Excerpt of A Virgin River Christmas by Robyn Carr

Marcie Sullivan drove into the small town, her sixth small
mountain town of the day, and found herself face-to-face
with a Christmas-tree trimming. The assembled staff didn't
look big enough for the job—the tree was enormous.

She pulled up beside a large cabin with a wide porch, parked
her Volkswagen and got out. There were three women at work
on a Christmas fir that stood about thirty feet. One was
about Marcie's age, with soft brown hair and she held an
open box, perhaps containing ornaments. One woman was old,
with springy white hair and black-framed glasses, who
pointed upward, as if someone had put her in charge, and the
third was a beautiful blonde at the top of a tall, A-frame
ladder.

The tree stood between the cabin and an old boarded-up
church with two tall steeples and one stained-glass window
still intact—a church that must have once been a beautiful
structure.

While Marcie watched the trimming, a man came out onto the
cabin's porch, stopped, looked up and cursed, then took long
strides to the base of the ladder. 'Don't move. Don't
breathe,' he said in a low, commanding voice. He took the
rungs every other one, climbing quickly until he reached the
blonde. Then he slipped an arm around her, somewhere above
what Marcie realized must be a little pregnant bulge and
beneath her breasts and said, 'Down. Slowly.'

'Jack!' she scolded. 'Leave me alone!'

'If I have to, I'll carry you down. Back down the ladder,
slowly. Now.'

'Oh for God's—'

'Now' he said evenly, fiercely.

She began to descend, one rung at a time between his big,
sturdy feet, while he held her safe against him. When they
got to the bottom, she put her hands on her hips and glared
up at him. 'I knew exactly what I was doing!'

'Where is your brain? What if you fell from that height?'

'It's an excellent ladder! I wasn't going to fall!'

'You're psychic, too? You can argue all you want, I'mnot
letting you that high up a ladder in your condition,' he
said, his hands also on his hips. 'I'll stand guard over you
if I have to.' Then he looked over his shoulder at the other
two women.

'I told her I thought you wouldn't like that,' the
brown-haired one said with a helpless shrug.

He glared at the white-haired woman. 'I don't get into
domestic things. That's your problem, not mine,' she said,
pushing her big glasses up on her nose.

And Marcie became homesick. So homesick. It had only been a
few weeks that she'd been driving around this area, but she
missed all the family squabbles, the tiresome complications.
She missed her girlfriends, her job. She longed for her
bossy older sister's interference, her goofy younger brother
and whatever current girlfriend was shadowing him. She
missed her late husband's large, fun, passionate family.

She hadn't made it home for Thanksgiving—she'd been afraid to go for even a day or two, afraid she'd never pry herself out of Erin's grip a second time. Home was Chico, California, just a few hours away, but no one—not her brother and sister, not Bobby's family—thought what she was doing a good idea. So, she'd been calling, lying and saying she had tips about Ian and was close to finding him. Every time she called, at least every other day, she said she was getting closer when really, she wasn' t. But she was not ready to quit.

But one problem was looming large—she was just about out of
money. She'd been sleeping in her car lately rather than in
motels, and it was getting uncomfortable as the temperatures
dropped in the mountains. At any moment snow would be
falling now that it was early December, or rain could turn
to sleet and that little VeeDub could sail off the
mountainside like a missile.

She'd just hate to go home with this mission incomplete.
More than anything, she wanted to see it through. If she
wasn't successful now, she'd only go home to earn a little
money and then do it all again. She just couldn't give up on
him. On herself.

They were all looking at her. She pushed her wildly curly,
out of control, bright red hair over one shoulder nervously.

'I… Ah… I could go up there, if you want. I'm not afraid of
heights or anything…'

'You don't have to go up the ladder,' the pregnant blonde
said, and her voice had softened considerably. She smiled
sweetly.

'I'll go up the ladder,' the man said. 'Or I'll get someone to go up the goddamn ladder, but it's not you.'

'Jack! Be polite!'

He cleared his throat. 'Don't worry about the ladder,' he
said more calmly. 'Anything we can do for you?'

'I… Ah…' She walked toward them. She pulled a picture out of
the inside of her down vest and extended it toward the man.
'I'm looking for someone. He dropped out of sight just over
three years ago, but I know he's around here somewhere. He
seems to be taking mail at Fortuna Post Office general
delivery.'

She passed the picture to the man. 'Jesus,' he said.

