Return to Homecoming Ranch (Pine River)

by Julia London

  That’s okay, I’m on it, using my considerable brain capacity to think things through. One day, Luke comes home or over—who knows if he lives here or not anymore, right? Get married already!—and he says, all serious, “Dude, you better have a tight rein on that committee.”

  Like I don’t. Like I am going to entrust my van to a bunch of women. Don’t make me laugh. Seriously, what do women know about vans? Nothing, that’s what. Now, don’t get your panties in a wad, it’s just biology. You wouldn’t trust me to choose the new furniture for your living room makeover, would you? I rest my case.

  I said to Luke, “I’ve got my fingers all in that pie, bro. We’re working on a silent auction. I just need a little help rounding up some excellent prizes.”

  He said, “Like what?”

  “Helicopter skiing,” I said. Honestly, it just popped into my mind, but that’s what happens with MND, brilliant and clever thoughts are constantly firing away.

  But Luke was like, “Helicopter skiing!” As if he totally wouldn’t do that. Of course he would. I never knew anyone who was as fearless as Luke. He said, “Where are you going to get that?”

  I said I didn’t know, but the Methodists weren’t going to find helicopter skiing, and that was a problem because this auction needed some pizzazz to get the van.

  And Luke said, “Well, I think you’re going to have a bigger problem than a lack of pizzazz, Leo. Libby Tyler has joined the committee.”

  Now, see, this is where the wheat is separated from the chaff. While everyone else might see a problem, I see something totally awesome. In fact, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before! What that committee needs is a little bit of all-American competition, so I was totally pumped when Luke told me that. He wanted to know what I was grinning about, and I told him I was going to turn Libby and Gwen loose on each other, and he said I was an idiot, that there was nothing worse than two women in a catfight. I said I thought it was sexist to suggest that women in competition were automatically a “catfight,” only because I heard that on the Katie Couric show. Between you and me and the wall, there is nothing that turns me on more than two women duking it out.

  Yeah, okay, there might be something that turns me on more, but this isn’t that kind of story.

  So Luke goes on, telling me what I knew about women he could put on a postage stamp, and, of course, in waddles Marisol, and she has to get in on the act and agree.

  “You don’t think before your tongue moves,” she said, pointing a finger at me.

  I said, “Pile it on, bitches. You can’t touch this,” and if I could point, I would have pointed to me. But they knew what I meant and Luke said some very mean things to a guy in a chair, which, in hindsight, totally makes me laugh.

  The thing that really chaps them is that they know I’m right. Just like I knew Sam was hot for Libby, I know that this is going to work. It’s going to be the best fundraiser ever. And when you see my van flying by with some killer flames and twenty-inch chrome wheels, you can wave and say, there goes a genius.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Libby was happy, in a way she had not been in a very long time. Jubilant. Buoyant. A walking, talking Alka-Seltzer, bubbling and fizzing with happiness. Funny how these things went, how you could believe you were relatively happy, that you were doing okay, but then something would change, and suddenly, real happiness was sliding over you in big, gelatinous waves, oozing into all the corners of your life.

  That was how it went for Libby. With Sam, she was happier than she’d been in weeks, months, maybe even years. He was attentive and caring and funny and strong and . . . well, she could go on, but the point was, Libby felt as if she had at last reentered her life, had opened the door and walked through to the big wide world out there instead of hiding in the shadows of the past. Since Sam and she had come together, Libby could feel herself changing. She could feel it in her bones, could feel the layers of disappointment sloughing off of her, being replaced by fresh new hopes and dreams.

  She still had her problems—her bank account was whimpering, and she hadn’t had time to focus on her plan to drum up more events. She missed Alice and Max like she would miss an arm, thought of them all the time, debated calling them, tried not to think about them. That was hard, and some days, impossible. Admittedly, Libby was still finding reasons to go into Pine River just about the time school was letting out, and from a distance, would watch Alice skipping out with her best friend, Sasha. Or see Max with a soccer ball kicking and dipping his way to the field for afterschool practice.

