Return to Homecoming Ranch (Pine River)

by Julia London

  “Yeah, well . . . I’m pretty frustrated, too.” At his skeptical look, she insisted, “I am. You would not believe what I—” She stopped, shook her head, and picked up her fork.

  “You what?”

  She shook her head again. “Believe me, when I tell you, you’ll be even more frustrated. And you’ll get that look on your face—”

  “What look?”

  “That look,” she said, making a swirling motion at his face with her fork. “The I-can’t-believe-this-chick look. And you won’t listen.”

  “Come on, Libby, I’ve listened to you,” he scoffed. “More than once, I might add.”

  “I know, you have,” she said. “You, of all people, have listened to me.” She poked around her bowl with her fork.

  He watched her a moment, wanting her to eat. He didn’t like to see her so glum.

  He forked another healthy bite. “This is delicious, by the way,” he said. “You’re an excellent cook.”

  “Spoken like a hungry man,” she said with a rueful smile.

  That was the thing that made Sam cave. He loved Libby’s smile. It was one of the few things in life that made him feel good. He sighed, too, and put down his fork, his gaze on Libby again. He took in her hair, which she had pulled back, but several long tendrils of curls had drifted away. “I know you want to talk,” he said. “But first, I want to know if you understand that I could lose my job by not taking you in for the violations? For covering for you? Do you understand that I have stuck my neck out for you more than once?”

  “Yes, of course. Sam, look—I know I don’t make sense to you. Or to anyone. And as much as I’d like to clear it all up, I never seem to find the right words to explain myself, you know? When you tell me that I make no sense, I understand why you’re saying it. But in my head, I do make sense, and I find I am constantly trying to mesh what everyone tells me with what I feel. But today? Today was different. Today I fell for the hopes of an eight-year-old girl.”

  Sam was dubious. He focused on his food.

  “I swear it,” she said. “Here’s what happened,” she said, watching him closely, as if she expected him to cut her off at any moment. But Sam just shrugged and continued to eat his meal as Libby told him about Alice’s phone calls. About how she’d believed the little girl—maybe not everything she said—but that Ryan knew she was calling and it was okay because he was sorry. “She just wanted to talk to me,” Libby said. “She just wanted me in her life.”

  “And you wanted to believe her,” he said. “Just like you wanted to believe there was some hidden message in what Ryan said in the parking lot that morning.”

  “You’re right,” she said, nodding. “You’re so right, I get that now. I was stupid, and—well, you heard Ryan. He summed it up for everyone.”

  Sam had heard Ryan, all right. He really despised that man, the way he had treated Libby. He finished his bowl and leaned back, watching Libby continue to move her food around. “What do you think of Ryan now?” he asked, his voice betraying his disdain. “Still think he’s the guy for you?”

  She looked up at him, and Sam instantly regretted his tone. He could see the remnants of an old hurt in her. “No,” she said quietly. “I think he’s an even bigger ass than the day I picked up the golf club.”

  She suddenly reached for his wrist, wrapping her fingers around it. “All I wanted was a chance to keep Max and Alice in my life, and I just . . . hoped,” she said. She glanced away, and her fingers slid away from his wrist, back across the table, to her lap.

  What was it about Libby Tyler that affected Sam so? Even now, after an afternoon of incredible frustration, he felt something stirring for her.

  Maybe it was that he could see his own failures in her eyes. He knew all about useless hope, knew all about slicing pain that came with that moment of realization, when the world you had built on a hope came tumbling down like a tower of ashes. He couldn’t help himself; he reached for her hand. It seemed to surprise Libby, but she turned her hand over, so that her palm was touching his, and wrapped her fingers around his hand, too.

  “I’m starting to sound a little crazy to myself, you know?” she said softly. “I only know that one day, I thought everything was great, that we would always be together, and the next, it was like waking from a dream—it was all gone. And the worst of it was Alice and Max. I didn’t know how to go from practically being their mother to being nothing. I didn’t know how to not see them every day, or to not hear about their day, to not put them to bed. I guess I kept thinking it was a mistake, and somehow, I’d patch together a way we could still be together. I didn’t get how a father could take someone those two kids cared for from their lives for no apparent reason. Did he even once consider their feelings or what they needed?”

