by Julia London
He drove to her car and parked just far enough behind it that a person could maneuver out of the parking space. He sat there, staring out at the falling snow, the bulge in his jaw flexing with each clench of his teeth. He made no move.
Libby sat quietly, her hands in her lap, swallowing down little swells of bitter disappointment.
Sam suddenly opened the door of the truck and got out. He walked around to her door and opened it. He pointed to her car and said, “Go home.”
Libby looked at her car, then at him. “That’s it? Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“No,” he said hotly. “Go home.”
Libby stepped out of the vehicle, pulled her sweater around her, and ducked under his arm. She glanced back at him, uncertain what to think, but his icy stare was enough. His anger was coming off of him in waves, stinging her skin along with the cold and her own fury. She hurried to her car, and as she settled in the driver’s seat she was aware that Sam was watching her, his head down, his arms folded, oblivious to the snow that was hitting his shoulders.
Libby put her key into the ignition and turned. But her car, which had purred like a kitten this afternoon when she’d driven into town, chugged and would not start. She paused, pumped the gas pedal a couple of times, and tried again. Nothing. “No,” she muttered, and slowly leaned forward, until her forehead touched the steering wheel, and closed her eyes. “No no no no.”
Sam knocked on the driver’s side window, and when she rolled down the window, he said, “Pop the hood.”
Libby did as he asked. Sam opened the hood and rooted around underneath. After a few minutes of that, he shut the hood again, walked back to the driver’s side and said, “It’s nothing that I can see.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “I’ll figure it out—”
“No, you won’t,” he said flatly. “Get in the truck. I’ll take you home and bring Tony back.”
“Sam, you don’t have to do that—”
He suddenly planted both hands on her open window and bent down, so that he could look her directly in the eye. “I’m taking you home. I told you not to speak. Nor should you look at me. But perhaps most importantly? Don’t argue with me. This will go a whole lot easier for us both if, for once, you will do as I ask.” And with that, he shoved away from her car and walked back to his truck.
Libby was not going to argue with a man who looked that angry. She quickly gathered her things—flyers, wedding toppers, ribbons, and her purse. She locked the car and with her head down, she ran back to his truck. She moved to open the rear door, but Sam impatiently gestured for her to get in the front passenger seat.
When Libby was in her seat, he drove, skirting around the back end of the soccer field.
Libby slid down in her seat and focused on her breathing. She could picture it—Ryan was probably telling Gwen what had happened. They were both getting into their cars, shaking their heads, wondering what was wrong with Libby. And because Libby had believed that a rat bastard like him could actually be sorry, she’d ruined any chance of seeing the kids. And because she’d tried to clarify it all, she’d created a strain and ruined the funny little thing between her and Sam.
A fairly spectacular day so far.
She took another deep breath. And another. She tried to summon that tropical beach, but it was nowhere to be found.
Libby glanced at Sam from the corner of her eye. He was staring straight ahead, squinting at the road before him. “Sam?”
“No.”
She sighed and leaned her head against the window, wishing it weren’t such a drive up to Homecoming Ranch.
As it turned out, the drive up to Homecoming Ranch was much longer than she might have imagined. Snow and a trailer sliding off the road blocked any chance of getting home.
“You can drop me at the Grizzly,” Libby said.
Sam leveled a look on her. “Sit tight,” he said, and got out of the truck, grabbing a coat out of the back seat and shoving into it as he walked up the road to meet the driver of the truck.
Libby pushed herself up, and hugged herself. It was freezing now, and the wind had picked up at this higher elevation, enough to bend the tops of the pines.
She watched Sam and a guy from one of the cars behind the trailer squat down next to the disabled truck to have a look. The snow was coming down really hard now, swirling around the men as they convened in the middle of the road. Sam pulled his phone from his belt and made a call. After more conversation, he walked back to the truck.
When he opened the driver door, Libby felt the gust of cold north wind on her face. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Take you to my place for now,” he said, his gaze on his big side view mirror as he slowly backed up.
“What? Why?”
“A tow truck is coming, but it might take an hour or more in this weather. He’ll need help. We’re not going to get up to the ranch, anyway—John says the roads are icing up there.”
John, she supposed, was the rancher. “Then take me back to town,” she said.
“Look at the snow, Libby,” Sam said flatly. “We’re not going to town. We’ll be lucky if we can get a tow truck up here.”
“But I can’t stay at your house,” she said, the very idea giving rise to anxiety in her. There was a distance in his gaze that Libby did not like.
Sam ignored her. He slowly backed down the road until he could find a place to turn around. When he had, he headed down the road about a quarter of a mile, and turned onto a narrow dirt road. The truck bounced along, sliding a little on the corners, driving deeper into the canyon.
Libby knew Sam lived somewhere around Homecoming Ranch, but she’d never seen his house, or even knew that it was on this little country road. It sat at a bend in the road, a house of thick logs and masonry, charmingly nestled against snowy pines. It had a sloped green metal roof, and the window and door trims were painted green. The chimney was made of river rock. There was a screened-in porch to one side, and a couple of outbuildings around the place. On a post beside the drive, about twenty feet in the air, was what looked like a tiny replica of the White House. As they neared it, Libby realized it was a birdhouse.
