Return to Homecoming Ranch (Pine River)

by Julia London

  He shifted again, rolling onto his side, and putting Libby on her back before the fire. He moved over her, holding himself above her, taking her in, his gaze wandering all the way down to the socks on her feet, then up again, to the funky sweater she wore. With the palm of his hand, he moved slowly from her chest, over her breast, down to her belly, and to the top of her skirt. He kissed her softly on the hollow of her throat and moved his hand again, down to her knee, then up under her skirt, his fingers sliding up so softly that a shiver of anticipation ran deep into her veins.

  He languidly caressed her inner thigh, stoking a fire deep in her groin. “This is crazy,” he said roughly. “You make me crazy. I don’t know what it is about you, but you make me crazy.” He kissed her neck and slid his fingers up between her legs, sliding over the silk of her panties.

  His touch reverberated through every limb. She sighed as she thrust her fingers in his hair. Sam stroked her over the fabric of her panties, then dipped one finger beneath them, into the damp heat. She could feel his cock hard and long against her leg, and she imagined him sliding into her, his hips clenching with the effort to restrain himself. Her eyes fluttered shut at the erotic image, her thoughts devoid of anything but him and his touch, of the way he could tantalize her with just a stroke or swirl of his fingers.

  Sam was kissing her wildly now, his finger sliding up and down and into her body, pushing her to the brink.

  He moved again, this time pulling her up, his hands on her rib cage. Libby was quick to discard her clothing, baring her breasts to him. Sam made a sound of pure hunger as he took a breast into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the peak, his teeth lightly teasing her.

  She heard panting—she was panting. She fumbled for the waistband of his jeans, desperate to feel him in her hands, and he was eager to oblige her. Through some feat of athletic prowess, he managed to keep his mouth on her while kicking off his jeans. He paused to remove his shirt, then shifted over her again, eagerly yanking at her skirt and panties, pulling them from her body.

  Just looking at him made Libby shudder with desire. He was magnificent, his eyes shining hungrily in the gold light of the fire. His arms and chest were muscled and hard, his waist lean, his hips powerful. He began to stroke her again, his eyes locked on hers, his breath coming in long, deep draws. He hadn’t even made love to her and Libby was flying. She pressed against him, wanting more as a furious, demanding rhythm thrummed in her. He began to suckle her breast at the same time his thumb began to swirl around her clit.

  Libby arched her back, her hands seeking his flesh and his cock, feeling it hard and hot in her hand. She circled him with her arms, lifted herself to his chest, then forced him down with her, bringing him to the ground and moving her legs so that he could nestle between them.

  His body was damp with the perspiration of restraint. Libby’s blood simmered just beneath the surface of her skin, and each time his hand caressed her, she felt a ripple in her veins. She had passed the point of no return, had surrendered her heart to him.

  Sam groaned as Libby swept her hands down his body; his mouth moved to her jaw, and he trailed a path with his tongue to the hollow of her throat, then down to kiss the crevice between her breasts. His kisses turned tender, his mouth soft and wet against her skin.

  “This is not what I intended,” he said as he shifted between her legs, the tip of him against her wet opening.

  “Me either.”

  “I don’t know what to do with you,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” he asked as he kissed her cheek and nuzzled her neck.

  Beautiful. He thought she was beautiful. Libby smiled with pleasure. He had teased her body to a precipice, and she wanted to leap off that cliff, to fall with him. He lifted himself up, his gaze on hers as he slid into her, easing himself in, his strokes gentle and slow, lengthening. It was exquisite torture, so pleasurable, so maddeningly tantalizing. Libby adored the feel of him inside her, the way her body claimed him, drawing him in, and lifted her hips.

  But then Sam began to stroke her clitoris in time with his body’s slide in and out of her, and she could feel a monstrous release swirling around in her, gaining momentum, pulling her closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. She could feel that she was pulling the same sort of release from him, and when she couldn’t take it another moment, when she went tumbling off that edge, and her body convulsed around his flesh, Sam came with her, falling just as hard, shuddering forcefully to his end.