  “You just hoped too hard,” Sam said. “You got too wrapped up.”

  “Obviously. But I never thought of hope as a bad thing. Do you think it is?”

  “I’m really not the person to ask,” he said. Sam felt antsy now; he didn’t like thinking about how hard he’d once hoped. How he’d wasted so many good years and had even risked his health on a razor-thin hope.

  Libby sighed and slid her hand out from under his, leaving his hand empty. “Alice and Max were babies when I met Ryan. They were sleeping weird hours and they were eating the worst things, and they wore dirty clothes, and half the time they had stuff stuck in their hair,” she said, gesturing to her unruly mass of curls. “They were babies. And then they were my babies.”

  That, sadly, was Libby’s downfall—those children had never been her babies. He had no doubt it felt that way to Libby, but they’d never been her children and they never would be. It was the crux of Libby’s problems this summer—she couldn’t let go of the maternal love she possessed for those children. Sam didn’t have to point out the obvious. Libby knew it, even if her love blinded her to her actions.

  “I met Ryan when I was working as a clerk in the sheriff’s office. Did you know that?” she said wistfully.

  Sam glanced up. “I remember.”

  “He came in to report some cattle loose up on Sometimes Pass,” she said with a wan smile. “I thought he was really handsome, and we hit it off. He used to send me flowers, every Monday. They arrived like clockwork. Roses and marigolds, lilies, irises. You name it, he sent it.”

  Sam remembered it—the guys in the office had teased her, making kissing sounds and pretending to be her, acting silly when the flowers came. Libby was a good sport about it, always willing to laugh at her own expense.

  “He took me to the places I’d never really been, like the Stake Out, and the little French bistro out on the Old Aspen Highway. No one had ever treated me like that. He told me his wife had misunderstood him, and that what he needed was a woman who could be his partner. He said Gwen hadn’t connected with her own kids, and she’d left, taken off for Colorado Springs without them. He said what they needed was someone like me, someone who understood them, someone who could be a real mother to them.” She laughed bitterly. “I guess he set me up, didn’t he?”

  Ryan had been fishing for a permanent babysitter, just as he’d told Libby today, and for that Sam reviled him.

  “The thing is, he could have been straight with me about it from the beginning,” she said. “But he knew what he had, because I was knocking on the door demanding entry, because I wanted a family. I wanted exactly what Ryan offered—a love affair, kids, a house, and a dog.” Her gaze fell to her lap. “He said he loved me, and he loved how I had taken his kids in as my own, and he loved everything about our family. He said we would get married, and we would have more, and . . . and that’s where I thought we were headed. I wasn’t expecting the end. I never saw it coming.”

  Something tweaked in Sam’s chest; it felt almost as if his heart was stretching a little. He felt for Libby, he truly did. “Most people don’t see ends like that coming.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ve had more than my fair share of practice. I should have recogniz
ed what was happening.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Like when I was eight,” she said, lifting her gaze to his again, “my mom and dad got into some child-support tussle. She called his bluff and sent me out to California to live with him and Emma and her mother. Dad said, ‘oh we’re going to have fun, Libby. We’re going to do this and that, and you’ll be so glad you came,’” she said, with an airy flick of her wrist. “But really? My dad couldn’t handle the responsibility of raising me and neither could Emma’s mother. So he sent me back to Pine River. Only by then, Mom was with Derek and she was pregnant. Once the twins were born, I was the fifth wheel.”

  “Oh yeah?” Sam said, curious now. He’d met Mrs. Buchanan a few times and liked her. “Your mom seems really nice.”

  “Don’t defend her, I’m on a roll,” Libby said.

  Sam couldn’t help a small chuckle. “By all means, roll on.”