Sam pulled up before the house and got out. He waited for Libby at the bottom of the steps and walked up with her to the door, pushing it and holding it open so she could pass.
She stepped into a darkened room; behind her, Sam flipped a switch.
His house looked like what Libby might have guessed—it was obvious a man lived here. There was a worn, braided rug that covered the wood floors, and a man’s obligatory leather recliner. There was a nice leather couch and one small armchair, upholstered in plaid, that looked as if it might have been picked up at a garage sale, judging by the bare spots on the arms. There wasn’t much on the walls—a painting of a windmill, another one of a mountain sky behind Pine River. And on one short wall, an impressive array of coats and jackets hanging from a line of hooks.
Beyond the living room, through a big archway, Libby could see the kitchen, and from where she stood, it looked to be a bit of a mess. Dishes were piled in the sink, and a pan was sitting on the stove.
“Bathroom is down there,” he said gesturing vaguely to the end of the hallway on her left. Libby could see the white stand-alone sink, the neat blue rug before it.
Sam moved to the fireplace. He took a few logs from a stack he had to one side and put them in, building a fire. His cold demeanor was making the little house even chillier. Libby rubbed her arms and looked around. “Keep an eye on it,” he said once the flame took hold.
When Sam had the fire going, he stood up and looked at her. His gaze moved over her in one long slide, making Libby feel self-conscious. What did he see?
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He started for the door.
“Wait!” she said anxiously.
Sam paused and glanced back at her, his expression impatient.
“What should I do?”
He shrugg
ed. “Sit. Wait. Take the time to think about things.” He picked up a hat. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge.” He went out the door.
She heard him run down the porch steps, heard his truck start up again. She listened to him drive away. She stood there until she couldn’t hear anything but the wind moaning around the house.
Libby slowly turned a slow circle in the middle of the room, concentrating on her breath. Try to center yourself. Calm your heart. She had a strong desire to lie down on the floor before the fire and curl up in a ball, let the day and her anger wash away from her.
Instead, she sat carefully on the edge of Sam’s recliner, her face in her hands.
She could picture her mother, her hair neatly trimmed, her rings blinking at Libby as she stirred Splenda into her iced tea, looking annoyed. For heaven’s sake, Libby, what is the matter with you? What would ever make you think he’d let you see the kids? You’ve always been like that, always imagining things that just aren’t so.
Libby’s hands curled into fists, her frustration with herself, with life, with everything that had gone on in the last twenty-six years bubbling up. Dr. Huber would tell her that her anger was justified, but her trust was misplaced. She would advise her to use the techniques she’d taught her—breathing exercises, word associations, change of scenery, and then remind her to take her pill.
All of that sounded inadequate for what Libby was feeling in that moment. Profound disappointment—with Ryan, with herself. With Sam. Overwhelming, bitter, bitter disappointment.
But if she dwelled on it, Libby knew she would sink deeper. Dwelling, brooding—that’s what got her into trouble, that’s how she’d found herself holding a golf club.
Libby abruptly stood up, and in doing so, knocked a magazine off the table next to Sam’s recliner. She picked it up and looked at it. Outside Magazine. Not surprising. He was obviously a solitary man. He was the smart one.
She noticed the coats and jackets again, remembered that she was freezing. She grabbed a flannel jacket from the wall and slipped into it, pulling it close around her body, dipping her head to touch her nose to the fabric. It smelled like Sam, spicy and earthy and . . . safe.
Get busy. Do something. Anything. Whatever it took to keep her mind from spinning into an angry mush beneath what had been another brutal rejection by Ryan.
Libby walked into the kitchen and looked around. It was a man’s kitchen, all right. The appliance population was small, and those he did have were the cheap varieties one picked up off the grocery store aisle. Pots and pans were stacked in the sink, and the counter looked as if it could use a good cleaning. In fact, the whole place looked as if it could use a good cleaning.
Outside the snow swirled in big gusts across a very big deck.
Just beyond the railing was another birdhouse. She couldn’t be sure, but this one looked like a plane.
She leaned over the sink, peering through the gray light of the blizzard. Something moved in the meadow, something dark and big.
Libby walked down to the desk and leaned over it, squinting out through the window. “Horses,” she said aloud. She glanced at the clock on the stove. It was almost five. What if Sam didn’t come back in the next hour or so? It would be too dark to bring them in. There it was, the thing she had to do.
Libby went back to the wall of coats, exchanged the flannel jacket for a coat with a hood, and put it on. From there, she walked into the mudroom, which was attached to the kitchen, and began to root around for some boots she might pull on.
EIGHTEEN
A hard wind was sending snow up in swirls and bringing it down sideways, making it hard to see as Sam drove up the road to his house. He worried about his horses and hoped he’d be able to find them in the snowy dark.
He pulled into the drive, turned the collar of his coat up, and hopped out. He walked around the side of the house to the meadow gate, trudging down to the barn to grab a lead. But as he neared the barn, he noticed the outside light was on. He didn’t generally use that light. He opened the door to the tack room, walked through to the barn . . . and stopped midstride, staring with disbelief: His two horses were in their stalls.