'You know him?' she asked hopefully.

'No,' he said, shaking his head. 'No, I don't, and that's
strange. The guy's a marine,' he said, studying the picture
of a man in uniform. It was Ian's official Marine Corps
portrait, a handsome man all clean shaven and trussed up in
dress blues, hat and medals. 'I can't believe there's a
marine within fifty miles of here I don't at least know about.'

'He might be keeping that fact to himself—he and the Marine
Corps had a troubled relationship at the end. So I've heard…'

He looked back at her face and his expression was much more
tender. 'I'm Jack Sheridan,' he said. 'My wife, Mel. That's
Paige,' he said, nodding toward the younger woman. 'And Hope
McCrea, town busybody.' He put out his hand to Marcie.

She placed hers in his. 'Marcie Sullivan,' she said.

'Why are you looking for this marine?' Jack asked.

'Long story,' she said. 'A friend of my late husband. I'm
sure he doesn't look like this anymore—he had some injuries.
There's a scar down his left cheek and on that same side, no
eyebrow. And he probably has a beard. He did the last time
he was seen, about three or four years ago.'

'No shortage of beards around here,' Jack said. 'Lumber
country—men get a little scruffy-looking sometimes.'

'But he could've changed in other ways, too. Like— he's
older. Thirty-five now—that picture was taken when he was
twenty-eight.'

'Friend of your husband's? From the Corps?' Jack confirmed.

'Yes,' she said. 'I'd like to find him. You know— because
he's been out of touch for a long time.'

Jack seemed to think while he studied the face in the
picture. It was several silent moments before he said, 'Come
on into the bar. Have a bite, a beer maybe, or whatever you
like. Tell me a little about him and why you want to find
him. How's that?'

'The bar?' she said, looking around.

'It's a bar and grill,' he said with a smile. 'Food and
drink. We can eat and talk.'

'Oh,' she said. Her stomach growled angrily. It was late in
the day, about four o'clock, and she hadn't eaten yet, but
she was saving her money for the gas tank and she figured
she could forget about food a while longer. Maybe she'd get
something real, real cheap to tide her over, like a loaf of
day-old bread to go with that half a jar of peanut butter in
the car…. Then, she'd find a safe spot to park and button
down for the night. 'A glass of water would be really
welcome—I've been driving around for hours, showing his
picture to anyone who will take a look. But I'm not hungry.'

'Got lots of water,' Jack said with a smile. He put a hand
on her shoulder and started to direct her toward the porch
of the bar, but then he stopped suddenly. His brows drew
together in a frown. 'Go ahead,' he said to her. 'I'm right
behind you.'

Marcie walked up on the porch and turned to see what he was
doing. He was confiscating the ladder so his pregnant wife
wouldn't climb it again, that's what he was doing. It was a
jackknife kind of affair that could be a short or tall
A-frame ladder, and he collapsed it, folded it up until he
could lift it with one hand. It was about six feet long
dismantled and he carried it right into the bar. Behind him,
Marcie heard his wife yell, 'You're a bossy pain in the ass!
When did I ever indicate I'd take my orders from you?'

Jack didn't say anything back, but he grinned as though
she'd just thrown him a kiss. 'Hop up there,' he said to
Marcie, indicating the bar. 'I'll be right back.' And he
carried the ladder through a door behind the bar.

She took a deep breath and thought, Oh hell—I'm not going to
be able to survive the aromas! Her stomach made itself heard
again and she put a hand against her belly, pushing.
Something in the kitchen was sending out waves of delicious
smells—something simmering, rich, hot and thick, like beefy,
seasoned soup; fresh bread; something sweet and chocolate.

And when the man named Jack came back, he was carrying a
tray with a steaming bowl on it. He put everything in front
of her; chili, corn bread and honey butter, a small bowl of
salad. 'Gee, um, sorry,' she said. 'Really, I'm not hungry…'

He drew a cold draft and her mouth actually watered.
Gratefully she didn't drool on the bar. She swallowed hard.
She had about thirty bucks and didn't want to waste it on a
fancy meal, not when she needed every cent for gas to hit
all these little mountain towns.

'Fine, then you'll only eat what you want,' he said. 'Just
have a taste. I showed the picture to Preacher, my cook. He
hasn't seen the guy either. We'll check with Mike—he's the
town cop and gets around all the back roads, just to know
who's out there—maybe he'll have a tip or two. They're also
marines.'

