by Julia London
“You look really good,” she said, and took a seat on the bleacher below him. “Really good. Healthy, you know? That’s good to see.”
“Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.” He hadn’t meant it to come out quite like that, but she did look great. She looked fresh and wholesome, and untouched by the ugly side of life.
Libby blushed a little and self-consciously pushed a corkscrew curl from her face. Sam envisioned pushing that curl back himself. The image caused him to look at his plate. It had been a long time since he’d thought of touching a woman. He’d thought of sex, yes, of course. But nothing as simply intimate as brushing a woman’s hair from her face. Thinking of it now made him feel strangely empty.
“Are you coming back to work?” she asked.
“Not to Corita City,” he said, referring to the sheriff’s county headquarters. “I’m going to be a rural area deputy, stationed here in Pine River.”
“Really?” Her voice was full of delight. “That’s great news! When do you start?”
“A couple of weeks,” he said, and bit into some brisket. She was right—it was excellent. “I pulled a muscle in my back and I’ve been driving over to Montrose two days a week for treatment. Once the doc releases me, I’m good to go.”
Libby pointed at him. “Yoga.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yoga. You should come to yoga class.” She suddenly stood up and bent over to touch her toes. “Yoga will stretch you out, especially your back.”
Sam laughed.
“I’m serious!”
“Libby!”
Libby turned; Sam saw Ryan walking across the field, a wire clothes hanger in his hand. “Where are the marshmallows?” he called up. “Hey, Sam.”
Sam lifted a hand, then looked at his plate. Ryan’s appearance had ruined one of the nicest moments he’d had since coming out of treatment. He liked talking to Libby. He’d always liked talking to Libby. She’d always had a way of making him feel like he mattered, even when he knew better than anyone that he didn’t.
“They’re in the black bag in the back of the truck,” Libby said. “Right next to the cooler.”
“I looked there. I can’t find them. Come on, the kids are getting antsy.”
Libby smiled at Sam. “Trust me, they are in the black bag,” she murmured.
“Libby—”
“I’m coming, Ryan,” she called cheerfully. To Sam, she said, “Duty calls. But seriously, Sam, think about yoga.” She began to step down the bleachers.
“Thanks, but to be honest, I am probably not going to think about yoga,” Sam said after her. “Hey, thanks for the food.”
Libby had reached the last step. She turned back, put her palms together, and put them to her chest. “You’re welcome for the food. Just try the yoga. You can thank me later. Namaste.” She bowed her head. With a laugh, she jumped off the last bleacher and ran to catch up with Ryan.
Ryan swung his arm around Libby’s neck and kissed the top of her head.
Sam felt a weird tightness in his chest. It felt like loneliness. Yearning. A buried desire for what Libby and Ryan had.
He finished his brisket, listened to a couple of songs, then stood up and stretched his stiff back before heading home.
Yoga, huh?
Sam’s life resumed its normal rhythm, and after a couple of days, he didn’t think about his encounter with Libby Tyler. Not until a week later, when he walked into the room the Pinero County Sheriff’s Office had rented from the Pine River Police Department for him. There, on his desk, was a rolled up yoga mat and a DVD. On the mat was a Post-it note:
Hi, Sam. Now you have no excuse not to at least try it. Good luck! Libby Tyler.
He chuckled to himself with delight and picked up the DVD to read the back.
THREE
Present Day
Sam wished he’d picked up a jacket before heading up to Homecoming Ranch. The wind that bowed the tops of the Ponderosa pines and knocked a few thin clouds around carried on it the scent of change. It felt as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees in the last hour.
Eight miles from Pine River, the road up to the ranch was a drive through the best scenery the Colorado mountain ranges had to offer. Green valleys, dark mountains with bald tops, trees glittering gold and green. He drove through stands of pine and spruce, and cottonwoods that stretched out to each other, creating a canopy over the road; past horses grazing a meadow of spindly daisies, the herd increased by two over the summer, which he hoped—probably wrong, but still, he hoped—was a sign that the old ranch was turning around.