  They were both panting; Sam slipped his arm around her waist and maneuvered them onto their sides. She felt a strong connection to him, and she wondered if it was real, or if it was the afterglow of lovemaking that made her feel so entwined with him. But she was quite sure she’d never felt such an explosion of joy and tenderness all at once.

  When his body slipped from hers, she rolled onto her back, her eyes closed, remembering every moment of it.

  “You’re smiling,” he said, and she felt him trace a line from her chest to her pubic bone.

  “I am,” she said dreamily. “I’m smiling like I haven’t smiled in a very long time. Are you smiling?”

  “Like a damn clown,” he said, and Libby giggled with delight.

  TWENTY

  They ended up in Sam’s bed at some point—he couldn’t really recall exactly how it had happened, only that her hands had been on him again, her lips driving him crazy, and he was fairly certain he’d carried her. Other than that, he had no memory of anything except what they had done in his bed, and the way she had taken him into her mouth, her lips and tongue swirling around the tip until he couldn’t stand it another moment and had dragged her on top of him to ride.

  He remembered the way her long curly hair fell around her shoulders, teasing her nipples. He remembered how she had tossed her head back the moment she came, and how he’d had to hold her hips to keep her from falling off when she did.

  He remembered what it felt like to be inside of her, and how he’d been surprised by just how much he had missed the feel of a woman. She was like faerie dust, turning him upside down and shaking out all sorts of rusty, dented feelings that were now busily buffing their way clean and new.

  Morning light crept into his bedroom and Sam winced as he glanced around. It looked like a caveman lived here, someone with no one in his life to make him care. Clothes were scattered about, his shoes landmines on the floor in the dark. There was a layer of dust on the bureau—what he could see of it, anyway. Most of the surface was covered by magazines and papers.

  Libby was on her stomach, her hair covering her face, her back trim and smooth, her hips heart-shaped.

  He had imagined being with her, of course he had. He was a guy—it came with the territory. He’d imagined it a lot, actually, but it had been more of a longing instead of testosterone-fueled lust. He leaned down, kissed her back, and smiled when she groaned. He could feel his body waking to the woman in his bed, and he was sliding down the sheets, his hand on her hip, when his phone rang.

  Damn it. With a sigh, he rolled over, picked it up off the nightstand. “Winters,” he answered, and pushed his fingers through his hair.

  “Sam . . . I’m . . . it’s bad.”

  It was Tony, and Sam sat up. “What’s up, buddy?”

  “I don’t know,” Tony said tearfully. “I was watching it snow last night, and Ernest, he was having a beer, taking some time off, and I wanted one bad, man, so bad, and I started thinking, I didn’t have this drinking problem before Afghanistan, this wasn’t me, and now I’m a basket case. I get all nervous about shit that don’t even matter, and what, I’m supposed to spend the next forty years without a beer? I don’t care anymore, Sam. I don’t care—”

  “Hey,” Sam said, and swung his legs off the bed. “First of all, you’re down because of the weather. You know that, right?” He had no idea if that was true—he was grasping. He stood up, moved the curtains at the window aside to look out. There were several inches of heavy snow on the gro
und. But it was sunny, which meant the melt would be quick. Sam figured he could have his road cleared by midmorning.

  “They’ve done all kinds of studies about it,” he said into the phone. “First cold snap, dark skies, big snow—people feel hopeless.”

  “I haven’t heard that,” Tony said skeptically.

  Sam turned around, searching for something to put on. Libby was sitting up, the sheet barely covering her. She blinked sleepily at him, using one arm to sweep back curls.

  “No, no, it’s definitely true,” he said. “Have you slept?”

  “Nah, man. I can’t sleep when I’m like this.”

  “Yeah, well you need to get some sleep. The snow is going to melt, dude. We’ll get the roads cleared and then you and I can talk.”

