A Virgin River Christmas by Robyn Carr Page B

if the beast had hurled himself at it, then came a scratching and a snarling. Oh shit, she thought—he’s out there, after me! Waiting for me!
    Well, it was cold, but it was probably better to freeze to death than to be mauled by some mysterious wild cat. So she stood up, lowered the seat—which was just an old Home Depot toilet seat, and tried to get comfortable, though the cold seeped through that flannel shirt pretty quickly, freezing her buns. Stupid not to even put her jeans on for this trek, but then she hadn’t been expecting company. She glanced at her wrist—of course she hadn’t even been wearing her watch.
    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