Robyn Carr
Author Book List

So she’s hitting the pause button on her life and holing up
in a secluded (but totally upgraded, she’s not into roughing
it) cabin near Virgin River. Erin is looking forward to
really getting to know herself...not some shaggy-haired
mountain man she meets wandering the woods.

In fact, beneath his faded fatigues and bushy beard, Aiden
Riordan is a doctor, recharging for a summer after leaving
the Navy. He’s intrigued by the pretty, slightly snooty
refugee from the rat race — meditating, journaling and
definitely keeping him at arm’s length. He’d love to get
closer...if his scruffy exterior and crazy ex-wife don’t
hold him back.

But maybe it’s something in the water — unlikely romances
seem to take root in Virgin River...helped along with some
well-intentioned meddling, of course.

Excerpt

Chapter One

In the two weeks Aiden Riordan had been in Virgin River,
he’d hiked over a hundred miles through the mountains, the
valleys, along the Pacific coast, and grown himself a pretty
hefty dark red beard. With his jet black hair and brows,
this legacy of his ancestors gave him a wild look. His four
year old niece, Rosie, who sported a full head of red curls
to go with her green eyes had said, “Unca Aid! You’re a Wide
Iwish Rose, too!”

The June sun beat down on him. He wore fatigue pants, hiking
boots and a tan tee shirt with salty perspiration rings
under the arms. He was wet down his chest and back and
smelled pretty ripe. He carried a camouflage backpack for
protein bars and water and strapped to his belt, a machete
for clearing any brush that got in his way. He had a ball
cap on his head and his black hair had already started to
curl out from under the edges. A four foot tall walking
staff had become his constant companion and since a chance
encounter with a too-confident mountain lion, he now carried
a bow and quiver of arrows. Of course if he ran into a real
cranky bear, he could be toast.

He wandered up a winding dirt road. It could be someone’s
driveway or an abandoned logging road, he was never sure
which. He was aiming for a ridge he’d seen from below. At
the end of the drive, he came face to face with what
appeared to be an abandoned cabin. Experience had taught him
the difference—if the path to the outhouse facilities was
overgrown and it was especially run down, it was probably
vacant. There were no guarantees on that, however. He’d made
that assumption once and an old woman leveled a shot gun at
him and told him to scram. He gave the place a wide berth
and walked through the woods towards the ridge.

Of course there was no path; he used the machete to chop
away some of the overgrowth. He came out of the other side
to the most amazing, intoxicating sight. A woman wearing
very short khaki shorts was bent over at the edge of her
deck, backside pointed right at him. Even given his
expertise in that department, he couldn’t tell her age, but
that was one beautiful booty on top of a couple of
magnificent, long, tan legs. By the collection of ceramic
pots and a watering can on the deck, he assumed she was
potting plants. One flower pot was balanced on the deck rail
above her. She appeared to be digging in the earth, scooping
dirt into a big pot.

He did know a couple of things. That butt and those legs
belonged to someone under the age of fifty and there didn’t
appear to be a shotgun in sight. So, he chopped his way
through the trees intending to say a friendly hello.

Still bent over, she looked at him through her legs. A
beautiful blond, which made him smile, showing all his
glaringly white teeth like a slash in his red beard. And she
let out a huge, blood curdling scream, straightened
abruptly, hit her head on the deck rail, knocking off a
ceramic pot, which hit her on the noggin. And down she went.
Splat.

“Damn,” he muttered, running toward her as fast as he could.
He dropped the machete and staff about halfway to her.

Aiden pressed his hand over her cut to stanch the bleeding.
With his other hand, he pulled out his handkerchief, which
was thankfully clean. He replaced his hand with the white
hanky, pressing down. She moaned a bit, but didn’t open her
eyes. With his thumb, he peeled back her lids one at a time;
her pupils were equal and reactive to light, a good sign so far.

While applying pressure to the wound, Aiden shrugged off his
backpack, quiver and bow. Then he scooped her up in his arms
and carried her across the deck and through the French doors
that were standing open, into the cabin. “Anybody home?” he
called as he walked inside. Since there was no answer, he
assumed the woman lived here alone and that the big Lincoln
SUV was hers.

