Return to Homecoming Ranch (Pine River) (14 page)

Patti and Marisol were in the kitchen, tidying things up. “Game’s starting!” Patti said cheerfully.

“Yep. I just need to, ah . . .” To
hit
something. A brick wall, a face, a truck. She gestured down the hall.

“Bathroom on the right,” Marisol said, absently gesturing in that direction.

Yes, a bathroom, with lots of tile to kick for someone who was about to unravel. Libby walked down the narrow hallway to the bathroom, seething. She had lived in this town most of her life, had been a part of it, making herself join activities just so that she
could
be part of it. She had always been optimistic and hopeful, ready to start again, to help again. What everyone had known of her was overshadowed by the events of this awful summer and a brief stay at Mountain View. It wasn’t fair. She could not be the only person in Pine River to have lost her composure.

“Libby, for heaven’s sake. Couldn’t you have just called him a few names and been done with it? People don’t forget things like this,” her mother had said on the drive up to Mountain View. “I don’t know what’s come over you. You’ve always been so easy to get along with, but now, all of a sudden, you act like everything is about you, a personal affront to you.”

Libby hadn’t been capable of a protracted discussion with her mom at that moment, but she recalled marveling at how her mother could possibly think that Ryan’s cheating on her could be anything
but
a personal affront to her.

And once again, her mother had been right—people did not forget golf-club incidents.

Libby walked inside the bathroom, shut the door behind her and locked it, and turned around, barely registering the towels hanging neatly on the towel bar, the toothbrush holder, the two razors on the sink, or the fact that someone had put out some pretty little soaps, as if that would mask the fact that this was a bathroom men shared.

She leaned against the door and slowly slid down, onto her haunches, and wrapped her arms around her legs, pressed her forehead to her knees.

Her emotions were balling up and tripping over each other. Overhearing Michelle and Sherry is what Dr. Huber would call a trigger, something that unexpectedly set off the tiny pilot flame of rage that existed in her, causing it to flare out of control. When these moments happened, Libby was to breathe deeply and set her mind’s eye on something pleasant, like a tropical beach.

When she’d been at Mountain View, she hadn’t put much stock in that sort of thinking. In a sterile room, staring out a window onto a parking lot, all Libby had wanted was to sleep. To think of tropical beaches had seemed so far removed from helpful as to be ridiculous. But this evening, she had no choice. With her head down, her eyes closed, Libby drew a long breath, counting to ten, then slowly released it. Another breath, count to ten, slow release. And again.

She’d been stung, and now she had the task of convincing herself that it didn’t matter what anyone thought of her. No one but she knew how hard she’d worked to put a family together, or how important she’d become to Alice and Max, and they to her. Or how Ryan had walked all over that as if it had all meant nothing, as if the energy and love she had poured into that family was worthless to him.

Outside, she could hear the voices rise to a crescendo at the opening kickoff. She lifted her head, breathed out once more. Dr. Huber was right—deep breathing did help. Libby pitched forward onto her hands and knees, then pushed herself up, down dog style, to standing. She looked at herself in the mirror. There was no sign that she was on the verge of exploding with disappointment and frustration. She sighed, tucked in a stray curl or two, smoothed her top, and with one last deep breath, reached for the bathroom door, unlocking it and pulling it open.

She let out a little squeal of surprise to see Sam standing there, leaning against the wall opposite the door. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes. Why?” she asked defensively.

Sam cocked a brow.

“I’m
fine
,” she said adamantly.

“Okay,” he said, and pushed away from the wall.

“But wait—I need to know something. Do
you
think I would do something to torpedo Leo’s fundraising just because Gwen is involved?” she blurted, because it suddenly seemed of the utmost importance that Sam not think that, of all people.

“
No
,” he said firmly. “Don’t let it get to you, Libby. You know how it is out in the world today—people are more cautious than they used to be.”