  Libby had come to accept that if she could just see them, if even at a distance, and know they were okay, she could live with not holding them. And it didn’t hurt that in the back of her mind, she believed that in working on the committee for Leo, she might see the kids. It stood to reason that if Gwen was heading the committee meetings, there would be times when she would either have Alice and Max in tow, or perhaps the babysitter would drop them off. And Libby would see them.

  Just see them. Not wave at them, not carry on conversations with them. Just see them and know they were happy and whole.

  It was a small hope, a secret hope, but it helped Libby cope with the reality of her relationship with the children she loved.

  In the meantime, she was thankfully and exceptionally busy in her new relationship with Sam and putting the finishing touches on Austin and Gary’s ceremony.

  She was amazed at how happy Sam made her. It all seemed so easy for him, too. It was in the little things—the way he looked at her as if he longed for her, even though she was standing right before him. Or how his smile was full of fondness, or how he laughed at her jokes, even the bad ones. It was in the way he didn’t seem to mind that she liked to talk about things—anything and everything.

  What perhaps meant the most to Libby besides Sam’s affection for her was that she didn’t sense any judgment from Sam. She didn’t sense anything from him but interest in who she was and in what they could become together. That made her happy. They were good together.

  Libby tried not to compare Sam to Ryan, but she couldn’t help it. At the end of every day, Ryan had been more concerned if Libby was listening to him than with anything she had to say about herself. Nor did Libby recall ever feeling as if Ryan understood her completely. At the same time, she’d assumed that it was male-female discord every other couple experienced at one time or another.

  She didn’t feel that discord with Sam.

  Dr. Huber had subtly pointed this out to her once. “Don’t you think,” she asked, “that a relationship should be a give and take of the good, the bad, the mundane, and the exciting for both parties? Doesn’t that create balance in a relationship?”

  Libby had never given that notion much thought. She knew that Ryan had so much on his plate—an ex-wife to deal with, a propane business that was suffering from the economy like everything else—and while those words sounded good, Libby thought that Dr. Huber was a little blind to the realities of working-class people.

  But Dr. Huber had been right, and Libby had been shown once again how she had lived with blinders.

  Not this time. Libby stole every moment she could to be with Sam, and every moment spent in his company—talking, making love, laughing—was another moment she felt her life gaining strength and direction.

  The day before Austin and Gary’s wedding, the weather turned cold and wet, and the skies began to spit bits of icy rain. Libby’s happiness shrouded her like a cloak when several guests decided not to make the trek up to Homecoming Ranch for the ceremony for fear of being stuck by another early blizzard.

  The few that did drive up from Durango and Colorado Springs sat shivering in the barn, no matter how high Luke cranked the space heaters. Gary and Austin’s little dogs had muddied feet, and one of them planted his paws on Gary’s trouser, sending his mother, Martha, into an orbit of displeasure.

  In spite of the hard work Libby and Madeline had put in, and how happy Austin and Gary seemed to be, Mart
ha’s sourness about the event—and the lack of dazzle, given the elements—rubbed off on Madeline.

  “I don’t see how this is ever going to work,” she said at the end of the night when the guests had left. “It’s too far out, and too many things can happen. Unless we build a hotel with a big ballroom, this ranch is never going to work as a destination event place.”

  “We have two cabins—” Libby started, but Madeline was quick to cut her off.

  “Two empty cabins. Two empty cabins that we paid to have built so that people would stay in them. Which they did not do because we are too far away from anything, the weather is too unpredictable, and, Libby, please, God, admit it, this is not going to work.”

  “Okay,” Libby said, defeated. “I admit it.” What Madeline was saying was true. But Libby had put so much hope into Homecoming Ranch. She’d hoped too hard, just like she’d hoped too hard with Ryan. She could admit defeat in the event business, but she wouldn’t declare Homecoming Ranch defeated. She’d come too far with it. There had to be another way to make it viable.

