to do that again. A little time, a little more trust, and she would sneak up on those old issues carefully. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him. She knew that he was a good person.

  How could a father have turned a cold shoulder to this man? she asked herself. How?

  The deer took a couple of steps back, turned, and pranced back into the trees. Ian turned back to his work and caught sight of her standing there. He walked over to her.

  “You saw my buddy, Buck,” he said. “I keep an apple in my pocket when I work outside. Sometimes he shows up. If the apple starts to get soft before he comes, I eat it.”

  “How do you do that?” Marcie asked, entranced.

  “It’s not a trick. I found him when he was young. He was nicked by a hunter’s bullet, separated from his mother, all spooked and confused and bleeding. So I kind of caught him. The old man, Raleigh, he said his eyes weren’t any good anymore and he couldn’t do anything, but I could do something about that wound, take care of him, give him a couple of apples and let him go. Which is what I did. I closed him in the shed, fed and watered him, gave him apples and when he was fine, I turned him loose. That’s all.”