  “After that was Act Two with my dad,” Libby said with a sigh. “I’ll let you in on a secret—my dad was not a nice person. At least not to me.” She paused. “I think he had a soft spot for Emma, though,” she said thoughtfully. “Anyway, I tried so hard to know him, I really did. He wouldn’t have much to do with me, besides an occasional dinner. And even then, he talked more on his phone than he did to me. And when he got sick, I thought I could help by taking care of him. He needed someone, right? I was willing to do that, but he wouldn’t let me in. Not even for a moment,” she said, with swipe of her hand.

  “That must have been rough,” Sam said, meaning it. His own father wasn’t the warmest guy in the world, but at least Sam knew that in his own way, he cared.

  “And you know what else?” Libby said, suddenly sitting up. “He never told me about Madeline. Even in the hospital, he didn’t tell me,” she said, punching the table with her finger with each word for emphasis. “He never told me about Homecoming Ranch. All I ever tried to do was be a good daughter to him, but I always felt as if I was bothering him when I showed up.”

  Sam didn’t know much about Grant Tyler, other than he’d been a big man in Pine River. Luke had told him that Grant had tried to help Bob Kendrick out with a loan against the ranch when he needed the money for Leo. But Sam also knew that Madeline hadn’t known him at all, much less that she had two sisters out in the world. Sam didn’t know how a man could father children and then be so utterly irresponsible with their souls.

  Libby pushed her bowl away and slid down into her chair, bringing one leg up so that she could prop her knee under her chin. “And then there was Ryan. Boy, oh boy, did I fall hard for him. Totally, completely, head over heels in love with him.”

  “We’ve been down this road,” Sam said, because he didn’t want to hear again how in love she’d been with Spangler.

  “You know I got fired because of him, right?”

  Sam didn’t know it for certain, but he’d heard some talk. “How so?”

  “When he . . . when he asked me to leave,” she said, swallowing hard on those words, “I started getting calls from school. ‘Who is picking Alice up today?’” she said, mimicking someone from the school. “It happened more than once. I started to worry about Alice and Max—Ryan couldn’t keep in mind Alice’s dance lessons or Max’s soccer games. One morning, Alice called me because she couldn’t find her backpack. It was eight forty-five and they were still at home and she didn’t know where her dad was. I freaked out, I admit it,” Libby said. “When I couldn’t get him on the phone, I left work to go and see if they were okay.”

  “Were they?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, they were fine,” she said with a sigh. “The reason Alice didn’t know where Ryan was is because his mother was keeping them. He’d gone on a hunting trip or something. I neglected to ask if anyone else was with them. But then, it happened again. The dance teacher called me one afternoon and said they were closing up shop but no one had come to pick up Alice. So I left work again.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “The long and the short of it is, I couldn’t stop worrying about the kids. I left work too many times to go and see about them, or to be at dance class or soccer, or just to make sure they were at school. I was fired for it. Me. Libby Tyler, the most punctual employee the sheriff’s office had ever had. God,” she groaned.

  “Were the kids ever in true danger?” Sam asked.

  Libby shook her head. “Nope. It was always me, assuming the world couldn’t spin without me. Ryan kept forgetting, and I kept hearing about it, and I kept imagining the worst. The worst. I remember sitting at my desk imagining someone luring Alice to their car with a puppy while she waited for her dad to show up.” She closed her eyes a moment. “I was a mess. Those two had been ripped from my life and I couldn’t handle it. Mom told me I had to do something useful and stop worrying so much, and when did I become such a worrier, and on and on,” she said. “When Dad died, and I found out about Homecoming Ranch, I thought, this is it! This is what I am going to do with my life! I have two sisters, and we can make this work!”

  “You were thrown a pretty big curve ball,” Sam agreed.

  “I thought two sisters was the best thing to ever happen to me. I thought we were going to live as one big happy family up here. It never occurred to me that Madeline and Emma wouldn’t want that.” She gave Sam a sheepish look. “There you have it, Lone Ranger, my life in a nutshell. One long road of disappointment.”

