Return to Homecoming Ranch (Pine River) (5 page)

“Good morning!” she called to the woman behind the counter.

“Well good morning,” the woman said, surprised by her cheerfulness.

Libby marched to the freezer section at the back of the store. She heard the tingle of a bell as the door opened again, but she continued to peruse the frozen cases, debating the idea of consuming ice cream before ten in the morning, particularly given her recent bit of weight gain from such practices.

But it was an extraordinary morning, and Libby picked up a pint of Rocky Road. And a pint of Neapolitan. And one of Caramel Crunch for a well-balanced breakfast. With the pints stuffed into the crook of her elbow, she stepped back and let the freezer door shut—and stared into the eyes of Sam Winters again.

“Let’s try this again,” he said congenially. “What were you doing up at Ryan’s house?” He leaned his shoulder against the freezer door, as if he thought they were going to be here awhile, chatting it up like neighbors. He looked a little odd in such a casual pose—Sam was an imposing man with big shoulders and bigger arms. He probably intimidated a lot of people.

But he did not intimidate Libby. “Sam,” she said, smiling, “I hope this doesn’t come across as rude, but it’s really none of your business. And yet, I’m going to tell you, because I know you will insist. I was using a shortcut to go to town. So . . .” She shrugged. “I guess I’ll see you around.” She started to move past him, then paused, stepped back, and said, “By the way, thanks for . . . you know, helping me,” she said, referring to his telling Ryan that she was meeting him and running late. “See you.” She walked on.

At the counter, she put her ice cream down and dug out a ten from her wallet. Her money situation was not great. She’d gotten a little bit of severance when she was given the “opportunity” to leave her job at the sheriff’s office, which was a nice way of saying she was fired. She was lucky to have free room and board out at the ranch, and hoped that she might make enough off the events they held out there to live. So far, nothing could be further from the truth. It was bad enough that Madeline was paying for the utilities, but half the time, Libby didn’t have money for groceries.

Lately, she’d been thinking she might have to sell her shitty car if things didn’t turn around, and buying three pints of ice cream was definitely not high on her priority list.

“Caramel Crunch!” the woman said. “That’s my favorite. Must be that time of the month,” she said with a wink.

“Do you have a spoon?” Libby asked.

The woman’s brows waggled up to her hairline. “Girl needs a fix. Over there, sweetie, next to the pickles and hot dogs.”

Libby swept by the condiment stand, grabbed a handful of spoons, and walked outside. And who should be perched against the hood of her car, his ankles crossed, his arms still folded? Sam Winters. This guy was like a Whac-a-Mole game—he kept popping up.

“We’re going to have this conversation if you like it or not,” he said before she could speak. “So don’t try and brush me off again. And be nice when you answer me. What were you doing in the Vista Ridge subdivision this morning?”

“You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that,” she said. “But did I miss a constitutional amendment memo? It’s still a free country, right?”

“I said be nice. Didn’t we review the concept of
free
for you just a couple of days ago?” he asked, making a little swirling motion in her direction.

“Yes.” Libby sat down on the curb, reached for the first ice cream in her bag in preparation for The Talk. Rocky Road—that would do. She pulled the top off the carton and stuck her spoon into it.

“Why were you driving by Ryan’s place after we had chat number . . . what was it, three, four?”

“Four,” she said. If there was one thing that could be said for ol’ Buttinsky, it was that he possessed a pair of gorgeous hazel eyes. They seemed to pierce holes in Libby every time he looked at her. She always had an uncomfortable squirmy feeling that he was seeing more than she intended to show. “And in answer to your question,
yes,
I was driving by his house,” she said, and stuck a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.

Sam sighed. He looked up at the sky a moment, as if he was carefully considering his response. Or trying to keep from blowing his cool. “Girl, you’re just begging for trouble, aren’t you?”

“No. No, I am not begging for trouble,” she said thoughtfully through a mouthful of ice cream. She swallowed. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but some things are beyond my ability to control.” She glanced up. “I don’t mean in a baseball bat kind of way. I mean, in general.”

“What, driving by Ryan Spangler’s house when there is a restraining order against you is beyond your ability to control? Because that’s a fast-lane ticket to jail.”

“No, not that,” she said, shaking her head a little, then pausing to push unruly curls back from her face with the back of her hand. “I could control that if I wanted to. But I
don’t
want to. I want to drive by and see what’s going on, and
that’s
the thing I can’t control.” Anger management issues, her mother had said. Dr. Huber was a little more sophisticated in her diagnosis. She’d said Libby had suffered from Brief Reactive Psychosis, and it was nothing a little psychotherapy, antidepressants, and the development of coping mechanisms wouldn’t cure. So far, eating was the only coping mechanism Libby had managed to ace. She wasn’t in therapy—that cost money, and that was something she didn’t have a lot of. But her mother had paid for the medicine, and she was taking that religiously.