Sam happened to live off this same long road up the canyon. His log house was a right turn onto a dirt road at the old abandoned fishing cabin, about a mile up. He loved it up here, but living high in the mountains wasn’t for the faint of heart. Winters were hard, and civilization was a good drive away. Still, it was one of the most serene places on earth—Sam knew God’s hand when he saw it.
Eventually, the road grew steeper, and the surface changed to caliche. Sam bumped along until he came to the iron gate between two thick wooden posts. For decades, an old, weathered, wooden sign had hung over this gate, but now a new sign swung overhead in the breeze. It was shiny and red, big enough that Sam thought passengers in planes passing overhead could see it.
It read “Welcome to Homecoming Ranch.”
It was an awfully big sign to mark a ranch that very few people saw.
The gate was open, so Sam drove through, down past more cottonwoods and spruce trees, past a manicured meadow where a few cows grazed. The property was fenced by split rails, and on the far side of the meadow were a dozen concrete tent pads. Two one-room cabins had been built, but the other pads remained empty, almost as if they’d given up. Through a stand of alder trees, one could see the ranch house, set back against the mountain and the pines.
Sam parked in the drive in front of the house with the pitched roof and funky gables. Libby’s little red car was parked in front of the garage, but there were no other vehicles. He got out and looked around for the dogs. Four of them lived up here, usually lounging under the porch. He was a little disappointed that none of them was around this evening, because he really liked those mutts.
He jogged up the porch steps. They’d been recently repaired. He was glad for it, because the last time he’d been out here, he’d almost put a boot through one step. Been out to see Libby a couple of times in the last month. The girl had had a rough summer.
Sam rang the doorbell. He heard the sound of someone running, and then it sounded as if that person slid across the floor and was stopped by the door. It flew open, and Libby’s wild, curly black hair filled the space behind the screen door. She was smiling—
Until she saw it was him, and her face instantly fell. “Oh. Hi, Sam.” She peered past him, as if she were looking for someone or something else.
He would not take that personally. Much. “Nice to see you, too,” he said. “Expecting someone?”
“Umm . . . no.” She suddenly gasped and whirled around, disappearing from view. Sam waited a moment, listening, expecting her to come back. When she did not he called out, “Libby?”
She didn’t answer him. He heard some banging that he guessed was coming from the kitchen. He knew what was going on here. Libby didn’t intend to come back to the door. She was hoping he’d go away. Sam sighed, pushed the screen door open, stuck his head in, and shouted, “I’m not going away, Libby! You’re going to have to talk to me if you don’t want trouble.”
“Trouble! What are you talking about, Sam Winters? I think you have the wrong person!” she shouted from the back of the house.
“I’m coming in,” he warned her. He knocked the dirt off his boots and walked into the house.
His footfall on the worn pine floors echoed down the hallway. He followed the sound of the banging and the scent of fresh-baked bread through the living room, where a fire was glowing in the hearth and a chenille throw was draped over the couch, as if so
meone had been napping. He stepped into the adjoining kitchen, ducking his head to go through the door.
He liked this old house; it was homey. The kitchen looked straight out of the 1950s, with chintz curtains, an old stove, Formica countertops, and floral wallpaper. Each room had four walls—none of the big open spaces so popular now. But it was a charming, cozy house.
Libby had donned an apron and was pulling out pots and pans on the other side of the breakfast bar, pretending to be busy. Sam glanced around—papers were stacked haphazardly on the small breakfast table. Through French doors that led into the dining room, he saw candles and Mason jars and some strange bow-looking things strewn around the room. It looked like a massive craft project underway.
But the kitchen was spotless, not a thing out of place. And that smell—Sam wouldn’t have minded in the least sampling some fresh bread, but he was fairly certain he would not be offered any. He took off his hat, put it on the breakfast bar, and dragged his fingers through his hair, which, he absently noticed, had gotten so long it touched his collar. He needed to do something about that.
At the moment, however, he had to deal with Libby. Again. He watched her moving around the kitchen, her wild hair twisted into thick strands to keep it from her face. “You can stop banging around, Libby, because it’s not going to work. I’m not leaving until we’ve talked.”
