A Virgin River Christmas

by Robyn Carr

  And his sweet mother had said, “Ian, he’s faithful and he works hard to support us. He might not be romantic or doting, but he gave me you. If that’s all I ever get from him, it’ll always be the world to me.”

  Not enough, Ian remembered thinking. Not enough. Joining the Marines seemed like a smart and safe way to go—got him the hell out of there and to a place where he could be in touch with his mother and not have to put up with his father.

  Then came his mother’s death, then more active duty leading up to Iraq. His father was the only family Ian had left and he was woefully inadequate. After Iraq, after a few scrapes that even he knew had all to do with some PTSD, he feared he was turning into the old man. There were random fights with guys he had no real quarrel with. Things set him off and he just lost it. Even if the Corps could look the other way for a while, Ian couldn’t. He’d been a strong leader who’d turned into an asshole who just couldn’t cope. That’s when he got out, hoping he could get back to the man who was admired. Followed.

  And Ian’s father said, “You are no son to me if you quit. If you run away.”

  Ian said, “I never was a son to you.”

  Talk about a standoff.

  He scanned the ground, looking for any sign of the boy—broken shrubs or tree limbs showing that someone had passed, marks on the ground including drops of blood, recent footprints in the snow.

  He also thought about Marcie. When she’d infiltrated his life, his first thought hadn’t been that she was beautiful and sexy. In fact, his twentieth thought wasn’t even that—she was sick, pale, listless…frankly, homely as a duck. Vulnerable and anything but pretty. Still, it wasn’t the pretty that got to him when she started to get a little color on her face—it was the pure contrariness. The fight in her—he’d always appreciated anyone with that kind of gumption.

  She was just about well in less than a week and her eyes had started to regain that little spark that said she’d have her way, speak her mind and damn the consequences. How more like him could she be? He was able to appreciate her and give her credit—though not out loud—without getting captured by her.

  Then slowly, he began to like her. No matter she fully intended to get in his business and mess up his life, she had a kind of drive that he couldn’t help but admire. She wasn’t doing any of it just for herself, but for herself and everyone from her dead husband to his family to Ian…to his cranky, isolated father whom Ian had been absolutely determined not to be like…but was.

  It was when she defied her classy big sister and came back to his dusty little cabin that he fell. Aw, damn, what determination she had to be with him, to see it through, whatever it was she felt she had to do. Even she didn’t seem entirely sure what she was doing there—but she wasn’t ready to give up on him. And she had this insane idea that everything could be all right! Somehow, she was going to pull him back into the man he’d been to her dead husband; the brave leader, the fearless and committed man. Not someone who just dropped out of sight and isolated himself out of a kind of self-hatred. Into the man his father had never had the sense to be proud of.

  Oh, God, I can’t have turned into my father so soon!

  He forced his mind back to Travis Goesel, scanning the ground, the shrubs, the lower branches of the trees. He looked at the old watch that still worked. He’d been trekking without a sound from Jack for two hours and it was approaching four o’clock. They only had two more hours of daylight at the most, so he called, “Travis! Travis! Make a sound! Move something!”

  He walked a little faster, scanned the terrain with concentration, and it came to him that it was good to belong to something. Even though Jack was out of sight and the other men where on the west side of the farm, he felt as if he was a part of a unit of men who had a purpose again and, until Jack piled in the truck with him, he hadn’t felt that in a long time. He’d been so anxious to sever himself from the pain of war, he’d forgotten how much the pleasure of brotherhood filled his soul. This, he had to admit, had all occurred because this feisty little redhead had come into his life. She forced the issue. She pushed him out of his cocoon while he was still raw, growing new skin.

  If she’d left her disabled husband in the hands of his family three years ago to come after him, would she have succeeded in pulling him up out of his self-indulgent withdrawal any sooner? Probably not. He’d licked his wounds for such a long time that he got used to the taste of his self-pity.

  Ian grew wearily cold, craving long underwear. He’d been out in the woods for hours. He ate snow rather than drink the bottled water, in case he found the boy and needed it for him.

  Then he saw a smear of blood and some tracks, partially covered by a new blanket of snow. By the width and weight of the trail, it was the cat, wounded. He followed the trail just a short distance, realizing the cat was dragging itself heavily. A moment later Ian realized that Travis would have intelligently gone in the opposite direction to this bloodied trail. So Ian did also.

  Ian made it to the river and was looking left and right along the edge as night fell. He’d have to head back to the truck soon, at least to confer with Jack and discuss the plan for searching at night. Part of such a plan would have to include long underwear and dry socks. But he just couldn’t make himself stop.