In spite of the meds she was taking, Libby was not feeling zen, she was feeling strangely giddy in that moment, her mind swimming with Ryan’s apology. That meant she had
not
manufactured their relationship or their love. After beating herself up for so long for being so stupid, that realization alone made her want to do cartwheels.

She wondered if she could still do cartwheels and stuffed another big helping of ice cream into her mouth. Sam was studying her, almost as if he was waiting for her to say more.

When she didn’t, Sam pushed away from her car, stepped off the curb, and sat beside her. There was a lot of warmth in his eyes. Libby had noticed that before, on the day she’d gone off on Ryan’s truck. Sam had not looked afraid of her, like Sarah Drew, who clutched her purse to her breast, staring in horror. Sam had looked as if he understood. She could remember feeling comforted somehow that it was him who took the club, as if he was one person in the midst of the chaos who was there to help her, not hurt her. She remembered feeling grateful to him—for stopping her, for being there, for protecting her.

He smiled a little now, and his eyes crinkled in the corners. Libby felt a tiny little wave of electricity go through her that she found both disturbing and exciting.

She handed him a spoon and her bag of ice cream.

Sam looked into the shopping bag. He took out the Caramel Crunch. “We can talk about your lack of control a little more while we take a drive,” he remarked as he popped the lid off the container.

That brought Libby’s head up. “Take what drive?”

“The drive I told Ryan we were going to take,” he said, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “You know, to help out the less fortunate.”

Libby laughed. “Good one.”

Sam did not laugh. He turned those eyes on her again, and Libby felt the heat behind them sidle down through her spine. “I just lied to keep you out of trouble. So we’re going to turn it into a half lie, you and me. And by the way, don’t expect me to ever lie for you again.”

“No. No, no,” she said contritely. She glanced at her watch. She had two hours before she had to be anywhere. “I’ve got some things I have to do today,” she pointed out.

“Like what? Drive by Ryan’s house again? What about his work? Maybe you should drive by there, too. Go in and say hi. Oh, and while you’re at it, maybe stop in at the school and see what the kids are up to.”

“Not funny,” she said.

“I didn’t intend it to be.”

Libby groaned, took another generous bite of ice cream. “I am not driving by his
work,
Sam. It’s not like I’m a professional stalker here.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes!” Libby was not going to let him drag her down. She was feeling buoyant for the first time in weeks. “What is the purpose of this drive, again? So you can explain the concept of freedom to me again?”

“I will if you need it. But if you will promise not to get mouthy or go where you’re not supposed to go, I promise not to bring up the R.O.”

Oh, how Libby hated that term. It sounded so . . .
criminal
. “How kind of you, officer.” She spooned more ice cream. “Where are we going?”

“Like I said—to see about some less fortunate people. It might do you some good to see that there are others out there with bigger problems than you.”

Libby snorted. “I know. I volunteered at every charity in town, remember?”

“Yes, I do. Why don’t you start volunteering again? It might help you keep your mind off those things that are beyond your control. Why’d you quit Meals On Wheels?” he asked.

She suddenly remembered one cold afternoon more than a year ago when Sam had brought a truckload of potatoes to the Meals On Wheels kitchen. He’d gone down to Gunnison to get them from a farmer there. Libby just happened to be working that afternoon and had been happy to see him, because the two old men sorting through the food donations were as humorless as that gray afternoon.

Sam had teased Libby as he’d tossed the potatoes to her, scoring her efforts to get them into storage boxes before he tossed another. It had been a really nice afternoon.

Libby looked down at her ice cream, embarrassed. “Gas,” she said. “I’m a little low on funds.”

“Well, come on. We’re going to go see an old acquaintance.”

“Who?”

He winked. “You’ll see. And the other one is a mechanic,” Sam said. “I bet he could help you with your car.”

That certainly caught her interest. Libby looked at her junk car—she needed more than help, she needed a new car and the money to buy it. “Is he cheap?”

“I’d bet so. He could use the work, too.”

Libby shifted her gaze to Sam, prepared to give him a vague answer. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but looking at her in a way that made her stomach do that strange little fluttery-buttery flip again. Before she could figure out what the look was, Sam stood up.