Libby slapped a frying pan down on the stove and whirled around to face him, her blue eyes turning wintery in the fluorescent light, her smile looking a little forced. “I’m always happy to talk to you, Sam!” she said with a cheeriness he didn’t believe for a moment. “It’s just that I have a lot of work to do. We’re having a big event here in a couple of weeks, a big event, and Madeline should be here any minute.” She glanced at her watch, then put her hands on her waist. “So! What did you need?”
As if he’d come all this way to ask a favor, or merely to shoot the breeze. He gave her the patient look he usually reserved for mouthy teens. “I’m a professional, remember? I’ve seen it all, heard it all, and you are not fooling me.”
Libby muttered something under her breath.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“Mind if I sit?”
“Can I stop you?” she asked lightheartedly, then waved to the stool. “Have a seat, Sam. Would you like something? Water?”
He smiled, and Libby’s dark lashes fluttered, as if he’d shined a light on her. He slid onto a stool on the opposite side of the bar from her. “Nothing for me, thanks. You know why I’m here, right?”
“No. Why? To tell me our cows got out? To borrow a hammer?”
“A hammer?” he echoed with a chuckle.
“A tool,” she clarified.
“I’ve got all the tools I need. You know why I’m here, Libby.”
She sighed heavenward. “Well you don’t have to sound like I’m one swan dive away from a straitjacket.”
Sam almost laughed. Sometimes he thought she was one swan dive away from a straitjacket, but honestly, he kind of liked that about her. Libby was never boring or predictable, that was certain. He knew all about her stay at Mountain View Behavioral Health Center. He knew a lot about Libby, and sometimes, he felt as if he knew her in that cosmic way people have of knowing each other from time to time. He got her; he understood her. She was fun, and generous, and eager to be part of life. And she was sexy, all five feet five of her, seemed to get sexier with each year, with wild curly hair and those blue eyes, and lips that made his mouth water.
In a purely hypothetical way, of course, because Sam made it a point not to lust after women who violated restraining orders. Which Libby had done today.
It was a shame that Libby had been dealt such a bad hand.
“I know you’re here because of Gwen,” she said. “But she’s kind of paranoid, don’t you think?” Libby winced a little as if it pained her to make that observation. “Because really, it was just a stupid thing, Sam. And you didn’t have to drive all the way out here to tell me that it was stupid. I mean, thanks and all that, but totally unnecessary. So you can go back to work now,” she said, making a gesture to the door. She smiled as if that was that, and turned around to go back to whatever she’d been doing.
Nothing, as it turned out, other than moving things around on the counter, giving Sam a moment to admire her most excellent backside. Which, again, in his professional capacity as deputy sheriff, he ought not to be doing. But a man couldn’t help but admire the soft, kick-ass curves on this woman. “If you didn’t want me to drive all the way out here, you probably shouldn’t have gone into town this afternoon, do you think?”
Libby laughed and glanced at him over her shoulder. “You’re funny. I’m not prohibited from going to town, Sam. Actually, I can go wherever I want, because FYI, this is a free country.”
He cocked a brow. “You’re not prohibited from going to town, but you are prohibited from being within three hundred yards of your ex.”
“Correct. But I wasn’t within three hundred yards of my ex. I was near my ex’s girlfriend. Or his ex-wife, or whatever we are calling her this week,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
“Libby . . .” He sighed. “You know, I’ve never said this to you, but I think what happened to you was unfair,” he said.
Something flickered in her eyes, as if the words had nicked her. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth a moment. “Which part? You mean when Ryan kicked me out for no reason one day? Out of the blue? Or because he didn’t have the courage to tell me that the reason wasn’t really me, as he wanted me to believe, but that he was having an affair with Gwen?”
“All of it,” Sam said. “Unfair, every bit.”
“Yeah, well, unfair doesn’t begin to describe it, if you want to know the truth.”
“It sucks, Libby. Nevertheless, you have to stay away from the man and his family.”
She drew a deep breath and then released it in one long sigh. “I know, Sam. I know,” she said, giving in, “but I didn’t go to town to find him, I swear I didn’t. I went to get some bowls for candles.”