The leather sofa looked like a good bet—better than a bed or
even what appeared to be a very new and expensive designer
area rug and not something she’d want to bleed on. He placed
her carefully on the couch, her head slightly elevated.

He looked around. From the outside, it looked like an
ordinary old cabin with new siding and a freshly painted,
covered, railed deck with chairs. Inside it was a richly
furnished, very classy showplace.

He gingerly lifted the handkerchief; the bleeding had slowed
to a trickle. There was blood on her white tee shirt,
however. The first matter at hand was ice, then a bandage of
some kind. He was in a large combination
living/dining/kitchen. A table sat in front of the opened
French doors out of which he now saw the view he’d been in
search of. He’d been so taken with that fine butt, he hadn’t
noticed the cabin was built right on the ridge.

Aiden looked around for a phone, but didn’t see one. Then he
washed his hands and rummaged through the freezer for ice,
which he wrapped in a couple of dish towels—one for the
front of her head, one for the back. The dish towels still
had price tags from Williams-Sonoma on them. He propped her
head against one ice pack and laid the other on her
forehead. Even the application of cold didn’t rouse her, so
off he went in search of a bandage.

The kitchen was on the west end of the cabin but on the
opposite side were two doors. The one on the left led to a
good sized bedroom and on the right, a large bathroom.
Inside the bathroom, the most obvious place to find first
aid supplies, a door connected the bedroom to the bath.

And sure enough, under the sink, a blue canvas zipper bag
with First Aid emblazoned in white on the canvas. He grabbed
it and hurried back to her. In his experienced hands, it
took only seconds to apply a little anti-bacterial cream and
a butterfly to close the wound, covered by a band aid. He
reapplied the ice pack.

The next immediate order of business was getting her to an
emergency room for a head CT; the loss of consciousness
after a blow to the head could mean trouble. The longer she
stayed unconscious, the more it concerned him, but he had
moved fast—she hadn’t been out more than a couple of minutes
so far. He saw a purse on the kitchen counter and went to
rifle through it for a phone, car keys, ID, anything. He
unceremoniously dumped the contents and was bent over the
counter, sifting through the loose contents, when a loud
shriek rent the air. His head came up sharply and he whacked
the cupboards that hung over the counter. “Ah!” he yelled,
grabbing the back of his head. He pinched his eyes closed
hard, trying to get a grip through blinding pain.

But she continued to scream.

He turned toward her. She was scooting away from him on the
leather couch, screaming her head off, her ice packs spilled
to the floor.

“Get out of here!” she commanded. “I’ll call the police!”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Great idea. Where’s
the phone?” He lifted a cell phone from the contents of the
purse. “This one has no signal.”

“What are you doing here? Why are you in my house? In my purse?”

He walked toward her, her purse hanging in his hand. “I saw
you hit your head. I brought you inside and put ice and a
bandage on it, but now we have to–”

“I didn’t hit you—apparently I startled you when I came out
of the forest and you jumped; you hit the back of your head
on the porch rail and one of your pots fell on your head. I
think you got the cut on your forehead when you hit the deck
on the way down. Now where’s the phone?”

“Oh God,” she said, her fingers going to the bandage,
gingerly touching it. “The phone’s going to be installed
tomorrow. Along with my satellite dish. So I can have
internet and watch movies.”

“That isn’t going to help much. Listen, it’s a small cut.
Head wounds bleed a lot. I doubt it’ll even leave a scar.
But losing consciousness is--”

“I’ll give you money if you just won’t hurt me.”

“I bandaged your head, for God’s sake! I’m not going to hurt
you and I don’t want money!” He lifted the purse in his
hand. “I was looking for your car keys—you need an x-ray.
Maybe a couple of stitches.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice quivering.

He sighed. “Because you lost consciousness—not a good sign.
Now, where are your keys?”

“Why?” she asked again.

“I’m going to drive you to the emergency room so you can get
your head examined!”

“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll drive myself. You can just go
now. Right now.”

