The fact was, she’d been living in one of Ian’s flannel shirts for four days, sleeping in it, eating in it, wandering out to the loo in it, with only her boots in addition. She ran a hand over her head; it felt as though her naturally curly, bright copper hair was standing on end, big as a house. She’d managed a little teeth brushing and panty changing, but other than that, nothing. She must look like a vagrant. A homeless person hiding out in Ian’s outhouse.
She glanced at her naked wrist again and shivered. She started counting in her head to mark the passing of the minutes. How long does a small lion wait for his prey? He had a coat, so they weren’t matched opponents. She started thinking; if she opened the door and he was nowhere to be seen, could she make the mad dash for the cabin? But first, she should do what she came to do, so she wouldn’t have to use the little blue pot.
Task finished, she sat a few minutes longer, very quietly. Then she sheepishly opened the outhouse door, cursing the squeaking hinges as she stuck her head out. She saw nothing, so she took a careful step outside. She heard a hiss and snarl and saw the cat lurking around the shed, twenty feet away. She retreated, slamming the door. “Shit,” she said aloud. “Shit, shit, shit!”
So she brought up her feet so that her heels rested on the seat and pulled the huge flannel shirt over her knees, hugging them. There was nothing in the outhouse with which to defend herself. In fact, there was also no reading material—not even a truck or sports magazine. Leave it to Ian—bare to the bone. No extras. He didn’t even keep a book in the house unless it came from the library. After a little while, she began to shake with cold. It didn’t help that she began coughing, even though she tried to control it, stop it, muffle it; the big cat could probably hear her and know his prey was still alive, trapped.
So be it. She would freeze to death. She didn’t remember anything from the last time she nearly froze to death. Remembering nothing implied it was painless.
Then she heard the sound of Ian’s truck come up the road. There was no mistaking that engine; it was rough and growly. She sprang to her feet, because suddenly her only thought was that Ian could be attacked by the feline beast that waited for her. She pressed her ear against the rough wooden door. She heard nothing until the screech of Ian’s truck door opening. She flung the door to the outhouse open and yelled, “Ian! Look out! There’s a—”
She was cut off by the snarl and lunge of the cat at the door. She ducked in quickly with a scream, inexplicably happy that the cat had come after her and not gone after an unprepared Ian.
So, she thought, here we are. I’m trapped in the john and he’s trapped in either the truck or the cabin. And it’s colder than hell. Great. And to think I was wishing for a microwave.
But only seconds seemed to have passed before there was a huge blast that caused her to sit up straight and catch her breath. Then the outhouse door opened sharply, and Ian stood there with a startled look on his face and a big gun in his hand. “How long have you been in here?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” she said. “I think maybe d-d-days.”
He got a sheepish look on his face. “You about done in here?” he asked.
She burst into laughter, which brought another coughing spasm, then laughter again. “Yes, Ian,” she finally said. “I’ve widdled and wiped. Can I please go home now?”
“Home? Marcie—that car of yours—”
“The cabin, Ian.” She laughed. “Jesus, do you have no sense of humor?”
“That wasn’t so funny. I can’t imagine what he was doing around here. I don’t keep food out or small livestock…”
“He was hanging around the shed. You think maybe he likes chicken soup?”
“I’ve never had a problem like that before. That’s bold, getting out where people can see him, challenge him—”
“What the hell was that?”
“Puma,” he said. “Mountain lion.”
“I knew that was a lion.” She stopped suddenly. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”
“Marcie, he wanted to eat you! Are you worried about his soul or something?”
“I just wanted him to go away,” she said. “I didn’t want him to go dead.”
“I just scared him off. Listen,” he said, walking her quickly to the cabin, “if it had been down to you or him, could you have shot him?”
“No,” she said.
“No?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve never fired a gun, so I don’t like my chances. If I’d had a big gun like that in my hands I could’ve probably shot you or the cabin or shot the crap out of that outhouse…” She burst into laughter at her pun. “But he was way smaller. You have a frying pan, right? A big iron one, right?”
“What for?”
“So, in future, I can get to the bathroom with some protection. I was once a very good hitter in softball.”
He stopped walking and looked down at her. “Jesus, there’s always the blue pot.”
“Yeah, but there are some things a lady will risk her life to keep private.”
He smiled. He actually smiled. “Is that so?”
Six
T he very next day when Ian came home, he caught Marcie standing at the sink in his flannel shirt and calf-high boots. No pants. Panties maybe; he tried not to think about that. She was rubbing her face with a washcloth, and her hair was so bushy it looked like a clown’s wig. He put the sack on the table. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“I must be,” she said. “I’d kill for clean hair.”
“You want to wash your hair?”
“It was tempting, but I didn’t know if a cold, wet head was the best idea. The water out of this pump is freezing.”
