“Cool.” Marcie smiled. “What time on the tree?”
He looked at his watch. “About an hour from now.”
Nine
M arcie joined Ian at the bar and sat up beside him. Jack was there instantly. “What can I get you?” he asked with a wipe of the bar in front of her.
“I think—I’d like a glass of wine. How about a nice merlot? And two meat loaf dinners. And whatever you do, do not let this guy get the check—I invited him, and it’s my treat. My turn. He’s been feeding me since I got here.” “You bet,” Jack said.
Ian turned toward her. “I’m not sure about staying long…”
“If you have an anxiety attack, we can go. But if you can hang in there a little while, I bet the meat loaf will amaze you. This cook, Preacher? He’s unbelievable. I had some of his venison chili when I first got to town and it almost made me pass out, it was so good.”
His lips curved in a smile. “You ate venison, Marcie?”
“I didn’t have a relationship with the deer,” she explained.
“You don’t have a relationship with my deer either,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, but I have a relationship with you—you’ve seen me in my underwear. And you have a relationship with the deer. If you fed him to me, it would be like you shot and fed me your friend. Or something.”
Ian just drained his beer and smiled at her enough to show his teeth. “I wouldn’t shoot that particular buck,” he admitted. “But if I had a freezer, I’d shoot his brother.”
“There’s something off about that,” she said, just as Jack placed her wine in front of her. “Wouldn’t it be more logical if hunters didn’t get involved with their prey? Or their families? Oh, never mind—I can’t think about this before eating my meat loaf. Who knows who’s in it?”
Ian chuckled at her. “You’re right about one thing. Not a bad little bar here. I never checked it out before.”
“Toldja,” she said, sipping her wine. “What would you like to talk about?”
“We’ve talked all day. I haven’t talked this much in four years. I think I might be losing my voice.”
“I haven’t talked this little…”
“I kind of assumed that…”
Just then Jack delivered two steaming plates that he held with towels. He reached beneath the bar and produced a couple of sets of utensils wrapped in napkins and asked, “Another beer?”
“Why not?” Ian said in what was an unmistakably friendly voice. “The lady’s buying.” And then he put his napkin on his thigh.
Marcie stared at that thigh for a long moment. This was the sort of thing that had her confused. He looked a little crazy, till you got used to him. He could act as if he had needs barely above the animal kingdom, taking roughing it to the next level. When he was in his working clothes, he looked as if he barely subsisted. He could growl and snarl like a lunatic. But he had intelligent diction, good table manners, and while he might not be terribly social and on the quiet side, he had no trouble being around people. He was perfectly cordial.
She had expected a man completely screwed up by his past, by his war experiences, someone hard to reach and nearly impossible to change—a difficult situation, but easy to understand. Instead, what she found was someone pretty normal. It left her with many more questions than answers.
“You’re right about the food,” he said with a hum and a napkin to his lips and beard.
“Hmm,” she agreed, letting her eyes fall closed as she enjoyed mashed potatoes so creamy and wonderful, they were like ambrosia.
Ian finished quickly, sitting back and giving his belly a satisfied rub. Marcie just gave up, pushing her plate toward Ian. “I’m done. Go ahead. Help yourself.”
His eyes widened. “You sure?”
“Wait,” she said suddenly. She dipped her fork into the mashed potatoes and lifted it to his lips. “Try this.”
He lifted his brows, then let her put the fork into his mouth. He savored it. Then he said, “I think you got better potatoes.” And he smiled.
“Help yourself, Ian. I’m going to explode if I eat any more,” she said.
“Maybe a bite,” he said, dipping his fork a couple of times before he, too, had to admit defeat. They sat in silence for a few appreciative moments, finishing their drinks, satisfied. Happy. It occurred to her—they were happy.
The contentment was interrupted abruptly. Mel came into the bar with a baby on her hip. Marcie knew she was pregnant, but had no idea there was also a baby under a year old. The baby was all stropped up in a snowsuit, encased from his head to his toes in blue bunting. The smile on her face was brilliant. “Jack! Everyone! It’s time. Tell Preach to turn off the stove and get Christopher and come on! Come on, don’t make us wait!”