“He’s actually very docile. Kind.”
“There are no beds!”
“I slept on a pallet on the floor for two years while I was remodeling this bar,” Jack put in. He scratched his chin. “Didn’t shave much either. Used Doc’s shower about once every three days or so. We’re kind of homespun around here.”
“But…But we’re not,” Erin said.
“Jack,” Marcie said. “Call the sheriff. I’m being kidnapped.”
“That wild-man look,” Jack told Erin. “Not unusual around here. Lotta farmers, loggers and ranchers don’t shave in winter. And they don’t usually wear Sunday best to chop wood or feed sheep. Ian Buchanan fits right in, and seems like a civil man. I wouldn’t worry.”
Marcie put her hand over Erin’s. “I’m going back and I want you to go home. I’ll call and check in, I promise. But I was just barely over being sick, just barely getting him to talk. I’m not done here.”
“Marcie—I don’t mean to sound cruel, baby, but you’re not the only one who lost Bobby. His family, me and Drew…”
“I know, I know. I’m not ignoring that, I promise. We’ll be together for Christmas. Please, Erin, don’t fight me. Let me do what I came to do. Then it’ll be done and I can move on.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Honest, I just have to feel like this is complete.”
“What?” Erin asked pleadingly, her voice a strained whisper. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish?”
Marcie shot a pleading glance at Mel.
Mel and Marcie connected eyes for a moment. Then Mel looked at her husband. “Jack, take Marcie back to Ian’s. Take David with you. I’ll tend the bar if anyone comes in, or I can call Preacher or Mike. I think Erin and I should talk a minute.”
Jack lifted one brow. “You sure?”
She just nodded and smiled. He leaned slowly across the bar and gave her a little kiss. “I’ll be back before the dinner crowd shows up.”
When Jack and Marcie had left, Mel went around behind the bar and poured two cups of coffee. “Cream or sugar?” she asked Erin.
“Both. Please. And I don’t think you even come close to realizing just how—”
“Almost three years ago, my first husband was murdered,” Mel said. With that, Erin stopped explaining herself any further. Mel cleared her throat. “I was a nurse practitioner and midwife in an urban trauma center—central L.A. Mark was an E.R. doc there. He was stopping off at a convenience store for milk for his cornflakes after pulling a thirty-six-hour call and there was a robbery in progress. He was shot. Killed.”
“I’m sorry,” Erin said softly.
“Thank you. At the time I really wanted my life to end with his. After several months passed and I couldn’t seem to get on with my life, I did the craziest thing—I took a job in this one-horse town for almost no money just because I had an instinct that it was different enough to jolt me into some kind of change. I have an older sister,” she added, smiling. “She thought I was completely nuts and was ready to kidnap me, drag me to her house to recover. Her way.”
Mel leaned toward Erin. “I’m kind of an expert at struggling to move on. It’s not easy and it’s almost never a clear path. But I can tell you this much—I believe it’s necessary to blaze your own trail. And I’m sure Marcie’s safe. I don’t know if Marcie will work it all out, but I don’t recommend getting in the way of a woman trying to settle her life into some kind of order. There are things she wants to understand. We’ll try to look out for her, as well.”
Erin sipped her coffee slowly. “I know there’s a message here, and I appreciate you being so candid, but with Marcie—”
“Yes, Erin—the message is—whatever she feels she has to do to get to that next stage might not make sense, might not work out, might not be practical or wise, but it’s what she thinks she has to do. I know you’re hurting, too—losing your brother-in-law, having Marcie out of reach right now—I’m so sorry. I remember my sister suffering so much when my husband died—she loved him like a brother. But at the end of the day, Marcie has to feel like she did what she had to do. For whatever reason, working something out with Ian seems to be it. Apparently it’s necessary for her. She’s been incredibly determined.”
“That’s true enough,” Erin said.
“I wouldn’t be having this talk with you if I thought there was any chance Marcie was even slightly at risk. Believe me, I serve the women of this town. I look out for them. Marcie hasn’t been real specific, but you and I both know what she’s after. She needs to understand why the man who saved her husband’s life would run away. Abandon him. Abandon her.”
“But what if he’s only going to do that to her again?” Erin asked, a very sad and concerned look crossing her features.
“That’s what she came to find out,” Mel said, and she reached across the bar and squeezed Erin’s hand. “Let her get to the last page on this story, sweetheart. It’s what she’s been needing, or she wouldn’t have gone through so much.”
“But—”
“We don’t have to agree or understand,” Mel said, shaking her head. “We just have to respect her wishes.” Then, very softly she said, “You have to go home. Let her finish what she came to do. You aren’t going to lose her.”
Erin blinked and a fat tear ran down her cheek. Erin never got choked up. “Do you think she knows how much I care about her? Love her?”
“She absolutely knows,” Mel said with a nod. “And you know what? When I see her next, which I’m sure will be soon, I’ll remind her.”
Back at the cabin Ian paced for nearly an hour. He hadn’t been nice to the sister and he regretted that. He could have tried harder with her, reassured her a little so she’d feel okay about Marcie being here. Instead he’d pushed them away.