  Darkness fell in earnest. He shone the flashlight on his watch and saw it was nearly six o’clock and he yelled for the millionth time. “Travis! Travis!”

  Then as the light from his flashlight fell upon the snow, he noticed a drop of blood here, a drop there. Travis was hurt and doing just what Ian expected a smart kid to do—he was following the river home. Using the flashlight to scan the ground as darkness thickened around him Ian saw something. Not far away from the river’s edge was a pile of dead pine needles and brush, covered with a little new snow. A mound. It didn’t look like much, but he gave it a slight kick with his boot and when some of the debris fell away, he saw a sleeve. He was instantly down on his knees, digging. In mere moments he uncovered a boy, his face white, his lips blue, his eyes closed. Ian shook him vigorously, not knowing if the boy was dead or alive.

  “Travis! Travis!”

  The boy’s eyes finally came open, and he blinked not knowing where he was. He smacked his dry lips. He looked up at Ian with a dazed expression. “Sorry…Dad…”

  “Aw, Jesus, Travis!” Ian said, relieved beyond words that the boy was alive. “You’re going to be okay, buddy.” Then he rolled him carefully onto his side and saw that the back of his jacket was shredded and he was bleeding. The damn cat had got him from behind but, thanks to Travis’s clothing, the mauling had not gone deep and, with the help of the snow, his bleeding had been stanched.

  “You get him, son?” Ian asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’m sorry, Dad.”

  He was delirious, probably more from cold than his injury. Thank God he’d buried himself under dead leaves and pine needles to preserve his body heat. “I’ll get you outta here, son, hang on,” Ian said, now running on automatic. He stood and fired twice into a thick tree—three shots were the signal that you were lost, two was a standard response from a search team, and one shot could be mistaken for a hunter. You never sent a bullet into the air with the possible outcome of it returning to earth to find a living person or innocent livestock.

  Then he put the rifle strap over his shoulder and scooped up Travis in his arms. Immediately he remembered doing the same for Bobby. But this time it was different—there was muscle tension in Travis’s body. He was responding to the pain, maybe from the cold, maybe from having a mountain lion’s claws in his back.

  “Wake up, Travis! Wake up! Did the cat get you, huh? Tell me,” he panted, walking as fast as he could. He hoped he wouldn’t fall. His torso was okay—he had on a T-shirt, sweatshirt and jacket, but his legs, knees and feet were now soaked with ice and snow. “You with me, buddy?”

  “Who…you…?”

  Ian laughed in spite of himself, just hearing the kid’s response. “Your guard
ian angel, my boy! You shoot at the cat?”

  “I…think…”

  “He left a bloody trail—you get a shot off?”

  “I…I couldn’t a hit ’im,” Travis answered, his tongue thick.

  “Yeah, bet you got lucky. He’s bleeding way worse than you. Good for you,” Ian said. “Talk. Keep talking. Tell me.”

  His speech was slurred and labored, but Travis did as ordered. “Got me…from…the tree…I saw him…I had him…bastard got Whip…”

  “Keep talking,” Ian said breathlessly, now laboring heavily under the weight of Travis combined with the difficulty of moving through the snow. “Almost there,” he said, but in fact, he wasn’t sure how far it was. He kept tromping. And tromping. But he knew the woods, knew the river’s edge that ran by his property. “Talk to me! Tell me about your girl!”

  And the boy tried. He named her—Felicity. Must be the next generation’s girls’ names, Ian thought, almost laughing if he’d had the breath. “Keep talking!” he demanded. “This Felicity, you in love with her or something?”

  “She’s a good girl…”

  “That bites,” Ian said. “Sucks she couldn’t be a bad girl. You don’t know, bud—those bad girls, they get right under your skin. She pretty?”

  “Pretty,” he said.

  “Atta boy, keep talking,” Ian said, laying the boy carefully on the ground. “I’m going to fire a couple shots to let them know we’re coming.” And Ian quickly put another two in a fat tree, just to be sure there was some backup on the way. The kid was in rough shape so, if he had to, he’d take him out of here and come back in the dark of night for Jack, but it would be better if—

  “Hey!” Jack shouted. “What you got?”

  “Your boy,” Ian said in a weak breath. Then he saw the truck about a hundred yards down the road.

  “Lemme help,” Jack shouted.

  “I’ve got him. You drive.”

  “I don’t know this road,” Jack said. “I can’t feel it.”