“Come on, it will be good for you,” he said. “You can take some notes about how law-abiding citizens live.”

“Can I bring my ice cream?” she asked, and extended her hand for him to help her up.

Sam pulled her up, and she landed so close that she could see how clean-shaven he was, and how square his chin was, and how his hair was not really brown, but more coffee-colored. When she stood this close, she didn’t see the badge at all.

His gaze slipped to her mouth for a splintered moment, but long enough for her to feel that woozy electric charge run through her again. He said, “You can bring anything but a golf club.”

A corner of her mouth turned up in a half smile. “You’re just a laugh riot today, Deputy Dog. Give me back my Caramel Crunch.”

Sam smiled and handed her the container, then opened the door to his Dodge Ram patrol truck for her.

SIX

On the way out of town, they drove past the old county coliseum where the Rotary Club held the annual Halloween Carnival. About a year ago, Sam had ended up working the carnival, filling in for his old friend Dirk, a fellow deputy. Dirk was the only one of Sam’s acquaintances prior to rehab with whom he’d kept in touch. Sam was embarrassed by what had happened for one thing—the upward trajectory of his career at the sheriff’s office had ended in flames—and besides, he’d always made sure to buddy up to the guys who drank too much. Dirk wasn’t much of a drinker, and as far as Sam knew, he didn’t judge Sam for being a recovering alcoholic.

Dirk had signed on to work off-duty at the carnival to make a little extra money, but the afternoon of Halloween, his sister had gone in for an emergency appendectomy in Montrose.

Sam had been happy to step in for Dirk. He’d had nothing better to do, and he liked seeing the little kids in their Halloween costumes. All he had to do was keep watch, make sure no one got out of hand, and if they did, play bouncer.

For kids who lived up in the mountains, who didn’t have subdivisions to trick or treat in, the carnival was the best candy haul around. And because that was true for the children, the carnival had evolved—now it offered something for everyone: games and candy for children, petting zoos, and a best-costume contest. For the adults, there was beer, dancing, and carnival food.

For most of the evening, Sam had stood around watching children in store-bought and homemade costumes fill buckets shaped like pumpkins with candy. He could remember watching families and thinking how he’d always imagined taking his own kids trick or treating. He’d always wanted a big, close family—the opposite of what he’d had growing up. He and his sister had lived with his mother after his parents’ divorce. He rarely saw his father, and what he remembered of him was that he always had a drink in his hand.

Sam had lived like most middle-class kids. He’d had his own Batman costume. He’d played sports, as many as he could. He’d turned into an adolescent, when every waking moment had been filled with thoughts of girls. He’d gone to college, gotten married, let alcohol get the best of him . . .

But one of Sam’s fondest childhood memories was his friendship with Brian Campinelli. Brian had four brothers and two sisters. The Campinelli house was always loud, always a mess, and always fun. Brian’s mother was always hugging and kissing her children, even if they didn’t want it. She would even wrap Sam in her thick arms and hug him tight. He felt wanted in that house.

Sam had envied the chaos and the affection in the Campinelli house. It made him want that very thing for himself when he grew up—a big, rambunctious family, and every member assured of how much they were loved. But given that he was practically starting over with his life, he didn’t think that was in the cards any longer.

Libby leaned over to check the speedometer. “You drive like a grandpa.”

“I drive safely. You could use some tips in that department.”

Libby snorted. “You know where your driving tips are on my list of things to care about? Way down here,” she said, fluttering her fingers down to the floor. She smiled at her joke and began to scrape the sides of the Rocky Road container of ice cream.

“Are you going to polish off the other two pints?” he asked, amused.

“Maybe.” She paused, her spoon filled with melting ice cream. “Do you know how much weight I’ve gained in the last five months? Ten pounds.
Ten
pounds! And five of those since Mountain View! I thought nervous breakdowns meant you didn’t eat. Well, it’s quite the opposite,” she said, waving her plastic spoon around. She filled her mouth with the last bite of Rocky Road ice cream. “I have to stop.”

Sam didn’t think she needed to stop anything. He thought she looked good with a few curves on her.

He remembered the way she’d looked the night at the carnival, dressed as a scarecrow. She’d painted her face, big black rings around her eyes, a red dot on her nose, pink cheeks. She had straw coming out of the waist of her baggy pants, and sticking out her arms and legs, and from beneath the brim of her wide hat. Naturally, she’d had Alice and Max in tow—Sam rarely saw her without those two. Max was dressed as Buzz Lightyear, and little Alice was a ballerina.