Sam wasn’t sure why candles needed bowls, which Libby seemed to anticipate.
“You know, you float candles in the bowls. Floating candles. But they have to be wide and flat glass bowls,” she said, sketching them out with her hands. “Crystal is better.”
“Okay,” he said uncertainly.
“I went to Walmart, but they didn’t have what I wanted, so I went into Pine River because I thought Tag’s Outfitters might have them, although I don’t know why I thought that, and Tag, Jesus, that old coot! He was no help, but then I remembered there was that little gift shop near the cemetery. So I drove over there, and you know you can’t go there without going by the park, and there they were. The kids were on the soccer field practicing, and I saw Max . . .” Her voice trailed off a moment, and she shook her head. “I saw Max,” she said, her voice softer, and shrugged. “So I stopped.”
Sam felt for her. How could he not feel for her? It was one hazard of his job, feeling bad for people who were doing things they ought not to do. “You should have driven on,” he said.
“Well, I know that. But they were playing, and I thought, where’s the harm? It’s not like I ran out on the field to hug Max or called Alice over. It’s not like I went looking for anyone.”
“Gwen said you walked up to the sidelines. And then you wouldn’t leave when she asked you to, and on top of that, you got pretty mouthy about it.”
Libby studied him with those pale blue eyes, as if debating that. “Okay, I’m not going to deny that,” she finally admitted, holding up a finger. “But in my defense, I’m a grown woman. I don’t need someone telling me what I’m supposed to be doing. Especially the woman who was sleeping with my significant other behind my back. The same woman who basically checked out of her kids’ lives and left me to raise them while she went to dental school, and suddenly, I’m the bad guy. She was the one telling me to leave, and I c
ouldn’t help it. I got . . . I got—”
“Mouthy?” he offered helpfully.
“That’s not the word I was going to use, but okay, yeah, I got mouthy. It just made me so mad.” She curled her hands into her fists and tapped against her thighs. “I’ve been with those two kids every day for more than four years. They love me and I love them. And you know what?” she continued, beginning to pace now, “while their father was cheating on me with their mother—which sounds totally bizarre, doesn’t it? But that’s what he was doing, he was cheating on me—and all that time, I was taking them to school,” she said, folding one finger down, “and making their lunches,” she said, folding another finger down, “and picking them up and making sure they got to soccer and dance class and tae-kwon-do on time, and kissing their boo-boos and, yeah, okay, I stopped when I saw them today. So?”
“So, again, you aren’t supposed to be anywhere near Ryan or his family since you took that golf club to his truck.”
Libby groaned to the ceiling. “Geez, you have one confrontation with somebody, and suddenly, you’re a threat to all the little children and senior citizens.”
Sam smiled. “The only person who thinks you’re any sort of threat is Ryan. And Gwen, apparently.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” Libby said, and walked to the fridge, pulling out a head of lettuce. “Sally Rushton saw me coming the other day and crossed the street so she wouldn’t have to say hi.” She marched back to the kitchen sink, threw the lettuce into it, and turned on the faucet.
Sam watched her wash that head of lettuce like an angry sous chef. He couldn’t really blame her for feeling the way she did. First of all, everyone in town knew she’d been head over heels for Ryan Spangler. Second, everyone in town knew that Ryan Spangler was a player. Poor Libby found that out the hard way.
For reasons that completely eluded Sam, Ryan was one of those guys who could charm the pants off women. Way back when, Ryan had married Gwen, had two cute kids, got a good job at the propane shop, and had a nice little house on the edge of Pine River. Most men would be happy that they’d done something right, that they had a pretty wife and two great kids to come home to every day after work. Sam didn’t know what went wrong between Ryan and Gwen, but something did. Gwen seemed solid; she didn’t strike him as the type to walk out on a marriage. But that she did, walking all the way to Colorado Springs to get her dental hygiene license because there wasn’t much work in Pine River. She had to leave her babies at home with their grandmas and their schools and their dad in order to get that marketable skill. Sam figured that was a tough thing for Gwen to do, no matter what Libby thought of it. The way he saw it, Gwen had done what she had to do to provide for her kids.