  Ian let a laugh erupt. “I fucking plowed it for you! Let’s get going!”

  When they got to the truck, Ian balanced Travis on his thighs and pulled the keys out of his pocket, pitching them to Jack. Then he climbed into the cab with a boy the size of a man on his lap. Travis’s head was lolling back and forth and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Before Jack had the key in the ignition, Ian had ripped open Travis’s jacket and shirt, tearing his undershirt open, then he did the same with his own three layers. He pressed Travis’s bare chest to his own and hugged his body close, warming him with his own body heat.

  Jack carefully turned the truck around and headed out. “The plow is down. Should I stop and put it up?”

  “Nah. The county should thank us.”

  “Could hurt the plow blade.”

  “Who cares?”

  “Where we headed?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know. We need medical help. You tell me. We can call his parents from wherever…”

  “Virgin River, I guess,” Jack said. “It’s just as quick to drive him straight to town where Mel and Doc can look at him as to call them from the farm. Besides, they have the Humvee ambulance. What’s his condition?”

  “He tried to bury himself to keep from freezing to death, and he did a good job of it. But another couple of hours and we’d be outta luck,” Ian said. He absorbed the boy’s cold into his body. “He also got mauled by the cat, but the temperatures were low and the bleeding doesn’t look serious—but then what do I know? Plow faster, huh?”

  “You got it, sir,” Jack said.

  Ian settled back in the seat and pressed Travis’s face against his bare shoulder, feeling his carotid pulse picking up as he held him chest to chest. Momentarily, he felt him stir on his lap. Within fifteen minutes the boy’s eyes had drifted open. Surprise dawned on his face. “Who are you?” he asked weakly.

  “The Christmas fairy,” Ian said. “You’re going to be okay, kid.” Ian pulled the bottle of water out of his jacket pocket and held it to Travis’s lips. “Take a little drink. Slow and easy.” Finished, Ian’s arms came around him tight, holding him against him. “I’m gonna get the heater fixed in this truck, if it’s the last I do. I think you got that cat, boy.”

  “I shot at him, but he still lunged at me and I butted him in the head hard as I could. He just ran…”

  “He was bleeding good. You must’ve hit him plenty hard.”

  “I didn’t get him,” he said slowly. “Scared him away long enough to bury myself.”

  “I had a dog,” Ian said. “My best friend for years. She used to sleep on my bed. She was a good dog…”

  “Whip was a good dog,” he said.

  Ian ruffled the kid’s hair. “I loved my dog. I’d have done the same as you. That cat’s a bad cat. I’ve seen it around.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  Ian nodded. “I should’ve killed it. This is my fault—I should’ve shot the cat. He had my girl trapped in the outhouse for hours, in the cold, but I shot over its head to run him off. I’m sorry, kid. I should’ve killed the cat.”

  “I should’ve, too,” the kid said, sleepily, laying his head against Ian’s shoulder.

  “Drink another couple swallows,” Ian said, holding up the water for him.

  A few minutes later Jack drove into Virgin River pounding the horn in long, urgent blasts that brought people out of the bar, including Mel and Doc Mullins. Jack pulled right up to the Hummer while Ian, bare-chested, carried Travis out of the truck and, as they were accustomed to doing, Mel and Doc sprang into action. They lifted the hatch on the Hummer, pulled out the gurney and Ian placed the boy there.

  After a quick check of his vitals, Ian told them about the lacerations on his back from the mountain lion he’d been tracking. Mel rolled him onto his side while Doc lifted the jacket and glanced at the injury. “Not so bad. Hypothermia. Melinda, you get in back—start an IV and get him warmed up while I drive. Valley Hospital can deal with this, no problem. The boy’s going to pull through fine.” To Jack he said, “Call the farm—tell his parents.”

  “Will do,” Jack said. “Then I’ll go out and fire a flare for Preacher, Mike, and the rest of the search party. You saying we’re home free?”

  “Good as it gets,” Doc said. “Come on, Melinda! You slowing down on me?”

  “Oh, shove it, you old goat,” she snapped, climbing in. “Jack—mind the baby.”

  He grinned largely. “You bet, my love.”

  Through it all Ian thought, I’m part of a unit. Even out here in the middle of nowhere, there were people to belong to. He’d always known that, but never thought he’d slip into their fold.

  Jack just stood there, looking at Ian. He lifted one brow. “Your girl, huh?” he asked.

  “I was just talking to the kid,” Ian said.

  “Uh-huh. You better head for home, pal.”

  Fifteen

  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.