He took a couple of steps toward her. He crouched so he
wouldn’t be looking down at her, but didn’t get too close
because he wasn’t sure of her. She appeared to be a bit
unstable. Or maybe scared of him? He tried to put himself in
her position—she woke up with blood on her shirt, a wild man
plowing through the contents of her purse. “What’s your
name?” he asked softly.

She looked at him doubtfully. “Erin,” she finally said.

“Well, Erin, it isn’t a good idea for you to drive yourself.
If you have a serious or even semi-serious head injury, you
could lose consciousness again, get dizzy or disoriented,
get sick, suffer blurred vision, any number of things. Now
try not to be nervous—I’ll take you to the ER. Once I get
you there, you can call a friend or family member. I’ll have
someone pick me up.”

He stood up. “I’m not homeless! I was hiking through the woods!”

She looked over her shoulder. There was a hook by the door;
her keys dangled from it. “How do you know that stuff? About
brain swelling?”

“I was an EMT in college—a long time ago,” he said, which
was the truth. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t just tell her he
was a physician. Maybe because he sure didn’t look like one
at the moment. In fact, as she had pointed out, he looked
like a homeless guy. But there was also the fact that his
area of expertise was a long way from the head—and he didn’t
feel like getting into that. She was already spooked. Being
spooked didn’t stop her from being bossy and bitchy,
however. His head hurt, too. He was fast losing patience
with this patient. “Now let’s gather up your ice and little
towels and hit the road.”

“If you turn out to be some kind of homicidal maniac, you’re
going to have one pissed off ghost on your hands,” she
threatened, stooping to gather her ice off the floor. When
she straightened, she wobbled slightly. “Whoa.”

He was beside her instantly, arm around her waist, steadying
her. “You took a mean knock on the head, kid. This is why
you’re not driving.”

He walked her outside, grabbing the keys and slamming the
door on the way out. That was the first time he realized
that the west side of the house with a deck faced the ridge,
but the front of the house faced the road. He had to lift
her into the front seat and help her arrange the ice in the
dish towels so she could put them against her lumps. He
noticed that she wrinkled her nose; okay, so it was
obvious—he might’ve generated a little body odor.

“I need my purse,” she said. “My insurance cards and ID.”

“I’ll get it,” he said. “I have to close the doors to the
deck anyway.” But he took the car keys with him, for safety
reasons. He scraped the contents off the counter and back
into her purse; he put the purse in her lap. Then he got in
and started driving. “You might have to give me some
directions, I’m not from around here.”

She groaned and dropped her head back. “I’m not from around
here either.”

“Never mind, I can fake it,” he said. “I can find highway 36
from Virgin River. What are you doing here, if you’re not
from around here?”

“Taking a break from work and having solitude,” she
answered, exasperation in her voice. “Then Charles Manson
came through the trees, carrying a three foot long knife,
and startled me. So much for peace and quiet.”

“Come on—I let my beard grow, that’s all. I’m on vacation
and didn’t feel like shaving, so sue me.”

“As it happens, I could. I’ve been known to sue people on
occasion.”

He laughed. “I should’ve known. A lawyer. And by the way, I
was carrying a machete for cutting away the brush so I could
get through the woods when there’s no path.”

“Visiting family. I have a brother who lives around here. He
and his wife are getting ready to be parents for the first
time and I’m... I’m...” He cleared his throat. “Let’s just
say I’m between jobs.”

She laughed. “Unemployed. Big surprise. Let me guess—you’ve
been between jobs for a while now.”

“You know, if you cleaned up a little, you might be able to
land a job,” she advised very sagely.

“I’ll certainly take that into consideration.”

“The beard is a little crazy,” she said. “It’ll put off
potential employers.” Then under her breath she added, “Not
to mention the smell...”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Although my niece likes it.” He
turned to peer at her. “The beard, that is.”

“A different brother’s child likes it.”

“Ah, so you have more than one brother. Just out of
curiosity, what do your brothers think of this lifestyle?
This... um... between jobs lifestyle.”

What did his brothers think of his decision? They thought he
was nuts. He’d been totally committed to the Navy; he loved
the Navy. But the military gives with one hand and takes
away with the other.