He’d first spotted them at the kid’s spinning wheel. Alice spun the wheel, and it landed on an image of a piece of candy in a wrapper. Libby leapt into the air with a cheer. Little Max, his face tipped up to Libby’s, mimicked her.

They’d spun the wheel a couple more times, Libby celebrating with each draw. When the kids had their candy, she pointed to the petting zoo and started the children in that direction. As they walked past Sam, Libby said, “Great costume, Deputy Dog. You must have worked on that for days.”

He glanced down at his street clothes. “Hey, it takes a lot of creative talent to pull off the off-duty deputy look.”

Libby had tossed her head back with a gay laugh. “Then you should be proud, because that is
exactly
what you look like.” He recalled how she’d given him a fluttering finger wave as she led the kids away. Same as she’d given him a couple of nights ago out at the ranch when she’d wanted him to leave.

“I think Rocky Road is my favorite,” she announced now, peering into the empty container. “What’s yours?”

“I guess I’m a plain-chocolate kind of guy.”

Libby snorted. “Why does that not surprise me?” She tossed the empty Rocky Road container into the bag.

Sam wondered if she remembered that night at the carnival. If she remembered Jim Burton, or what she’d done. He would never forget it. He’d been watching an old couple two-step around the room, their steps so familiar to one another that they looked in opposite directions, seemingly lost in the rhythm of a lifetime together. He was so entranced by them that he didn’t notice Jim Burton or the beers he was holding until he was standing right next to him. “Hey, Sam, you call this working?” he’d asked jovially. “How about a beer?”

“Better not,” he’d said. Looking back on it, Sam didn’t think he’d felt that panic he’d felt fresh out of rehab when someone offered him a drink. He just remembered feeling uncomfortable. Annoyed.

“These Rotary boys won’t care if you have a beer. It’s a party, man!” Jim had held out the beer to Sam, swaying a little as he did.

Sam had put his hand on Jim’s shoulder, looked him in the eye. “No thanks, Jim. I’m good.”

“Good! You can’t be good if you’re dry. Come on, what’s one beer?”

One beer was the difference between life and death to Sam. That was a hard thing to explain to most people, much less a drunk one.

“Don’t be a wet rag,” Jim had persisted, and he pressed the beer against Sam’s chest.

Libby had come to his rescue. She’d suddenly appeared from behind Jim, and with her arms raised, she’d shouted, “
Boo
!
”

Jim had jumped. “Shit, Libby, I didn’t see you,” he’d said, holding a beer over his heart now.

She’d smiled and handed Sam a bottle of water. The bottle wasn’t completely full. “Here you go, Sam. Sorry it took me so long.”

He hadn’t asked her for a bottle of water. He’d guessed it was hers and she was intervening between him and Jim’s beers.

“How are you, Jim?” she asked, shifting, so that she was standing a little in front of Sam.

“Hey, Libby.” Jim shifted his gaze to the dance floor and drank from one of the beers.

“Are you dancing?” she’d asked brightly, and did a funny little swing of her hips. “Let’s go dance the ‘Monster Mash.’ It’s a graveyard smash.” Sam remembered the sound of her laugh, light and easy.

“Ah, no thanks. I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Really? What about you, Sam?”

“I’m working,” he’d said.

“You can have a little fun, can’t you?”

“That’s what
I
was saying,” Jim had said, clearly disgruntled, judging by the sour look he’d given Sam.

Another, very clear memory rushed back at him, and Sam glanced out the truck window. The only fun he’d been able to think about at the time was off limits—because it had involved Libby, and she was Ryan Spangler’s girlfriend.

“Can’t you dance?” Libby had asked.

He’d given her an apologetic smile and said, “I have two left feet.”

“Great. That makes two of us. Do you mind if I drag him to the dance floor, Jim?”

“Better him than me,” Jim had said, and took a good long swig of his beer.

Libby had grabbed Sam’s hand and had tugged him out to the dance floor just as “Monster Mash” came to an end. Another tune, a bluesy song, was next up on the disc jockey’s playlist. Sam had recognized the classic “Ghost Song,” from The Doors. It was one he could handle, and he’d taken Libby’s hand and swung her around, then twirled her back into him.

If he asked her now, would she remember him asking if she’d really wanted to dance, or if she’d been saving him from Jim and his beers? Would she remember the way they’d sort of twirled around, and how she’d swayed her hips and dipped down, her eyes sparkling through the black scarecrow circles?

Would she remember how, toward the end of the song, he swung her out a little too hard, and she’d stumbled, twirling back into him, right into his chest with an
oof,
and had said, “What finesse we have!”

