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.”
Jack’s brow wrinkled curiously.
“I don’t know what happened to Ian. Right after Bobby got hurt, while he was hospitalized in Germany and then in Washington, D.C., at Walter Reed, I wrote to Ian and he answered my letters. He wanted to know about Bobby’s condition and how I was holding up. I looked forward to his letters—I could see what Bobby saw. I felt kind of close to Ian just from Bobby’s letters, then when we started to correspond and I was getting to know him myself, he started to feel like my friend, too. I can’t explain it—it was just letters. And they were mostly about Bobby. But I think I got close to him—”
“Lotta servicemen get really attached to pen pals,” Jack said. “Especially when they’re on isolated tours like that.”
“Well, no indication Ian got close to me, but I did to him. Then he came back from Iraq, looked in on us once and got out of the Marines shortly after that. He drifted away and didn’t come back to Chico. He had some trouble in the Corps after Iraq. I don’t know the details, but his father thought he was a lifer, yet he got out at the first opportunity, right on the heels of having a real hard time.” A huff of sad laughter escaped. “He never called or wrote again. He broke up with his girl, fell out with his father and went away. About a year later, I found out he was living in the woods like an old hermit.”
“How do you know that he’s out in the woods?”
“There’s a VA outpatient clinic in Chico I got pretty cozy with because of Bobby. A few people there knew I wanted to get in touch with Ian. I’m sure they weren’t supposed to tell me things, but vets—they help each other all they can. Turns out, Ian showed up at the clinic once—it must have been the nearest facility for him. He said he didn’t have an address because he was out in the forest and the nearest big town was Fortuna, and he could get any VA forms or whatever at general delivery there. He hurt himself chopping wood and needed stitches, a tetanus shot and antibiotics. He was right there—where we were, where his father was—and he didn’t even phone to say he was all right, or to ask how Bobby was doing. This just doesn’t seem like the man my husband had described to me. The man I got to know.”
Jack was quiet a moment, and Marcie took a few more bites of food. She spread butter on the corn bread and gobbled up half, giving lie to her “not hungry” state.
“I started sending letters to Fortuna after that, but he didn’t respond. I think I wrote him more for myself than for him, and I pictured him reading them, but … I invited him to call me collect, but I never heard from him.”
“And you’re going after him?” Jack finally said.
“I’m going to find him,” she affirmed. “I have to know if he’s all right. I’ve thought about it a lot—for all I know, he might’ve come back from Iraq with some serious issues, maybe not as plain to the naked eye as Bobby’s issues. I’d blame the Marine Corps for not helping him, if that was the case.”
“Well, you’re right—if he needed help, they should’ve helped. But try not to be too hard on the Corps. It gets complicated—you train a marine to be fearless, then expect him to ask for help? Doesn’t add up. When I figure out how they should get around that, I’ll write the state department.”
“Just the same …”
“Could be he chose the lifestyle he wants. I came out of the Corps looking for a quiet place to hunt and fish and found Virgin River. I holed up for a while, too.”
“Did you lose contact with your family?” she asked, lifting one tawny brow. “Refuse to answer mail?”
Jack had not only had constant contact with his family, but with his squad. And he appreciated it. “No. Point taken.”
“I’m going to find him. Some things need to be sorted out. Finished. You know?”
“Listen, what if he’s not all right?” Jack ventured, leaning both hands on the bar and looking at her closely. Intensely. “What if he’s a little nuts or something? Even dangerous?”
“He still has a father who’s getting older and isn’t well. Things are unsettled with the two of them. Mr. Buchanan is a stubborn, crotchety old coot, but I bet underneath all that crust he wants his son back, no matter what he is. I would.” She started on her salad.
“I get that,” Jack said. “But what if he’s dangerous to you?”
She let go a short laugh. “I guess it’s possible, but I doubt it,” she said. “I’ve been to the police department, sheriff’s department and every gas station, hardware store and bar around—he doesn’t have a record and no one knows him. If he was dangerous, he would probably have drawn some attention to himself, don’t you think? He’s probably just a