“So basically, what you’re saying is all of Pine River is worried that I will be the one to pick up a gun and start firing.”

He smiled sympathetically. “I wouldn’t say
all.
”

Libby blinked.

“I’m teasing you.”

“Yeah,” she said. “You should look into stand-up comedy.”

“Maybe I will,” he said, and moved forward. Only inches separated them now. “Are you ready to come watch some football?”

Libby sighed, and before she knew what she was doing, she dropped her forehead to Sam’s shoulder. “I don’t think I can.”

“Sure you can,” he murmured.

They stood awkwardly a moment—Libby leaning into Sam, her face in his shirt, her arms at her side. Sam standing stiff and still. But then Libby felt him lift one hand. He put it on the small of her back.

“Don’t cry,” he said.

She snorted. “I’m not crying. I’m too mad to cry.”

Another hand came up and landed on her back. He gave her a strange, but friendly little pat, as if he didn’t know what to do with her precisely.

Libby lifted her head. In that close hallway, Sam’s eyes looked dark. “Sam—”

“No,” he said quickly, cutting her off. “I meant what I said, Libby. No more hand-holding.”

“I know. I heard you the first five times you said it.” His eyes were the color of turbulent, churning seas.

“Great,” he said as his gaze drifted to her mouth. “Then you understand that your problem is not mine.”

“Good!” she said, studying his bottom lip, full and wet. A shiver of memory raced down her spine. “You’re too bossy, anyway.”

“God, don’t talk anymore,” he said, and lowered his head, his mouth hungrily finding hers.

Desire shot through her, and Libby sank into him. He pulled her closer, and she ran her hands up his arms, curved them around his neck, opened her mouth beneath his.

Sam met her, his tongue tangling with hers, his grip tightening. And suddenly they were moving. Sam had her firmly anchored with one arm around her waist. He was pushing her back, through the open bathroom door, and up against the sink. With his boot, he kicked the door shut. One hand slid down her back, to her hip, and his fingers sank into her flesh, kneading it, sparking a fire that flamed through all of her.

He lifted Libby up and sat her on the edge of the sink, slipping in between her legs. She wrapped a leg around him as he pressed his erection against her. He slid his hand up under her sweater, over her bare skin, to her breast, filling his hand with it.

Sam’s touch renewed Libby, made her feel as if she’d been dragged out from behind the weeds, made to stand in the sun again. She felt desirable, felt all of the senses she thought dulled come alive. His kiss was demanding, but at the same time soft and reverent. He cupped her chin, ran his hand over her hair. He drew her lip in between his teeth, swept his tongue in her mouth.

Libby wanted more, wanted to feel him inside her.

Feel him inside her?

Sam Winters?

What was she thinking? What about . . . what about everything else? Everything else began to fade away, disappearing beneath the sensations she was experiencing in Sam’s arms.

Sam cupped her face in both hands, brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. He didn’t speak, just gazed into her face and eyes as if he was trying to work something out.

He dropped his gaze to the V of her sweater. He dipped down, kissed the hollow of her throat, and traced a wet path to the top of her breasts, then in the valley between them.

Libby was completely drawn in, her body supple and wet. Sam suddenly moved up, kissed her again, kissed her forehead, and then dropped his hands to the sink on either side of her, bracing himself there, putting himself at eye level with her.

“That’s twice now,” he said.

“Twice that you’ve kissed me?”

“Twice that
you’ve
kissed
me.
”

She smiled.

“It’s not going to happen again, Libby.”

She looked at his lips. The desire was swirling around in her, a confusing mix of not wanting and wanting him at the same time. “I know,” she said breathlessly, and trailed her fingers down his Adam’s apple, to the open collar of his shirt. “I was just about to tell you the same thing. Stop kissing me.”

“Then we’re on the same page.” He kissed her again, and Libby slid her arms around his neck.

When she lifted her head, she said, “It’s like the worst thing that could happen, you and me.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, and ran his knuckles across her collarbone before nuzzling her ear as his hand reached for her breast again. “So go on, get out of here.”