When Aiden had been a brand new MD, compliments of a Navy
scholarship, his first assignment was as a GMO—General
Medical Officer—aboard ship. It was a two year assignment
that dry docked every six months for a few months. They put
into port regularly, during which time he could see the
world and feel earth beneath his feet, but his life was
spent aboard ship. The medical officer was under a great
deal of pressure 24/7—being the only doctor in charge of a
complete medical staff and the only officer aboard who could
relieve the ship’s captain of duty. He knew the pressure was
extreme when he found himself taking his duty phone into the
shower with him—that was over the top. They spent their
share of time in the Persian Gulf, which meant also giving
emergency medical treatment to civilians in trouble—mostly
fishermen or ship’s crewmen who didn’t speak English.

His reward for that duty was his residency in OB-Gyn, which
obligated him to more commitment to the Navy. But it had
been worth it—he took care of the female military personnel
and wives of active duty and retired sailors and marines. It
was a good life. He had stayed in one place for a long
time—San Diego.

He was due a promotion, and the Navy felt it was time for
him to go to sea again. It would mean General Medical
Officer again—not in his specialty. There wasn’t a lot of
call for an OB-Gyn aboard an aircraft carrier. Aiden didn’t
mind being out to sea so much, but he was thirty-six. It
wasn’t something he talked about, but he felt there were
things missing from his life. A wife and family for one
thing, and he wasn’t likely to meet a woman who could fill
that bill on a big gray boat. He needed to be on land.

Sometimes he asked himself why that even mattered—it’s not
as though being on dry land had worked so far. Right after
his stint as a GMO, at the age of twenty-eight, he’d met and
quickly married Annalee, who was a total nutcase. They were
married for three whole months, during which she demolished
every breakable object they owned. She had been volatile,
crazed, jealous and insane—her moods shifted faster than the
sands of time.

That experience left him gun-shy and slowed him down a
little, but a couple of years later he was ready to get back
in the game, feeling older and wiser. Still, he didn’t meet
any women who were contenders for the exalted position as
his wife and the mother of his children.

But it wasn’t going to happen at sea.

He glanced at Erin. Her eyes were closed and she held his
ice packs on her forehead and the back of her head. He’d
like a woman who looked like that—but she’d have to be sweet
and far less arrogant. He was looking for someone soft and
nurturing. You don’t go looking for a hard ass to be the
mother of your children, and this one was a hard ass. Of
course, what was he to expect? She admitted it—she was a lawyer.

He chuckled to himself. She was probably a medical
malpractice attorney.

Another wonderful installment in the Virgin River series.

Virgin River

'TIS THE SEASON

#0.0 • November 2014

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VIRGIN RIVER

#1.0 • April 2007

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SHELTER MOUNTAIN

#2.0 • May 2007

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WHISPERING ROCK

#3.0 • June 2007

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A VIRGIN RIVER CHRISTMAS

#4.0 • January 2010

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SECOND CHANCE PASS

#5.0 • February 2009

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TEMPTATION RIDGE

#6.0 • March 2009

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PARADISE VALLEY

#7.0 • April 2009

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THAT HOLIDAY FEELING

#8.0 • October 2009

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FORBIDDEN FALLS

#9.0 • January 2010

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ANGEL'S PEAK

#10.0 • February 2010

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MOONLIGHT ROAD

#11.0 • March 2010

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MIDNIGHT KISS

#12.0 • November 2010

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PROMISE CANYON

#13.0 • January 2011

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WILD MAN CREEK

#14.0 • February 2011

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HARVEST MOON

#15.0 • March 2011

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BRING ME HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

#16.0 • October 2011

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HIDDEN SUMMIT

#17.0 • January 2012

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MY KIND OF CHRISTMAS

#18.0 • November 2024

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REDWOOD BEND

#18.0 • March 2012

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SUNRISE POINT

#19.0 • May 2012

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MY KIND OF CHRISTMAS

#20.0 • November 2012

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RETURN TO VIRGIN RIVER

#21.0 • October 2020

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