Libby felt sick with disgust. The depth of Ryan’s cruelty astounded her. He’d put two small children in her care when they were two and four years old and had allowed her, encouraged her, to love them beyond measure. They were the two children who Ryan had allowed her to believe were the fabric of the life they would have together. And then he had abruptly removed them from her care for no reason other than her services as babysitter were over.
A flash of burning, impotent rage shot through Libby. Her skin tingled with it, just as it did the day she’d taken a golf club to his truck. She felt flush with heat, imagined that snowflakes were sizzling off of her. “You bastard,” she said, her voice shaking. She tried to lunge toward him, but Sam’s arm came around her and held her back.
“Yeah, come on, hit me,” Ryan said.
“Go watch your son play,” Sam said curtly, and forced Libby to turn partially away from Ryan.
“Handle it, Sam!” Ryan shouted.
“How do you sleep at night?” Libby yelled at Ryan.
“Hush,” Sam said, and ushered her along, forcing her to walk through what was now a heavy snow. A heavy, white curtain now between Libby and the family she thought she’d built. The pain in her was real, the fury consuming her. “What are you doing?” she demanded, trying to twist out of Sam’s grip.
“Don’t talk,” Sam said curtly. “Don’t say a word. I’m so angry right now I could put my fist through a tree.”
“You? I’m livid!”
“Don’t say another word!” he said sternly.
“I deserve to see them! I earned that right!”
Sam suddenly stopped and glared down at her, his jaw tightly clenched. “Libby, don’t talk. Not a word, not a single word.” He resumed the march, striding across the parking lot to his truck, pushing her along in front of him. He opened the back door—where people in custody were placed—and put his hand on her head, pushed her inside as if she were handcuffed. When she was seated he said, “Sit there. Don’t move, don’t open your mouth, don’t do anything but breathe. Is that clear?” He shut the door soundly.
She could hear the crunch of gravel and snow beneath his boots as he walked around the back. The crunch suddenly stopped, and she felt an abrupt thud on the side panel, as if he’d kicked or shoved the truck.
In the next moment he opened the driver’s door and put himself into the truck and turned the ignition. He turned on the windshield wipers. He didn’t speak, or look at her in the rearview mirror. He put the truck into reverse and backed out, then hit the gas so hard that the truck fishtailed a bit.
He drove to her car and parked just far enough behind it that a person could maneuver out of the parking space. He sat there, staring out at the falling snow, the bulge in his jaw flexing with each clench of his teeth. He made no move.
Libby sat quietly, her hands in her lap, swallowing down little swells of bitter disappointment.
Sam suddenly opened the door of the truck and got out. He walked around to her door and opened it. He pointed to her car and said, “Go home.”
Libby looked at her car, then at him. “That’s it? Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“No,” he said hotly. “Go home.”
Libby stepped out of the vehicle, pulled her sweater around her, and ducked under his arm. She glanced back at him, uncertain what to think, but his icy stare was enough. His anger was coming off of him in waves, stinging her skin along with the cold and her own fury. She hurried to her car, and as she settled in the driver’s seat she was aware that Sam was watching her, his head down, his arms folded, oblivious to the snow that was hitting his shoulders.
Libby put her key into the ignition and turned. But her car, which had purred like a kitten this afternoon when she’d driven into town, chugged and would not start. She paused, pumped the gas pedal a couple of times, and tried again. Nothing. “No,” she muttered, and slowly leaned forward, until her forehead touched the steering wheel, and closed her eyes. “No no no no.”
Sam knocked on the driver’s side window, and when she rolled down the window, he said, “Pop the hood.”
Libby did as he asked. Sam opened the hood and rooted around underneath. After a few minutes of that, he shut the hood again, walked back to the driver’s side and said, “It’s nothing that I can see.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “I’ll figure it out—”
“No, you won’t,” he said flatly. “Get in the truck. I’ll take you home and bring Tony back.”
“Sam, you don’t have to do that—”
He suddenly planted both hands on her open window and bent down, so that he could look her directly in the eye. “I’m taking you home. I told you not to speak. Nor should you look at me. But perhaps most importantly? Don’t argue with me. This will go a whole lot easier for us both if, for once, you will do as I ask.” And with that, he shoved away from her car and walked back to his truck.
Libby was not going to argue with a man who looked that angry. She quickly gathered her things—flyers, wedding toppers, ribbons, and her purse. She locked the car and with her head down, she ran back to his truck. She moved to open the rear door, but Sam impatiently gestured for her to get in the front passenger seat.