“Oh, I’m going,” she said, and slid her hands over his shoulder, down his chest, to his waist. “I’m getting the hell out of here.”

Sam put a hand to her waist and pulled her off the sink. But he was still blocking her way to the door, and his hand was still on her breast. Libby kissed the skin beneath his open collar, felt his pulse beneath her lips, the warmth of his skin, and then pushed him aside. She walked to the bathroom door and glanced at him over her shoulder. He was leaning with one hip against the sink, his head lowered, his gaze devouring her.

She took him in, every delicious inch of him. “I must be truly crazy,” she said with a small shake of her head.

“And it must be contagious.”

Libby grinned. “See you around, Lone Ranger,” she said, and straightened her sweater, opened the door, and walked out of that room, her body still thrumming with desire.

FIFTEEN

In the few days that followed the Kendrick party, Libby busied herself getting the ranch ready for the final inspection by Gary, Austin and Gary’s mother, Martha. Tony had not yet finished Libby’s car—he’d had to send off for a part, but was vague about which one, or how much it cost, or where it was coming from. “I know a guy out by Durango,” was all he would say.

That meant Libby hadn’t been to town except once, and that was in the backseat of Madeline’s SUV, while Madeline and Luke rode up front, giggling like a pair of teenagers, their hands on each other’s legs.

Sometimes, Libby felt as if the whole world was a couple, spinning around her and laughing in couple-speak while she worked.

The feel of Sam’s hands was still tingling on her skin and in her memory.

It all made for a very confusing mix of emotions. Libby didn’t want to be intrigued by the physical response Sam had aroused in her, but she was. She kept reliving those moments in the bathroom, and in the hall here at the ranch, and imagining more intimate moments with Sam.

But on the other hand, she had loved Ryan, and she still desperately loved the children. Their faces kept coming back to her, their smiles flying through her thoughts.

She couldn’t simply carve them out of her heart and pretend they had never been there. They were ever-present, always in her thoughts.

She had not imagined the good times the four of them had had. She thought of Ryan with his arms around her in the kitchen, nuzzling her neck while she made pasta sauce. Or the bitterly cold night they’d roasted marshmallows over the fire. She thought about reading the same book every night to Max when he’d been a toddler. It was a book of truck pictures, and he could name every one of them. She thought about how she would braid Alice’s red hair in the mornings while Alice fired questions at her.
Why do I have to brush my teeth? Why do I have to take a bath? Why are faeries tiny? Why does Daddy have boots?

It had been a good life, and Libby knew she wasn’t imagining it. What was she supposed to do now? Give up hope of Alice and Max? Was that even possible?

Her thinking was further muddied by the fact that Sam hadn’t come out to the ranch. Not that Libby was expecting him, exactly, as they had agreed there would be no more of that truly wonderful, sexy thing between them. She wasn’t expecting him, but she was disappointed all the same. She wondered if he’d been out to see Millie Bagley. Or if he was having lunch at the Grizzly.

She wondered if he thought about her.

In the meantime, every afternoon around four, Alice called her, and Libby was thrilled to hear her voice. It was the brightest moment of her day. Alice talked about dance class, about her teacher, and about Tatiana, her new friend. She reported that Max wouldn’t eat his peas or pick up his toys and had been in time-out a
lot.
Sometimes, Max would agree to let Libby speak to him on the phone, responding with a functional yes or no before dropping the phone to run off and play.

Libby asked Alice where Mommy and Daddy were, and Alice told her that her mother was at work, or that Kaylee, their teenage babysitter, was over. Libby said, “Alice, I don’t want you to be in trouble. You need to ask Daddy if it’s okay to call me.”

“I did!” Alice insisted. “Daddy said.”

Daddy said.

The very next day, Alice announced plans for a trip to Disney World. “Daddy said we could go.”

