Return to Homecoming Ranch (Pine River #2)
Julia London
ONE
When something goes down in Pine River, I know about it, because I have one of those faces that makes people want to tell me their life stories. You know, super handsome with movie star eyes. Plus, I’m in a chair, which makes people think I’m trustworthy. I’m not that trustworthy, because if I hear something good, I’m definitely going to pass it on. Anyway, I’ve heard a lot of amazing stuff about people in Pine River. Not amazing like wow, amazing! But more like, who-does-that? amazing.
You’re probably wondering where I get my news, seeing as how I’m not exactly mobile. Here’s the God’s honest truth: I get a lot of my best information from the Methodists.
I know, right?
I know what you’re thinking: Leo Kendrick, that’s not nice. But, see, the Methodist’s Women’s Group get together to do good Christian works, like make quilts and give them to really old people. There are about fifteen church ladies in that group and they are awesome. Not only will they tell me things, but they take me out for walks and they bring stuff like the socks they knit and homemade apple pies. And now, they’re batting around ideas for getting me a new van. I sort of planted the idea with them because I’ve got a date with the Denver Broncos and I need wheels, man. Besides, that’s what I do, I think up genius ideas. Ask anyone.
Marisol doesn’t have much use for the Methodists. She’s the warden in the Kendrick monkey camp, the one who hoses me down and WD-40’s my chair when it gets squeaky and talks to my brother Luke about his wedding stuff (seriously, Luke, get married already!), and helps Dad figure out the DVD player (come on, Dad, how can you still not get it after we’ve shown you like five hundred times?).
Yeah, Marisol gets testy about the Methodists. Just the other day she said, “What do you promise them? They come every day, those church ladies, and they talk, talk, talk.” She sounded like a chicken when she said that.
I said, “How do you think I found out Fred Heizer was caught in the park bathroom with some guy from the gym? I don’t remember you asking me to pipe down when I told you that one.”
But Marisol was not impressed, because she’s been like super pregnant for about fourteen years and very cranky.
Anyway, Deb Trimble is the church lady who showed up on Elm Street with a big batch of bean soup one day and told me what Libby Tyler had done (side note: I didn’t have the heart to tell Deb that the last thing anyone needs to give three guys in a tiny house is a big batch of bean soup, but Dad was like, “Great! I don’t have to cook now,” and then he pulverized it to put into my feedbag).
So Deb was dying to tell me, but she couldn’t come over just to gossip, because Methodists don’t think they do that, even though they are the worst. Between us turkeys, I think she dug that soup out of the back of her fridge, and trotted over (well, maybe she didn’t trot. Deb’s a little on the hefty side) and she said it in a big whisper, even though we were watching Jeopardy, and everyone knows the rule is no talking during Jeop. We all know that.
She said, “Did you hear about Libby Tyler?”
Listen, I’ve heard plenty about Libby Tyler. I’ve known Libby since we were six, and I’ll be honest, I always had a thing for her hair. It’s black, and super curly, and bouncy. And it goes great with her pale blue eyes. Hair aside, I’ve heard a lot about her recently, but I hadn’t heard she’d taken a golf club to Ryan Spangler’s truck and bashed out the windows, right there on Main Street in front of everyone.
Ryan was totally pissed off, and he got a restraining order, and now Libby can’t go anywhere near him. Which kind of sucks when you think about it, because he has these two kids that Libby is really attached to. But I can see Ryan’s point, because it is an awesome truck, an F-350, which is about as big and bad as you can get in a pickup.
Deb told me the story and she said, “What do think?”