  Libby refused to let Madeline’s pessimism dampen her spirits. She felt nothing but optimism for the future. This was exactly the sort of setback that would have put Libby on the floor only weeks ago, but everything had changed since then. She was bone-tired from the work of getting a muddy ranch ready for a wedding, from the stress of not knowing where her next paycheck would come from, and still, she felt as if she were floating around on little puffy white clouds.

  When she wasn’t at Homecoming Ranch, she was at Sam’s place, watching him craft birdhouses, even though he said that made him self-conscious. Or cooking for him in his underwhelming kitchen. The day after the disastrous wedding event, Sam even talked her into riding out to check on mean Millie, who told Libby to get off her property or she’d shoot her. Libby had laughed at the threat. She felt too invincible to be brought down by the likes of Millie Bagley.

  She really appreciated the way Sam cared for Tony, too. Now that Ernest had brought the cattle down from the forest leases, he was ready to drive them down to one of the valleys for the winter. Tony had tried to help him, but his artificial leg had proved to be a problem.

  “He really hates that he can’t do all the things he used to do,” Sam said. “I keep telling him that he had twenty-seven years to get used to the leg he lost, and he needs more than a year to get used to the new one.”

  Sam was diligent about checking on Tony and building him up, and Libby truly admired the way Sam had shouldered the responsibility in a way that no one else had. Or would, given the opportunity. But that was Sam—he was the towering tree among them, strong and protective and supportive. Sometimes, Libby wondered if he was trying to make up for what happened with Terri. Trying to erase those years by doing something good and really helping people instead of merely talking about it.

  Whatever his motive, Libby wanted to be more like him. She wanted to help. So when Tony told Libby one afternoon that he was sad all the time, she asked him if there was someone he’d like to talk to. She had in mind someone like Dr. Huber, but Tony said, “My buddy Justin. He’s in Denver. I told him maybe he could come out here for a few days.”

  “He’s more than welcome,” Libby said. “Luke goes to Denver from time to time—maybe he could bring him. Tell him to come on.”

  If Libby was this happy, she thought Tony deserved to be happy, too.

  Madeline wasn’t quite on board with it, however. “God, Libby,” she said, rubbing her temples. “We can hardly pay bills. We can’t pay these guys, we can’t really feed them—we just don’t have the money.”

  “Then I’ll stop by the food bank,” Libby had said calmly. “I’ll handle it, Madeline. Don’t worry.”

  “I can’t help it,” Madeline had said wearily.

  When Justin showed up, and he and Tony puttered around the ranch, fixing this or that, it really seemed to help perk Tony up. And it gave Libby an idea.

  One night, she lured Sam to the ranch with the promise of lasagna. Before dinner, she took him up a muddied path through a stand of cottonwoods to Mrs. Kendrick’s garden. The garden was concealed by shrubbery. Inside the garden was a hammock stand, an old stone bench, and some empty clay pots. Tony and Justin had recently cleaned up the flower beds, digging out the weeds and debris.

  “A little late in the season for gardening, isn’t it?” Sam asked, looking around.

  “Yes,” Libby said. “But it will be less work in the spring. There are a million jobs like this at Homecoming Ranch,” she said.

  Sam laughed as he stood behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and rubbed. “There’s a million jobs like this around every place in the mountains.”

  “Right,” Libby said, and twisted around in his arms. “Therapeutic work. Things to do with your hands.”

  Sam looked at her curiously. “I have a feeling there is a message here.”

  “What if,” she said, “veterans who needed a place to stay, to learn how to be in the world again, came here? What if we made this a therapeutic place for them?”

  Sam looked around the garden.

  “We have the bunkhouse. We even have two cabins. We could have several up here at a time.”

  “Something like that would take money,” Sam pointed out. “Money you don’t have,” he added, touching his finger to her nose.

  “I thought of that,” she said, and slipped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest. “I’ve done a little bit of research into rehabilitation for vets. I need to do more, a lot more, and talk to some people—but I’ve learned there is the possibility of grants and donations to help.”