Would she remember the spark between them at that moment? Or had he imagined it? Had her eyes really glittered with something more than laughter, or had he just wished it was so?

He had gazed down at her, and Libby’s radiant smile had begun to fade, and she’d said, “Sam, I—”

He would never know what she meant to say, because that was the moment Ryan appeared.

“Hey, there you are,” he’d said.

“Hey!” she’d said to Ryan, and did a little dip.

Sam had let go of her hand. The radiance had returned to her smile now that she was looking at Ryan. Everyone in the damn coliseum could see it.

“Here you go,” Sam had said, and had handed her off to Ryan.

“Thanks for dancing with me, Sam!” Libby had called after him, just before Ryan swung her around and away.

Sam had walked off the dance floor that night, back into the shadows. He’d watched Ryan and Libby dance, watched Ryan dip her, then kiss her. Libby had had to grab her scarecrow hat to keep it from falling. They had looked like they were in love.

Which was why he couldn’t grasp what Ryan was doing with the other woman when he saw him later. A woman whose face Sam could not see because she was standing so close to Ryan. But he could see Ryan’s hand, and it was on the woman’s hip.

He didn’t get how someone could look so adoringly at Libby, then grope another woman in the shadows.

“Where’d you go?” Libby asked curiously, drawing him back to the present. “You’re too quiet.”

Sam shifted his gaze to her. She looked the same as she had that night. But nothing was the same for her. “I was thinking that you need to stop doing drive-bys of Ryan’s house. That’s what I expect of sixteen-year-old girls, not grown women.”

Her cheeks pinkened a little at that admonishment. “Actually, me too,” she admitted. “But come on, Sam. Have you never been curious to know what someone was up to and maybe happened to drive by their house?”

“No,” he said flatly.

“It’s called seeking closure.”

“In your case, it’s called seeking a night in jail.”

“Spoilsport,” she muttered.

He decided to change the subject—he didn’t want every conversation with her to be about Spangler, even if it was his job. Just the man’s name aggravated him for reasons Sam was unwilling to examine at that moment. If ever.

“So . . . what’s going on up at Homecoming Ranch?” he asked. “Got some events lined up?”

“A wedding,” she said. “Well, technically, a civil union. But with wind chimes and candles and dogs, so in my book, it’s a wedding.”

“Dogs?”

“Yep. The groom and the groom wanted to include their yappy little dogs in the ceremony.” She gave him a playful roll of her eyes. “I don’t even think it was their idea. I think it was one of the grooms’ mother’s idea. We convinced them that little dogs could be carried off by hawks.” She laughed, and the sound of it surprised Sam a little. He hadn’t heard it in a while. He liked it a lot—it was pleasant and light. Girlish. Happy. He missed it.

“You should meet Martha,” she said. “Gary wanted to have the ceremony up in a clearing near the waterfall. You know the Sapphire Waterfall?”

Sam knew it. It was about a quarter of a mile from the house on Homecoming Ranch, and a pretty steep walk up an old logging road and some hiking trails. “That doesn’t seem very convenient.”

“Exactly!” Libby exclaimed, casting her hand and the spoon she held wide. “I told him that the weather is a little unpredictable this time of year, and what if it snowed or rained? It would ruin the whole waterfall experience. Not to mention, how do you get a bunch of women in four-inch heels up a trail?”

Sam had no idea, but he wouldn’t mind seeing that. “So what’s your idea?” he asked.

“The barn,” she said confidently. “Madeline and I are going to open both ends and hang lanterns inside and make it look very rustic and chic.” She ate another spoonful of the Caramel Crunch. “We looked it up. It’s kind of a thing right now,” she said, making invisible quotes with one hand. “We saw pictures in a magazine.”

Sam wasn’t a wedding kind of guy, and he had a hard time picturing it. “I’ve never seen a chic barn.”

Libby laughed. “Neither have we, except in a magazine. Gary’s mother isn’t convinced either, so wish us luck.”

She flashed a knock-your-socks-off sparkly smile, and Sam had to force himself to look at the road. But he could still feel it lighting up the interior of his truck and trickling through him.

“So what comes after the chic barn wedding?”

“That is a good question. We’re going to have to drum up some business.” She peered into her ice cream container and scraped the side of it with her spoon. “Actually, I have an appointment with the bank today. I’m going to talk to them about the possibility of a loan.”

Sam thought that was encouraging news. Maybe she was thinking forward at last, looking ahead from her split with Ryan. “Good to hear you’re thinking long-term,” he said.