He chuckled. “I can’t believe you’ve been here for days and haven’t figured out much. Not like you to not pay attention to details, is it? So. Good day for bath day,” he said.
“Have you had a bath since I’ve been here?” she asked.
“I admit, I’ve been putting that off, making do with a pot of hot soapy water at the sink, but not just because you’re here. Have you noticed, it’s a little cold?”
“I saw the tub of course, but I couldn’t imagine how…”
He just shook his head. “You’re right, you’re not used to roughing it. Here’s how it’s going to work—I’ll put a big pot of water on the woodstove, feed it real good so we get the room nice and warm. I’ll get another one going on the Coleman stove—that goes a lot faster—and we’ll fill the sink with hot water for your hair and while we’re taking care of that, get a second one going on the Coleman. By the time your hair is clean, we’ll have two pots of near-boiling water for the tub. I’ll add some cold from the pump and you take a little dip. Can’t screw around—I can’t get the tub full. If I just keep heating and adding water, by the time I get a boiling pot, the one in the tub has already turned cold. So it’s a shallow bath, but it’s warm and gets the job done.”
“Wow,” she said. “That’s sure generous, that you’d do all that for me…”
“For us, Marcie. I’ll get a bath after you. And tomorrow I’ll stop at the coin laundry and wash up the dirty clothes. I’ll take any of yours you’d like me to. Just because you haven’t been feeling too good…”
She shifted from foot to foot, chewing on her lower lip.
“What’s the matter? You don’t want a bath?”
“I’d die for a bath,” she said. “It’s just that…. I couldn’t help but notice, there doesn’t seem to be a separate room with a door that closes…And I also noticed that doesn’t seem to bother you too much.”
The corners of his lips lifted. “I’ll load the truck with tomorrow’s wood while you have your bath,” he finally said.
She thought about this for a second. “And I could sit in my car during your bath?” she suggested.
“I don’t think so—your car is almost an igloo now. Just a little white mound. Not to mention mountain lions.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
“Well, you can take a nap, read a little of my book, or close your eyes. Or you could stare—get the thrill of your life.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You really wouldn’t care, would you?”
“Not really. A bath is a serious business when it’s that much trouble. And it’s pretty quick in winter.” He started to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, a little irritated.
“I was just thinking. It’s cold enough in here, you might not see that much.”
Her cheeks went hot, so she pretended not to understand. “But in summer, you can lay in the tub all afternoon?”
“In summer, I wash in the creek.” He grinned at her. “Why don’t you comb the snarls out of your hair? You look like a wild banshee.”
She stared at him a minute, then said, “Don’t flirt with me. It won’t do you any good.” Then she coughed for him, a long string of deep croaks that reminded them both she had had a good, solid flu. Also, it covered what happened to be amused laughter from him.
While he pumped water into a big pot, he said, “Take your medicine. That sounds just god-awful. And I, for sure, don’t want it.”
It took a good thirty minutes to get the sink full of warm water. She was rolling up the sleeves of the overlong shirt, turning under the collar to keep it from getting wet, and grabbed the shampoo out of her duffel. He held out his hand. “What?” she said.
“Put your head in the sink,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll be hard for you to know if the soap’s out. It’ll be faster and easier if I just do it for you.”
She picked up the towel he’d laid out on the short counter, pressed it against her face and bent at the waist, dipping her head in the warm water. She could feel him use a cup to wet her hair, then begin to gently lather it. Those big calloused hands were slow and gentle, his fingertips kneading her scalp in a fabulous massage. She enjoyed it with her eyes closed, trying not to moan in pleasure. Finally she said, “You aren’t going to offer to shave my legs for me, too, are you?”
His hands suddenly stopped moving. There was a stillness and a silence for such a drawn out moment, she wondered if she had somehow offended him. “Marcie,” he finally said. “Why in the world would you shave your legs?”
“They’re hairy!”
“So what? Who’s gonna care?”
She thought about this for a second. She was on the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere with a man who looked like Grizzly Adams in a place that didn’t even have indoor plumbing. Why would she shave her legs? And armpits? Finally, in a little voice, she said, “I would.”
He just let his breath out in a long sigh. Then he began rinsing her hair.
While she was towel drying her hair, he pulled a clean shirt from his trunk and handed it to her. This time it was an old soft denim one with fraying around the cuffs and collar and mismatched buttons. “You better wear this,” he said. “That plaid flannel is about ready to walk to the laundry and throw itself in.” When he turned away, she pulled it out and surreptitiously sniffed it herself.
“Smart-ass,” she muttered under her breath.
Once the tub was poured and he’d refilled the big pots for his own bath, setting them to heat, he left her. She could hear the whistling and thumping of logs while she did, indeed, shave her legs. And armpits. The whistling wasn’t just meaningless tweeting—he was gifted. The melody was clear, twirls and whorls and everything. She longed for the singing, but today, he just whistled.
