A Virgin River Christmas

“Don’t you miss him?” she asked. “Wonder what’s become of him?”



“Not on your life,” he said. “He’s the one burned his bridges and run off.”



But when he said that, there was wet in the folds under his old eyes and she thought: He can’t give much more than this, but he would love to see his son once more, or at least know he was all right. Wouldn’t he?



Ian’s former fiancée, Shelly, was still angry about the way she’d been abandoned, even though she’d married someone else three years ago and was pregnant now with her first baby. She had not a kind or sympathetic word for the man who’d run through sniper fire, taken injuries to save a comrade, won both a Bronze Star and Purple Heart. She pretty much hated Ian for the way he’d dumped her and bolted. A thought came to Marcie—if Shelly was happy with her life now, why would Ian’s obvious troubles cause her such prolonged hate? Couldn’t she see how war would shift his thinking, cause his emotional confusion? After having a life-limited husband for so long—a hopeless invalid who couldn’t even smile at her—giving a little patience and understanding to a man who’d been through a lot of trauma seemed a small thing.



But, Marcie had reminded herself, I don’t know the weight of anyone else’s burdens—only my own. She didn’t judge. She didn’t feel smart or strong enough to judge.



It was beyond important to Marcie to look at Ian’s face and ask him how he could save her beautiful young husband’s life and then never respond to her letters.



Maybe Ian couldn’t give her answers that would make everything feel settled for her, and to that end, she thought it made sense for them to talk about it. Talk it through. They called it “closure” in the shrink club.



As she pulled up to a small, roughly hewn house, she caught sight of a man coming around the corner, his arms laden with firewood. He was clean shaven but stooped, his legs bowed with age, his head bald. He stopped walking when he saw her. She got out of her car, then went toward him. “Afternoon, sir,” she said.



He put down the logs and the scowl on his face said he was suspicious of her.



“I wonder if you might be able to help me. I’m looking for someone.” She pulled the photo out again. “This was taken about seven years ago, so he’s obviously aged and I hear he’s got a beard now, but the rumor is, he’s living somewhere out in these hills. I’m trying to find him. Thirty-five years old, big man—I think he’s over six feet.”



The man took the photo in his bent, arthritic fingers. “You family?” he asked.



“More or less,” she said. “He and my husband were good friends in the Marines. I should tell him, my husband passed.”



“Ain’t seen him. Ain’t seen no one looks like that, anyway.”



“But what if he was kind of gone to seed?” she said. “I mean, older, maybe heavier, bearded, maybe bald, maybe has a pot belly or is way too thin—who knows?”



“He grow weed?” the man asked, handing her back the picture.



“I don’t know,” she answered.



“Only folks I know around here about that age grow pot. And even if he’s family, you might wanna cut him a wide berth. There’s trouble around the growers sometimes.”



“I heard that, yeah. Still—you know anybody like that I should just have a look at? Just to rule them out? I’ll be real careful.”



“There’s a guy up on the ridge, kind of hard to find. Could be twenty, could be fifty, but he’s got a beard and he’s good-sized. You’d have to go back where you came, down 36 a mile or so and then up again. It’s a dirt road, but halfway up the hill there’s an iron gate. It ain’t never been locked because you can’t see the gate or the house from the main road. Only reason I know about it, is a guy I used to know lived up there in one room. Nice big room, though. He’s been gone a couple years at least. Guy who lives there now was with him at the end.”



“How will I know what road?”



He shrugged. “No markers. It goes right and about a half mile up, you’ll either come to a gate or turn around and try the next road.”



“You want to come with me maybe? Show me where? And I’ll bring you back?”



“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I got no business with him. He’s odd. Talks to hisself, whistles and sings before the sun’s up. And he thinks he’s a bear.”



“Huh?”



“Heard him roar like an animal when I was out near his place. You prob’ly ought to just let him be.”



“Sure,” she said, tucking her picture away. “Right. Thanks.”



And off she went, encouraged about another whack job who almost fit the description. It was hardly the first time; she’d been to VA outreach, homeless shelters in Eureka, hospitals, the Gospel Mission. She’d followed bums down alleys and country roads, traipsed around the forest, met up with ranch hands and lumberjacks. But it was never him; no one had heard of Ian Buchanan. All she’d have to do was look into the eyes.



She’d never forget his eyes. They were brown, same shade as his brown hair, except they had a ton of amber in them. She’d seen them both soft and almost reverent, and then fierce and angry—all in the space of fifteen minutes—the one and only time he’d come to see Bobby. Ian was on leave and Marcie had brought Bobby home to Chico to care for him while they waited on a facility that could take him. She watched as Ian ran his huge hand over Bobby’s brow and head, murmuring, “Aw, buddy…Aw, buddy…” Of course Bobby didn’t respond; he had been unresponsive since the injury. Then, after a few moments of that, he turned almost-wild eyes on her and the gold in them flashed. “I shouldn’t have let this happen to you. This is wrong, this is all wrong.”