  Those words resonated with him, because Sam had felt the same thing. So much hope put into a relationship, so much disappointment to come out of it. Disappointment in Terri, but mostly, disappointment in himself—for not seeing things he should have seen, for not being strong enough to fight alcoholism. He really wasn’t that different from Libby.

  “Look, I know it’s been tough for you.” He was forgiving her, and he couldn’t stop himself. It was just too damn hard to be angry with Libby.

  “You’re right, Sam, I hoped too hard. When Ryan told me he’d made a mistake, I hoped that maybe it was all a mistake, sort of like a bad dream. What I wanted, really wanted, was for him to say that he was sorry. I wanted him to say it out loud and grovel a bit, but I really wanted to hear him say he was wrong so I didn’t have to be wrong.”

  “Okay,” Sam said, leaning forward and looking her in the eye. “I’ll let you in on a secret—Ryan isn’t man enough to admit he’s wrong. Be that as it may, no more talk of it tonight, okay?” He didn’t think he could hear another word without getting into his truck and going in search of Ryan, the snow notwithstanding. He picked up their bowls and stood. “I’ve got KP duty.” He started into the kitchen.

  “But isn’t there something you need to say?” Libby asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “What you’re going to do with me. I mean, about the restraining order?”

  That was a good question, and Sam really had no idea. But he wasn’t going to do anything tonight. “Depends,” he said. “Did you make dessert?”

  A grin slowly lit Libby’s face. “No. But I bet I could find something to throw together.”

  “Better make it good,” he advised her. “It could be the difference between freedom and a little cooling-off time in jail.”

  “Wow.” Libby stood, her body almost touching his. “In that case,” she said, her gaze landing on his mouth and firing up his senses, “I really hope you have some sugar.”

  NINETEEN

  Libby watched Sam washing dishes, grateful that he’d let her talk, even offering a strong shoulder and a good ear. But give an inch and take a mile—Libby had dumped her entire life story on him, warts and all. Now, there was really very little Sam Winters didn’t know about her. She hadn’t told him that she’d once aspired to be a diplomat with spy privileges, but then again, she’d been ten years old.

  Now, Libby wanted to know about him. She wanted to know what made him want to look after people no one else looked after. Or what romances in his life had taught him to kiss a woman so thoroughly she felt like she was floating. She wanted to know how h
e’d suddenly gotten so damn hot, and how she had failed to fully appreciate that in the past. She admired his trim waist, his broad shoulders, the way that loose pair of jeans rode low on his hips.

  Sam noticed she was looking at him. “How about that dessert, Tyler?” he asked as he reached to put a pan away, revealing a glimpse of muscled abs.

  “I’m thinking. You have to admit, your kitchen setup is pretty pathetic. You have cereal, and that’s about it.”

  “Are you giving up? Opting for jail?”

  “No way,” she said. “But I’m going to have to resort to a poor man’s dessert.”

  “Syrup and bread?”

  “No,” she said, horrified. “What sort of animal are you? Just stay here.” She picked up a big salad bowl she’d found, and brushed against him on her way out.

  She stepped into the mudroom, gasping with shock at the cold. She stuffed her feet into the oversized boots again, stepped outside and, using her bare hands, filled the bowl with snow. She came back in, hopping around a little to stamp the chill from her bones.

  Sam was leaning against the clean counter when she returned to the kitchen. He took a look at her bowl and said, “Snow ice cream.”

  “Good guess!”

  “Not really—it’s just that I’ve been a poor man.” He winked at her.

  Libby grabbed milk from the fridge and measured it out, then looked in Sam’s cabinet. “I can’t believe you have vanilla extract. You have nothing else, but you have that. Why?”

  He laughed. “Who knows?”

  “It’s curious, Mr. Winters. You know so much about me now, and yet I don’t know anything about you. Hardly seems fair.”

  “Fair has nothing to do with it. You’ve made it my job to know about you. I’m being paid to know about you and to keep you from adding to the tale.”

  “Semantics. I think you are trying to avoid talking about you right now.” She pointed a measuring spoon at him. “If we’re going to be friends, I should get some details.”