by Julia London
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.
She snorted. “What I’m thinking is that we need money now.”
“So are you borrowing against the ranch? Or do you have a way to pay it back?”
“The only way we can pay it back is with some business. But I have some ideas. I’m going to do some advertising around town and online with ads on wedding sites.”
“Do you think you’ll get a lot of events from people in Pine River?” He tried to imagine how many rustic weddings were going to happen in a town of roughly twenty thousand.
“That’s the plan, so I hope so!” Libby said laughingly.
“And if you can’t book more events? Then what?”
Libby shook her head. “I haven’t gotten that far. But I am going to make it work. I’m determined.”
Sam hoped for her sake that she could make it work. He thought about saying more, but it wasn’t his place to guide her. He was a deputy sheriff, for God’s sake, not a career counselor. Still, it seemed to him that Homecoming Ranch was too far out, too remote to ever become a profitable wedding venue. Who would go all the way out there?
His silence apparently made Libby anxious. “What?” she asked him.
Sam drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.
“What?” she said again.
He glanced at her, sizing her up. “You want the truth?”
“Like you’d tell me anything less?” She laughed. “Go ahead, I can take it.” His hesitation made her brows sink into a frown. “Don’t tell me you are worried I can’t take it. Let me put your mind at ease—this is very different from finding out how your perfect little world came tumbling down. Trust me, I am not going to overreact.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he protested.
Libby rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to say anything. No one in this town has to say anything, because everyone looks at me the same way since my meltdown. Come on, tell me what your problem is,” she prodded him.
She was right, he was making assumptions. He said, “I think the event destination thing is going to be a hard sale.”
“I know. You’re not telling me anything I haven’t thought to death already. But it’s all I have, Sam. And honestly? I’m a little desperate these days. I’ve got a car that’s about to tank and no money for another one. The ranch is pretty self-sufficient but there are bills. Do you have any idea how much it costs to fill a propane tank?”
“Yes, I do. Have you thought about getting a job?”
She laughed. “Of course I have. But I want to make Homecoming Ranch work. It was handed to me on a silver platter. I need it to work.”
Sam thought he understood her. He certainly understood how sometimes, the only thing a person needed was for something just to work. “All I’m suggesting is to keep gainful employment in mind,” he said.
“Duly noted. And by the way, you suggest a lot,” she said, and closed up her pint of ice cream and returned it to the sack. “I’m curious, are you like this with your girlfriend? Or do you reserve all your suggestions for scofflaws?”
“Exclusively for the scofflaws.”
Her brows rose and she laughed with surprise. “How do you have so much time to drive around and poke your nose in other people’s business anyway?”
“That’s my job, remember?” he responded congenially as he pulled off the main road onto a bumpy dirt road.
“That’s debatable, and you’re avoiding the issue. How old are you, like forty?”
“Hey!” he said with a startled laugh. “I’m thirty-four.”
“Okay, thirty-four. Most men your age are looking for someone to do their laundry.”
“Wow,” he said, smiling curiously at her. “That’s an awfully jaded viewpoint.”
“Do you blame me?” she asked with a slight shrug.
“You’re not going to use the I-was-hurt-and-therefore-I-am-down-on-guys excuse, are you?”
“No. But that’s a good one,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll use it from now on. So?” she asked, settling back into her seat. “Girlfriend?”
“And you’re nosy, to boot,” he said. “I’m not exactly living in a hotbed of dating activity up here, you know.”
“The lack of a good dating scene didn’t stop Arnie Schmidt. He just ordered a bride right out of Russia. You should ask for the catalogue. If you want, I’ll help you pick.”
Sam laughed roundly at that. “Thanks . . . but you’d be the last person I would ask for an assist.”
“I am an excellent judge of potential wives!” she protested. “Ask Luke Kendrick!” She was now filled with the sort of enthusiasm he used to see in her, all shiny and bright-eyed with a man-appealing twinkle.
“You didn’t put Luke and Madeline together,” he said, calling her on that. From what he knew, they’d been adversaries—Luke wanting the time to buy back his family’s ranch, which his father had sold, and Madeline eager to sell it as quickly as possible.
“That is a matter of interpretation,” Libby said smartly. “If I hadn’t been so focused on the ranch and putting my fist through Ryan’s face, they wouldn’t have had so much time together.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but it was true that Libby had put all her energy into the ranch. Sam knew what it was like to be in Libby’s shoes. He knew what it was to seek that thing that would keep you from corroding from the inside out. He also understood how hard it was to look in the faces of people he’d known for many years, knowing that they understood how far he’d fallen.
They crossed a cattle guard, and the truck bounced up the pitted road until they reached Millie Bagley’s run-down bit of metal and stone house. The roof had been repaired so many times it looked like a patchwork quilt. The house sat unevenly, too, and looked as if it was sinking on the right. As they drove up, a dozen or more rail-thin cats, lounging on the porch and under the porch steps, scattered.
“Ohmigod!” Libby said, sitting up to peer out as a number of cats scurried away. “What is this, a meth lab?”
“Do you really think I�
�d take you out for a leisurely drive to a meth lab? This is Millie Bagley’s place. You remember her.”
“Millie Bagley!” Libby squinted out the front window. “Boy, do I ever remember her. She was on my route when I did Meals On Wheels. I didn’t know she’d moved out here. Probably better for all involved, because that woman is as mean as a snake.”
Sam couldn’t help but laugh, because that was absolutely right. “I figured you hadn’t forgotten her. And believe me, time has not mellowed her, so don’t take anything personally,” he advised, and opened the door.
“Wait!” Libby said, but Sam had already exited the truck.
Millie Bagley had lived in and around Pine River all of her life. She’d buried her parents, her brother, and, a couple of years ago, her husband. She had a daughter, too, somewhere—Sam thought Salt Lake City, but he wasn’t certain. She’d moved out here a few months ago to her family’s old homestead. It had probably been a fairly decent ranch at one point, but now it was nothing more than the old house on rocky ground, a shotgun, and an army of cats that looked to have grown by a dozen more every time he came around.
Millie viewed everyone as suspect. When a census taker had appeared last spring, she’d fired a warning shot in the air through her window, convinced the poor man was a government agent come to take her house away from her.
Sam noticed the shotgun propped up against a sagging porch railing and stopped short of the steps. Sam didn’t much like checking on her, but he had a conscience, and he was painfully aware that Millie Bagley didn’t have anyone to look after her. Neither did Tony D’Angelo, the Afghanistan-war veteran who lived in the old Baker house down in Elk Valley.
“Ms. Bagley, are you in there? It’s Deputy Winters.”
He heard some banging around inside the small house, and a moment later, Millie emerged in a filthy housecoat and tennis shoes. Her gray hair was clipped up behind her head in one of those plastic claws Sam saw on young women, and her skin had a greenish cast to it. A few of the cats hopped up on the porch and began to wind around her legs, meowing for food.