  Libby picked up a sweater and held it out to him. Sam grabbed it.

  “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s useless. I’m not a man anymore, I’m a thing. I can’t support myself, I am missing half my body, and I can’t have a goddamn beer—”

  “Tony, you’re a man,” Sam said sternly as he hopped on one leg to pull on a pair of jeans. “Look at what you’ve done in the last week. You fixed Libby’s car, you fixed that old Buick. Do you know how many people could do that?”

  “I fixed that fence, too,” Tony said, speaking as if Sam knew what he was talking about. “That’s not easy to do with a fake leg.”

  “It’s impossible,” Sam agreed, and paused briefly to pull the sweater over his head. “You’re on the right track. Sometimes, those voices start talking to you, and it’s not easy. It’s just the weather, trust me. Do me a favor. Go to bed, get some sleep. I’ll be up this afternoon.”

  He heard Tony’s sigh. “Okay,” he said at last. “Okay, yeah. I feel pretty wasted, now that you mention it.”

  “So you’ll get some sleep and wait for me?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said, and he yawned.

  “Tony . . . give me your word.”

  “I give you my word,” Tony said.

  Sam resisted a sigh of relief. He knew what it was like when the doubts started creeping in, how easy it was to give in to the whispering in your head. “I’ll see you later.” He hung up.

  “Is Tony okay?” Libby asked.

  “For now,” Sam said, worried. “He doesn’t sound good. He gets down sometimes, and he’s tempted to drink.” Sam felt the slight swell of nausea he always felt when he thought of how far and hard that fall would be. “Or worse,” he added grimly, because with Tony, he didn’t know. “I’m going to shower and see if I can get up there to talk to him,” he said.

  “I’m going with you,” Libby said. She leaned over the bed, reaching for clothes. Libby pulled one of his T-shirts over her head and stood up.

  Sam caught her wrist and pulled her to him, into his chest. His arms went around her. It had been so long since Sam had been involved with a woman who wasn’t Terri that he had forgotten how these things went. “I had a great time last night.”

  “You and me both, Lone Ranger.”

  “I’m not sure where it leaves us,” he said, smoothing her unruly hair. “You’re still half nuts. And I’m still a deputy with a responsibility to enforce the law.”

  She laughed. “That makes it doubly exciting.”

  Sam ran his hand down her arm, and said, “What I’m trying to say is, it’s been a long time since I . . .” Since he’d what? Slept with a woman? Become emotionally attached to a woman? Wanted something more from a woman? He felt suddenly awkward. Rusty. A little old.

  Libby caressed his cheek. “Well, generally, I think that when two people come together, they hang out and see what develops.”

  “Is that what you want?” he asked. “Because I’ll be honest—I don’t want to be the rebound guy.”

  “The rebound—” She suddenly laughed, rose up on her toes and kissed him. “You’re not the rebound guy, Sam. You’re the guy who caught me when I fell. That makes you the hero,” she said, poking him in the chest.

  He caught her hand and held it against his chest. “I’m no hero, Libby,” he said. “I’m the opposite of that. I’ve worked hard to maintain my sobriety, and like I told you, it’s never easy for me. It’s hard for me to convey just how difficult it is.”

  “So what are you trying to say?” Libby asked uncertainly.

  Sam wasn’t really sure. He had an indistinct feeling of unease crawling in beside the happiness and elation of human affection he was also feeling. He hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. He certainly hadn’t tested his emotional fortitude fully sober. He thought he might really love Libby, but he also feared she could derail this thing between them. “I want to try us. I want it more than anything. But I can’t have a lot of chaos in my life, Libby. It’s taken a long time for me to understand that chaos—uncertainty, drama, all of it—is as dangerous to me as alcohol.”

  She tugged her hand free of his, and put her arms around his neck. “I knew you didn’t get around much. Okay, I swear, no chaos.”

  She didn’t understand him, he could see it in her smiling eyes. “I’m serious, baby. I have my own demons and I can’t carry more.”