  Sam didn’t say anything. Libby felt a twinge of disappointment. No doubt he was thinking it was too impossible, too far-fetched. She lifted her head and risked a look up at him and was surprised when Sam smiled.

  “I think it’s a great idea. Don’t get me wrong—it will be hard to execute, and you’ll need a good plan for it . . . but I think you might be onto something,” he said, looking around at the neat little garden, nodding his head.

  “Thank you!” Libby said, and squeezed him in a hug.

  “For what?”

  “For not shooting it down.” And for giving her something to think about, something on the horizon to look forward to.

  Unfortunately, there were other worries that needed her immediate attention. It was clear to her that she would have to get a job, but before she was submerged into the ocean of working long hours for little pay, she really wanted to help Leo get that van.

  Finding out the schedule of the committee meetings proved to be the most difficult thing of all—no one seemed to know when or where they were.

  She finally managed to get hold of Deb Trimble one morning to get to the bottom of the mysterious committee meeting times. Deb didn’t seem very happy to hear from Libby, especially when she knew the reason for the call. “Ah, well,” she said, in a singsongy voice. “I’m not sure the next meeting has been set.”

  “Next?” Libby said. “You mean there’s already been one?” No one had called her in spite of repeated inquiries.

  “We’ve just started,” Deb quickly clarified. “It’s been a lot of email, that sort of thing.”

  “There’s an email loop?”

  “Ah . . . no. Not a loop,” Deb said. “Informal.”

  Libby frowned at the wall before her. “So . . . do you think in the emails someone might have mentioned the time and place of the next meeting?”

  “I guess I remember something about it,” Deb said. “Let me look.”

  A moment later, she told Libby the next meeting would be held Wednesday at noon at the church. That was the time the women’s group met every week—Libby knew this because Dani went every week. Which meant that it wasn’t a very hard meeting time to remember or to pass along.

  Libby knew what was going on, and she wasn’t going to be put off.

  “Everyone is coming back with their ideas of fundraising activ
ities, and we’re going to vote on what we can realistically pursue in the next two months,” Debbie said. “There are a lot of good ideas already, Libby. A lot.”

  “Great!” Libby said confidently. “I’ve got a couple of good ideas, too.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Deb said, and Libby chose to ignore the strain of sarcasm in her voice. She’d never had any issue with Deb Trimble and she wasn’t going to create one.

  On the day before the meeting, Libby met her mother for coffee in Pine River.

  She hadn’t seen her mother in weeks, as her mother’s life revolved around the twins’ school and her work as a designer with Claire’s Fine Furnishings.

  Stevie Buchanan was wearing leggings and boots and a thick sweater with a cashmere scarf around her neck. Libby was wearing a similar outfit—but her boots were a bit scuffed and her sweater not as elegant. Her mother had the same unruly hair as Libby, but she paid to have it straightened and wore it short. Libby held her mess back with a headband.

  Her mother gave Libby a tight hug, held her out at arm’s length and looked at her. “You look great, honey,” she said, nodding approvingly. “You’ve put on a little weight since Mountain View.”

  Libby wasn’t certain that was a compliment.

  “So?” her mother said, smiling, as she picked up a menu. “I heard at the salon that you’ve been stepping out with Sam Winters.”

  “Stepping out?” Libby laughed. “That’s so nineteen-twenties, Mom.”

  Her mother waved a hand at her. “Come on, tell me all,” she said with a smile. “Well, not all. I don’t want to hear the details of your sex life.”

  “Mom!”

  “Oh, please. You’re almost twenty-seven. Let me tell you, I always thought that man was a hunk. So how did this thing get started between the two of you?”

  “You really want to know?” Libby asked, and leaned forward, as if she was going to share a delicious secret. “He almost arrested me for violating the restraining order.”

  Her mother gasped. “Libby!” she cried. “Good Lord!”