“Said who could go?” Libby had asked, distracted by the task of counting place cards.

“All of us. Me and Max and Daddy. And you!”

Libby had looked up from her work. “Not me, sweetie.”

“Uh-huh,” Alice said. “They have princesses there. You can dress like a princess, too. Tatiana went and she told me.”

This was getting out of hand. Libby needed to see Ryan, to talk to him about what was going on with the kids. Alice was not an untruthful child, but this made no sense. As much as Libby hoped it was Ryan’s buildup to crawling back and begging for forgiveness—something she would very much like to see . . . in a public venue, preferably . . . with everyone in Pine River in attendance—she didn’t believe it.

What she needed was to sort this out. She thought of calling him, but decided against it. The last thing she needed was for Gwen to see her number pop up on his phone. And besides, this conversation was one that needed to be held in person.

Thursday morning, on the day that Gary and Austin would come to inspect the grounds, Libby went out to the garage to check on Tony’s progress with her car. Surprisingly, the hood of her car was closed, and her car had been washed and buffed. “Looking for these?” Tony asked, and held out her keys.

Libby gasped with delight. She took the keys, got into the car and started it up. The thing purred like new. Like
new.

“Happy?” Tony asked when she stepped out of the car.

“Ecstatic,” she said, smiling. “Really, thank you, Tony. I don’t know how I’ll ever pay you. What do I owe you?”

He glanced down at the bolt or screw or whatever it was he was polishing. “I could do with a few groceries,” he said. “Still got this old Buick to fix up. Might take some time.” He peeked up at her. “Ernest doesn’t seem to mind.”

Libby glanced around the garage.

“I do more than cars,” Tony said. “And I can build just about anything.”

Libby inadvertently and unthinkingly glanced at his prosthetic leg.

“Don’t worry about that,” Tony said instantly. “I get by. Look, I can stay out at the place Sam found for me, sure. It’s nice enough, got everything a man could want.”

Libby didn’t think that place had anything anyone would want—it was remote, stark, run-down, and utterly depressing.

“But here . . . well, here, there’s people. Ernest. Luke. Even you, when you’re not complaining about your car.” He smiled a little.

“I don’t really
complain
so much as I—”

“I was thinking another week or so,” he continued. “The thing is, I kind of need to be around people right now.”

There was something in his voice that sounded a little unsteady. Worse, it sounded completely familiar. It sounded alone and in need of emotional support.

Tony swallowed and glanced down at the things he held in his hand. “I don’t like being alone.” He averted his gaze and reached for a new screw.

“I don’t like it either,” Libby said. “You can stay as long as you need, Tony,” she said. He looked at her, his expression wary, as if he didn’t trust her. “I’m serious. There’s always something that needs to be done.”

Tony reached into his soiled pocket and withdrew a cigarette. “Thanks. Then I should get to work,” he said, and turned away from her. But he glanced over his shoulder and said, “Thanks, Libby.”

Libby left him in the garage and walked back to the house. There was a nip in the air—it was too early for cold weather, she thought, but she could see clouds over the mountains across the valley.

She stood there, her arms around her middle, looking out over the valley. What was she doing here, really? Libby recalled a moment at Mountain View, in the haze of meds and fatigue. Someone—perhaps Dr. Huber, Libby couldn’t really recall—had said that when something breaks, it’s impossible to put it back exactly the same way. She remembered thinking that was such an odd thing to say, and that it had nothing to do with her. Unless they were talking about truck windows.

But now, Libby wondered if that’s what she was doing. If she was trying to put the pieces of her life back together and they didn’t fit. Alice and Max didn’t fit with Sam. Homecoming Ranch didn’t fit with weddings. She wasn’t sure what fit anymore.

It was time she figured things out. For real. Not what she wanted, what was real.

A movement caught her eye—she saw the dust rising from the road as Austin and Gary’s car drove up the road to the ranch.

It was showtime.