A Virgin River Christmas

“Virgin River,” she said dreamily, eyes closed. “Ian, they have the most beautiful Christmas tree … You should see it …”

“Yeah, right. I’ll be an hour or so. The fire should more than last, but will you try to keep the blanket on? Till I get back?”

“I’m just too warm for it …”

“You won’t be in a half hour, when that aspirin kicks in and drops your temperature. Can you just do this for me?”

Her eyes fluttered open. “I bet you’re really pissed at me right now, huh? I just wanted to find you, not make so much trouble for you.”

He brushed that wild red hair off her brow where a couple of curly red tendrils stuck to the dampness on her face. “I’m not pissed anymore, Marcie,” he said softly. “When you’re all over this flu, I’ll give you what for. How’s that?”

“Whatever. You can howl at me with that big, mean animal roar if you want to. I have a feeling you like doing that.”

He grinned in spite of himself. “I do,” he said. “I do like it.” Then he stood and said, “Stay covered and I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

When Ian pulled into town, the first thing he saw was the tree. Somehow he thought she might’ve been hallucinating from the fever, which had scared the hell out of him. But there it was—biggest damn thing he’d ever seen. The bottom third was decorated with red-white-and-blue balls, gold stars and some other stuff; the top part was still bare. He actually slowed the truck for a moment, taking it in. But what was that patriotic color scheme about? Did they do this every winter? Did they have some town kids in the war?

He shook it off; he had to get something for Marcie. The old doc used to come out to his place when old Raleigh was at the end and real sick, years ago now. Ian had to use Raleigh’s ancient truck to fetch the doctor; Raleigh had never even considered a phone. And neither had Ian.

When he walked into the doc’s house, he saw a young blonde at the desk. “Hi, there,” she said. She stood up and he noted the pregnant tummy.

“Hey. Doc around?”

“Sure. I’ll get him for you. I’ve been here less than two years—does he know you?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

She smiled over her shoulder and went to Doc’s office. Momentarily, the old man was limping toward him, glasses perched on his nose, wild white eyebrows spiking. “Afternoon,” Doc said.

“Hey, Doc,” Ian said, putting out a hand. “Any chance you have anything on hand for a flu bug?”

“Sorry, son—I can’t remember the name. The face I know. You’re …”

“Buchanan. Ian Buchanan from out on Clint Mountain. The old Raleigh place. I was the one taking care of him at the end.”

“Right,” he said. “That’s right. What’s your complaint?”

“It’s not me, Doc. I’ve got a visitor who showed up yesterday and she took sick in the night. Fever, chills, aches, sore throat … I’m giving her aspirin and juice. I didn’t want to bring her out in this cold—the heater in the truck isn’t too good. But if you have any medicine—”

“I’m chock full of medicine, boy—but I usually like to make my own diagnosis.”

“It’s way out there—You remember.”

“Yeah, yeah, can’t hardly forget that old coot. No problem—I get around. Let me stock up a bag and I’ll follow you back. Most roads out that way are a goddamn mystery.”