He shouldn’t have let her stay in the first place, Ian thought. He should have told Mel it would be best to take Marcie back to town, to Doc’s. Damned little freckle-faced midget. There were a dozen things he didn’t like being reminded of. Like, he wasn’t a hermit—he was lonely. But he didn’t fit in most places, so he kept it to himself. Still, he hated not singing in church when singing felt so good. He didn’t like sitting alone in a bar, far in the corner, mute and unfriendly, trying to remain unapproachable. And he hadn’t had a good belly laugh in a long, long time. Until Marcie.
For the first time since he hit this county, he wanted things. Like soup bowls instead of mugs and cans to eat soup out of. Things he thought he didn’t need, like a few creature comforts. A radio. She was right—a person who loved music should hear some from time to time.
And he wanted someone to care enough about him to try to find him. He wanted someone to love him. It had been so long since anyone had loved him.
But the worst thing she’d made him realize was that this skinny little redhead had held up through Bobby’s devastating demise better than he had. And she’d had to work through it every day, every damn day, while he’d merely run away from it. I’m the weak one, he thought dismally, and she’s the one with the strength of a thousand soldiers.
He went to his trunk, dug deep, and brought out the stack of letters. He put them on the table under the light. Then he went to the cupboard, reached far into the back and located a bottle of Canadian Mist that had barely been tapped, putting it on the table with the letters. He found a glass, poured himself a shot and threw it back.
And then, without warning, the door to his cabin opened and she walked right in as if she owned the place. She toted all her gear: sleeping bag, duffel, backpack and purse, dropping it all where it had been previously stowed, at the foot of that sagging couch. He hoped all the hair on his face hid the elation that he could feel glow there. “I could’ve been naked,” he said.
She smiled and walked over to the table, pulled out the chair and sat down opposite him. “Ah yes—that would be the thrill of my life, right? We drinking tonight?”
“I decided it was cold enough for a shot.”
“Can I join you?”
“Your sister waiting outside?” he asked, getting up to find another glass. He turned up a plastic tumbler and gave it to her.
Marcie poured herself a little splash of the whiskey. “Nah. I sent her home. I had to promise to call every couple of days and get home by Christmas, so I guess I could be some trouble for you. I mean, some more trouble. Sorry.”
“What’s your mission here? Exactly? You think you’re going to straighten me out, clean me up presentable, do some kind of good deed?”
“Oh brother, are you ever feeling sorry for yourself. You probably shouldn’t drink if you’re that screwed up—this stuff is a depressant, you know.” He stiffened abruptly. “My mission, as you call it, is pretty simple. There are these stupid baseball cards. Bobby told me in letters that you were a collector, too—I brought them. Bobby’s cards.”
She went to her duffel, dug around and brought out an album in which Bobby’s collection was carefully preserved. She put it on the table.
“This is difficult to explain. For some reason, the idea of the two of you talking about these baseball cards in the middle of a war, in a desert, staying alert for bombs and snipers was something I never got over.” She took a breath. “I want you to understand—they’re hard to let go of, only because they were his. He thought they were awesome. He’d want you to have them.”
Ian didn’t touch the album. “Why didn’t you just give them to me right away?”
She sighed. “Because I was sick. And you didn’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think I could.” He stared down at the table for a moment, then lifted his eyes. “That’s it, then? The baseball cards?”
“There was a time, way back, when we wrote, kind of leaned on each other because Bobby got hurt. Then you dropped out of sight. Went missing. So, I came to meet you, or re-meet you, to thank you, make sure you were all right, tell you about your father. And, as it turns out, you seem to be fine. In some ways, better off than me. You live exactly as you like, talk to people when you want and seek solitude when it feels good, have a relationship with nature and aren’t burdened with worries or things. You don’t carry much of a load, on the outside at least—you have only what you need. And I don’t think you need cleaning up presentable. You look just fine.”
“You said I looked like a wild man.”
“You do.” She grinned at him. “I’m used to it now.”
“What were you going to thank me for?” he asked, replenishing his glass.
“You’re kidding, right? Come on! For saving Bobby’s life!”
“You shouldn’t do that. You shouldn’t even think that. I have a lot of regrets, kid, but that’s at the top of the list.”
“Saving him? Look, we’re all sorry he was so badly hurt, that he was a helpless invalid. Beyond anyone’s control…”
“You think so? Because I think maybe I knew,” he said. “I lifted him and he was limp and heavy. There was a split second when I faced a choice. There was no muscle tension in his body—he was nothing but dead weight. I could’ve put him down right where he was, covered his body with mine to keep him from getting hit worse and waited it out—the end. And then you wouldn’t have been saddled with the burden and pain you’ve had to carry for three years and he’d have been free. God, you were just a kid. And I knew Bobby didn’t want that life—men in combat talk about things like that. But I was selfish. I was thinking about myself—I acted the way I was trained to react, and I just couldn’t face letting him go. I was acting like I wanted to be a goddamn hero.”