  “Sam.” Her voice was softer now, her gaze sympathetic. “I hear you. And I promise—no chaos. I just want to see where this goes, and I am really glad you want the same thing. But right now, today, you have to do something about Tony.” She kissed him.

  Sam’s heart told him he should try again, find better words to convey what he was trying to say, to make her understand what he scarcely understood himself. But his body was waking and silenced his heart. “Don’t you need a shower?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

  “I do,” she agreed, and put her feet on top of his as Sam walked them into the bathroom.

  He lingered in the shower with her longer than he should have, but he finally made himself get out and dress. Libby stayed behind, washing her hair.

  Sam checked on his horses and fed them, then took a shovel, cleared a path out to the meadow, and sent the horses out. When he returned to the house, he found his coffeemaker on, and made himself a cup.

  With coffee in hand, he walked back to his bedroom, but Libby wasn’t there. He returned to the kitchen and looked out over the deck, thinking she’d perhaps gone down to the barn. He saw her footprints, all right, but they didn’t lead to the barn, they led across the deck, down to his work shed.

  Sam’s heart made a tiny leap to his throat. Dirk was the only person who had seen his work shed, and even that had made Sam uncomfortable. There was something about the birdhouses that made him feel vulnerable, that set him apart from the world, and he wasn’t quite ready to open up that side of him.

  He walked outside.

  Libby was standing just inside the shed, wearing his down jacket and his Wellingtons. She was looking up, to where he’d hung a galaxy of birdhouses—the sun, the moon, a few of the more recognizable planets. When she heard him step in behind her, she turned around, her blue eyes bright. “Look at all these birdhouses!” she exclaimed, as if she’d just discovered a treasure.

  “Yeah,” he said sheepishly, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Where did I . . . I made them.”

  She gasped and looked around again. “You’re kidding. You made them?” She reached out, her fingers gliding over his replica of the Hindenburg blimp. “By yourself?”

  “No, forest gnomes helped me. Yes, by myself.”

  “Sam! They’re amazing! Do you sell them?”

  “Nah, it’s just a hobby.”

  “But they’re remarkable! Look, it’s the Capitol—and the White House!” she exclaimed with delight, rising up on her toes to examine that one.

  Sam thought of the hours he’d spent in here, when his thoughts would meander to vodka and then back to the work at hand. Every piece of wood, every bit of tin, every hole he’d drilled and every design he’d carved on those birdhouses represented one more step away from alcoholism, one step clo
ser to sobriety. They were the monuments to his struggle, to the progress he’d made, and a reminder of how much work he would throw out if he ever drank again. He needed these birdhouses, and that was his dirty little secret. He needed to see them and touch them in order to stay on his path.

  Libby stooped down to peer at the Eiffel Tower, which Sam considered one of his better pieces. “How do you know how to even do this?” she asked, her voice full of awe, which, Sam thought, gave him no small amount of pleasure. “You really should sell them.”

  “No,” he said instantly. “They’re for me.”

  “But . . .” She stood up and turned in a slow circle. “There are so many of them.”

  “I know. But every one of them means something to me.”

  Libby gave him a questioning look.

  “Every single one of them represents a bottle I didn’t drink, Libby. They are for me.”

  He could almost see her questions whirling about in her head. But she apparently understood that they were important to him because she said, “Well, they’re wonderful. I love them. If you’re not going to sell them you might want to think of building a bigger shed.” She laughed. “I love them so much, Sam. I love them even more now that I know they are little pieces of you.”

  He was surprised at how good her praise made him feel. He was reminded of an ugly Sunday afternoon when, in a vodka-infused haze, Terri had called him a worthless whittler. Mostly, those sorts of insults rolled off his back, but perhaps it had been the venom in her voice or the fact that Sam had believed himself fairly useless at the time that had made that insult stick with him all this time.

  “I should plow the road. We should be out of here by this afternoon. I’m sorry that I don’t have any food to speak of.”