'Where exactly am I?' she asked.

'Virgin River,' he said. 'Population six hundred
twenty-seven at last count.'

'Ah, that made the map.'

'I should hope so—we're a screaming metropolis compared to a
lot of small towns out here. Just try it,' he said, nodding
at the bowl.

Her hand trembled a little as she picked up the spoon and
sampled some of the finest chili she'd ever eaten. It melted
in her mouth, and she actually sighed.

'Made with venison,' he said. 'We got a nice buck a couple
months ago and when that happens, we have some of the best
chili, stew, burgers and sausage in the world, for months.'
He patted a big jar of jerky that rested on the bar.
'Preacher makes some unbelievable venison jerky, too.'

Her eyes watered—the food was so good. Despite all her
promises to Erin and Drew, she hadn't been eating well or
playing it carefully, scrimping on food and sleeping in the
car. When Erin saw the way her jeans were hanging off her
little frame, the shit was going to hit the fan.

'Want to tell me a little about our guy, between bites?'
Jack asked.

Oh, what the hell, Marcie thought. She hadn't had a really
good hot meal in days, and once she was out of money there
would be no choice but to go home. She'd just have to spend
a little of that money, maybe leave the mountains a day
earlier than she wanted to. She had to eat, for God's sake!
Couldn't hardly perform a manhunt without food!

She took a couple of quick bites to beat back the worst of
her ravenous hunger, then a sip of that icy beer to wash it
down. It was heaven, pure heaven. 'His name's Ian Buchanan.
We came from the same town, but didn't know each other
growing up, even though Chico's small—only about fifty
thousand. Ian's eight years older than we are. Were. My
husband and I, we grew up together, went through high school
together and got married real young, at nineteen. Bobby went
into the Marine Corps right out of high school.'

'So did I,' Jack said. 'Did twenty. What was your husband's
name?'

'Bobby Sullivan. Robert Wilson Sullivan. Any chance…?'

'I don't recall a Bobby Sullivan or an Ian Buchanan. Got a
picture of your husband?'

She reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a wallet,
flipped it open and turned it to face Jack. There were
several pictures in the clear plastic sleeves. She ate while
Jack flipped through—the nineteen-year-olds' wedding
picture, Bobby's official Marine Corps portrait—a
fine-looking young man, a beautiful man. There were a couple
of casual shots showing off his strong profile, powerful
shoulders and arms, and then the last one—Bobby, almost
unrecognizable, thin, gaunt, pale, eyes open but unfocused,
in a raised hospital bed, Marcie sitting beside him,
cradling his head against her shoulder, smiling.

Jack lifted his gaze from the pictures and looked at her
solemnly. She put the spoon in the chili and patted her lips
with the napkin. 'He went over to Iraq in the first wave,'
she said. 'He was twenty-two. Twenty-three when he was
wounded. Spinal cord injury and brain damage. He spent over
three years like that.'

'Aw, kid,' Jack said, his strong voice weak. 'Must'a been
awful hard…'

She blinked a few times, but her eyes didn't tear up. Yeah,
there were times it was terrible, times it was
heartbreaking, even times she resented the hell out of what
the Marine Corps left her to deal with at her young age.
There were also times she'd lie beside him in bed, pull him
into her arms, press her lips against his cheek and just
hold them there, remembering. 'Yeah, sometimes,' she
answered. 'We got by. There was a lot of support. My family
and his family. I wasn't in it all alone.' She swallowed.
'He didn't seem to be in pain.'

'When did he pass?' Jack asked.

'Almost a year ago, right before Christmas. Quietly. Very
quietly.'

'My condolences,' Jack said.

'Thank you. He served with Ian. Ian was his sergeant. Bobby
loved him. He wrote me about him all the time, called him
the best sergeant in the Corps. They became good friends
almost right away. Ian was the kind of leader who was right
in it with his men. Bobby was so happy that Ian turned out
to be from our hometown. They were going to be pals forever,
long after they were out of the Corps.'

'I went to Iraq right away, too. Went the first time, too. I
was probably there at the same time. Fallujah.'

'Hmm. That's where it happened.'

Jack shook his head. 'I'm so goddamn sorry.' Jack slid the
wallet back. 'That why you're looking for Buchanan? To tell
him?'

'He might already know—I wrote to him a lot. Care of general
delivery in Fortuna. The letters didn't come back, so I
assume he picked them up.'