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?”