The sorrel mare lifted her head, sniffing at him, then pawed the ground.
“Hungry?” Sam checked their feeders and filled them with hay.
A quarter of an hour later, he stepped out into the snow again. Light spilled out of the windows at the back of his house, illuminating his deck. He could see the faint impressions of where Libby had walked across the deck and down to the meadow. And he could see Libby at the kitchen sink now. It was obvious she would have to stay the night, and Sam was not happy about that. He was pissed off, and, worse, surprisingly disillusioned. He’d really believed . . . he’d hoped . . .
What, Sam, that she was the one for you? Get over yourself.
He hoped he could scrounge up enough food to offer her something to eat. He mentally catalogued the food in his kitchen. He wasn’t much of a gourmand. Nor was he much of a grocery shopper. He kept a few staples around but grabbed most of his meals in Pine River.
Sam made his way to the mudroom, stamped his feet to dislodge the snow, then pulled his boots off and hung his coat up. He opened the door into the kitchen and was hit by an aroma so delicious that it took him aback. He wasn’t used to that sort of smell in his house, and his stomach growled in appreciation.
He stepped inside the door and Libby suddenly popped into view. She had a dish towel tied around her waist, another one draped over her shoulder. He also noticed something else—his kitchen was clean. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it clean. And the fire was blazing, which meant she’d kept it stoked. “What happened?” he asked, hearing the reverence in his voice that something wonderful and transformative had happened to his house.
“Ah . . . nothing,” she said uncertainly. “I cooked,” she added, gesturing to the stove as if that weren’t obvious. “I hope that was okay. I was starving and I figured you’d be hungry, too. You said help yourself,” she continued, sounding apologetic.
“I did. It smells great. And you’re right, I’m hungry.” Now that he’d smelled actual food, he was ravenous. “Did you get the horses in?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.
“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t know how long you’d be gone.”
“Thank you.”
She gave him a thin smile and turned back to the stove.
Thin as it was, Sam wasn’t ready for smiles. He could hardly look at her without a wildly contradicting mix of emotions rifling through him.
“Do you want to eat?”
“Yes, I’d love to. I’m just going to wash up.” He started for his room, but on his way out of the kitchen, he paused and looked back at her. Libby was watching him warily. “Don’t think because you are feeding me that I am going to forget what happened today,” he warned her.
Libby snorted. “Are you kidding? You have the memory of an elephant, and I didn’t expect a little snow to change that. I hope you like turkey.”
Sam debated mentioning how long that turkey had been in his freezer, and decided he was too hungry to worry about it.
In his room, Sam had to move a stack of books that had served as a doorstop in order to shut the door. A man living alone up in the mountains didn’t need a lot of privacy.
He pulled off his shirt, felt exhaustion in his muscles and limbs. It had taken a lot of work to winch that truck out of the ditch, and then it had been a very slow trek down to the valley floor with the cattle bellowing behind in the trailer. The tedious drive back had given him plenty of time to think about the problem of Libby.
Sam sat on the edge of his bed, rubbed his face with his hands. What the hell did he do with her? He couldn’t keep covering for her, couldn’t keep allowing her to walk away from obvious violations of the restraining order. And there was something else. He didn’t need this sort of drama in his life. It was the thing he’d learned in the course of his treatment and sobriety that he
had to avoid. For a man who walked a tightrope every day—which he did—there was no place for anxiety and stress to go.
He’d been fully prepared to give her a dressing down, but then she’d brought in his horses, had cleaned his damn kitchen, and had cooked for him. When was the last time someone had cooked for him? Years? It made him feel almost strangely normal, and Sam didn’t want to feel normal. Normal was deceiving. Normal made him believe things could be different for him.
He took a quick, hot shower, pulled on a long-sleeved T-shirt that said “Denver Rodeo” and some loose jeans. He combed his hair back and returned to the kitchen, bracing his arms overhead against the archway. “Smells good,” he said. “What is it?”
Libby looked at the pot on the stove. “I’m not sure. I’m going to say it’s Greek. But without the lamb. Or lentils. But it has turkey and peas and rice, and I made a great yogurt sauce, which was really hard to do seeing as how you have nothing in this kitchen. How do you survive? Anyway, it’s not gourmet, but it should be filling.”
To him, if it wasn’t out of a microwave, it was gourmet.
“I also found some plates and bowls and set the table. There was a layer of dust on those plates,” she said with a reproving look for him.
“Hey, I rinse them off before I use them.” He looked at the small round table he rarely used. There were two place settings. It was a civilized meal, something this house rarely saw.
“Have a seat,” she suggested, and prepared two big bowls of her invented dish. She smiled.
Sam looked at his bowl. She was not entitled to his smile, not even with the surprising gift of dinner. She was lucky she wasn’t sitting in the holding cell in Pine River right now. But Libby’s smile remained steady.
“Don’t,” he warned her, dipping his fork into her concoction.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t even think of smiling at me after what you did today. I’m frustrated as hell with you.” He put the fork into his mouth and almost slid off his chair—the Greek thing, or whatever she was calling it, was delicious.
