When Libby was in her seat, he drove, skirting around the back end of the soccer field.
Libby slid down in her seat and focused on her breathing. She could picture it—Ryan was probably telling Gwen what had happened. They were both getting into their cars, shaking their heads, wondering what was wrong with Libby. And because Libby had believed that a rat bastard like him could actually be sorry, she’d ruined any chance of seeing the kids. And because she’d tried to clarify it all, she’d created a strain and ruined the funny little thing between her and Sam.
A fairly spectacular day so far.
She took another deep breath. And another. She tried to summon that tropical beach, but it was nowhere to be found.
Libby glanced at Sam from the corner of her eye. He was staring straight ahead, squinting at the road before him. “Sam?”
“No.”
She sighed and leaned her head against the window, wishing it weren’t such a drive up to Homecoming Ranch.
As it turned out, the drive up to Homecoming Ranch was much longer than she might have imagined. Snow and a trailer sliding off the road blocked any chance of getting home.
“You can drop me at the Grizzly,” Libby said.
Sam leveled a look on her. “Sit tight,” he said, and got out of the truck, grabbing a coat out of the back seat and shoving into it as he walked up the road to meet the driver of the truck.
Libby pushed herself up, and hugged herself. It was freezing now, and the wind had picked up at this higher elevation, enough to bend the tops of the pines.
She watched Sam and a guy from one of the cars behind the trailer squat down next to the disabled truck to have a look. The snow was coming down really hard now, swirling around the men as they convened in the middle of the road. Sam pulled his phone from his belt and made a call. After more conversation, he walked back to the truck.
When he opened the driver door, Libby felt the gust of cold north wind on her face. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Take you to my place for now,” he said, his gaze on his big side view mirror as he slowly backed up.
“What? Why?”
“A tow truck is coming, but it might take an hour or more in this weather. He’ll need help. We’re not going to get up to the ranch, anyway—John says the roads are icing up there.”
John, she supposed, was the rancher. “Then take me back to town,” she said.
“Look at the snow, Libby,” Sam said flatly. “We’re not going to town. We’ll be lucky if we can get a tow truck up here.”
“But I can’t stay at your house,” she said, the very idea giving rise to anxiety in her. There was a distance in his gaze that Libby did not like.
Sam ignored her. He slowly backed down the road until he could find a place to turn around. When he had, he headed down the road about a quarter of a mile, and turned onto a narrow dirt road. The truck bounced along, sliding a little on the corners, driving deeper into the canyon.
Libby knew Sam lived somewhere around Homecoming Ranch, but she’d never seen his house, or even knew that it was on this little country road. It sat at a bend in the road, a house of thick logs and masonry, charmingly nestled against snowy pines. It had a sloped green metal roof, and the window and door trims were painted green. The chimney was made of river rock. There was a screened-in porch to one side, and a couple of outbuildings around the place. On a post beside the drive, about twenty feet in the air, was what looked like a tiny replica of the White House. As they neared it, Libby realized it was a birdhouse.
Sam pulled up before the house and got out. He waited for Libby at the bottom of the steps and walked up with her to the door, pushing it and holding it open so she could pass.
She stepped into a darkened room; behind her, Sam flipped a switch.
His house looked like what Libby might have guessed—it was obvious a man lived here. There was a worn, braided rug that covered the wood floors, and a man’s obligatory leather recliner. There was a nice leather couch and one small armchair, upholstered in plaid, that looked as if it might have been picked up at a garage sale, judging by the bare spots on the arms. There wasn’t much on the walls—a painting of a windmill, another one of a mountain sky behind Pine River. And on one short wall, an impressive array of coats and jackets hanging from a line of hooks.
Beyond the living room, through a big archway, Libby could see the kitchen, and from where she stood, it looked to be a bit of a mess. Dishes were piled in the sink, and a pan was sitting on the stove.
“Bathroom is down there,” he said gesturing vaguely to the end of the hallway on her left. Libby could see the white stand-alone sink, the neat blue rug before it.