“Well good morning,” the woman said, surprised by her cheerfulness.
Libby marched to the freezer section at the back of the store. She heard the tingle of a bell as the door opened again, but she continued to peruse the frozen cases, debating the idea of consuming ice cream before ten in the morning, particularly given her recent bit of weight gain from such practices.
But it was an extraordinary morning, and Libby picked up a pint of Rocky Road. And a pint of Neapolitan. And one of Caramel Crunch for a well-balanced breakfast. With the pints stuffed into the crook of her elbow, she stepped back and let the freezer door shut—and stared into the eyes of Sam Winters again.
“Let’s try this again,” he said congenially. “What were you doing up at Ryan’s house?” He leaned his shoulder against the freezer door, as if he thought they were going to be here awhile, chatting it up like neighbors. He looked a little odd in such a casual pose—Sam was an imposing man with big shoulders and bigger arms. He probably intimidated a lot of people.
But he did not intimidate Libby. “Sam,” she said, smiling, “I hope this doesn’t come across as rude, but it’s really none of your business. And yet, I’m going to tell you, because I know you will insist. I was using a shortcut to go to town. So . . .” She shrugged. “I guess I’ll see you around.” She started to move past him, then paused, stepped back, and said, “By the way, thanks for . . . you know, helping me,” she said, referring to his telling Ryan that she was meeting him and running late. “See you.” She walked on.
At the counter, she put her ice cream down and dug out a ten from her wallet. Her money situation was not great. She’d gotten a little bit of severance when she was given the “opportunity” to leave her job at the sheriff’s office, which was a nice way of saying she was fired. She was lucky to have free room and board out at the ranch, and hoped that she might make enough off the events they held out there to live. So far, nothing could be further from the truth. It was bad enough that Madeline was paying for the utilities, but half the time, Libby didn’t have money for groceries.
Lately, she’d been thinking she might have to sell her shitty car if things didn’t turn around, and buying three pints of ice cream was definitely not high on her priority list.
“Caramel Crunch!” the woman said. “That’s my favorite. Must be that time of the month,” she said with a wink.
“Do you have a spoon?” Libby asked.
The woman’s brows waggled up to her hairline. “Girl needs a fix. Over there, sweetie, next to the pickles and hot dogs.”
Libby swept by the condiment stand, grabbed a handful of spoons, and walked outside. And who should be perched against the hood of her car, his ankles crossed, his arms still folded? Sam Winters. This guy was like a Whac-a-Mole game—he kept popping up.
“We’re going to have this conversation if you like it or not,” he said before she could speak. “So don’t try and brush me off again. And be nice when you answer me. What were you doing in the Vista Ridge subdivision this morning?”
“You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that,” she said. “But did I miss a constitutional amendment memo? It’s still a free country, right?”
“I said be nice. Didn’t we review the concept of free for you just a couple of days ago?” he asked, making a little swirling motion in her direction.
“Yes.” Libby sat down on the curb, reached for the first ice cream in her bag in preparation for The Talk. Rocky Road—that would do. She pulled the top off the carton and stuck her spoon into it.
“Why were you driving by Ryan’s place after we had chat number . . . what was it, three, four?”
“Four,” she said. If there was one thing that could be said for ol’ Buttinsky, it was that he possessed a pair of gorgeous hazel eyes. They seemed to pierce holes in Libby every time he looked at her. She always had an uncomfortable squirmy feeling that he was seeing more than she intended to show. “And in answer to your question, yes, I was driving by his house,” she said, and stuck a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.
Sam sighed. He looked up at the sky a moment, as if he was carefully considering his response. Or trying to keep from blowing his cool. “Girl, you’re just begging for trouble, aren’t you?”
“No. No, I am not begging for trouble,” she said thoughtfully through a mouthful of ice cream. She swallowed. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but some things are beyond my ability to control.” She glanced up. “I don’t mean in a baseball bat kind of way. I mean, in general.”