Ian’s visit had come five months after Bobby was wounded in Fallujah and it lasted less than half an hour. She always thought he’d be back, but that was it. She’d never seen him since.



If he’d read her letters, he would know that, soon after his one visit, they’d moved Bobby into a nursing home. Over time, she felt Bobby had had some recognition—there were times he’d turn his head, seem to look at her, even move his head closer as if nuzzling her, then close his eyes as though he knew she was there, as though he could smell her, feel her. She might’ve been the only one to think that way, but she believed that, somewhere inside that completely incapacitated body, he lived a little bit, knew he was with his wife and family, knew he was loved. Whether that was enough for a life, she didn’t know. His family wanted the feeding tube pulled so that he’d die, but she couldn’t do that. Ultimately, she took peace in the fact that it wasn’t up to her, she wasn’t in charge. Her job was to stay with him, do her best to comfort and love him, make sure he had everything he needed. She wasn’t a real religious person and she rarely went to church. She prayed when she was afraid or in trouble, and forgot when things were going all right. But beneath it all, she believed God would take Bobby home when it was his time. And what would be, would be.



What had been, had been.



It was her fourth little dirt road that finally presented a gate, and she sighed in audible relief because her little bug was churning, burning oil, straining over the bumps and up the steep grades. The gate wasn’t closed and she pressed on further, praying it wasn’t going to be far. And who knew how far it actually was? She was only going ten miles an hour. By the time she got close enough to spot a small house with an old pickup parked outside, it was growing late in the afternoon. This time of year, dark would descend before long.



Marcie was tired enough that she never gave a thought to what she would do if this turned out to be him; it had not been him so many times. She pulled right up to the house and gave the horn a toot, the country way of announcing yourself. Mountain people didn’t have doorbells. They could be inside or out in the yard or woods or somewhere down by the stream. The only way they knew there was a visitor is if someone hollered, shot off a gun or blasted the horn. Poor little VeeDub didn’t have a blast, but a pathetic bleep.



She got out and looked around. The house, a cabin really, had to be more than fifty years old. It looked as though it might have once been painted orange, a long, long time ago. The land around it was cleared of trees and there was a large stack of logs under a tarp near the house, but no corral or livestock or barn. No porch; the windows were small and high. There was a small chimney, an outhouse and a storage shed that might’ve measured eight by ten. How does a person live out here like this, so far from humanity, so far from all conveniences?



She would go to the door in a minute, but she waited to see if the guy who lived here showed himself first. She should’ve been all spooled up, hopeful. But hell, she’d totally lied to Erin and Drew—no one had sighted Ian and she’d talked to dozens if not hundreds of people, in the towns, in the country, in the mountains. She was just plain tired and ready to eat the rest of that sandwich and more potato salad, hit a gas station bathroom and find a place to park for the night.



Then he came around the corner of his house with an ax in his hand. He was scary-big, his shoulders were very broad and his beard was bushy and reached inches below his chin. He wore a dirty tan jacket that was frayed at the hem and sleeves; some of the plaid lining was torn and hanging out. His boots had worked hard; his pants were patched on the knees. At first glance, she thought, damn, not Ian. The beard was burnished red, though the hair on his head was brown—long and tied back into a ponytail—and he had both eyebrows, so it couldn’t be him. “Hi,” she said. “Sorry, don’t mean to bother you, but…”



He took several long strides toward her, an angry scowl on his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”



She looked way up into those eyes and the amber came alive in them, on fire, glowing. Dear Jesus in heaven, it was him.



She took a step forward, stunned. “Ian?”



“I said, what the hell are you doing here?”



“I’ve been…I was…I’m looking for you. I’m—”



“I know who you are! Now you found me, so you can go away.”



“Wait! Now I’ve found you, we should talk.”



“I don’t want to talk!”



“But wait—I want to tell you about Bobby. He’s gone. He passed away. Almost a year ago now. I wrote you!”



He pinched his eyes closed and stood perfectly still for a long moment, his arms stiff at his sides and fists balled. Pain. It was pain and grief she saw.



“I wrote you—”



“Okay,” he said more softly. “Message delivered.”



“But Ian—”



“Go home,” he said. “Get on with your life.” Then he turned and walked into the little cabin and slammed the door.



For a moment, Marcie just stared at the cabin, at the closed door. Then she looked over the ridge to see the sun lowering. Then at her watch. It was only five o’clock and she was standing at the top of a hill, so the descending sun was giving them a little more daylight on this December afternoon. If she were down the mountain, the tall trees combined with sunset would have already plunged her into near darkness.



She didn’t relish having unfinished business between them after dark, but after all she’d been through, she wasn’t about to let him get away now. She took a few deep breaths, remembered that he was probably just troubled and not crazy, and stomped toward the house. She rapped on the door. Then she moved back a few steps to be safe.



The door jerked open and he glowered at her. “What do you want?”



“Hey! Why are you mad at me? I just want to talk to you.”



“I don’t want to talk,” he said, pushing the door closed.