Return to Homecoming Ranch (Pine River #2)

“Hungry?” Sam checked their feeders and filled them with hay.

A quarter of an hour later, he stepped out into the snow again. Light spilled out of the windows at the back of his house, illuminating his deck. He could see the faint impressions of where Libby had walked across the deck and down to the meadow. And he could see Libby at the kitchen sink now. It was obvious she would have to stay the night, and Sam was not happy about that. He was pissed off, and, worse, surprisingly disillusioned. He’d really believed . . . he’d hoped . . .

What, Sam, that she was the one for you? Get over yourself.

He hoped he could scrounge up enough food to offer her something to eat. He mentally catalogued the food in his kitchen. He wasn’t much of a gourmand. Nor was he much of a grocery shopper. He kept a few staples around but grabbed most of his meals in Pine River.

Sam made his way to the mudroom, stamped his feet to dislodge the snow, then pulled his boots off and hung his coat up. He opened the door into the kitchen and was hit by an aroma so delicious that it took him aback. He wasn’t used to that sort of smell in his house, and his stomach growled in appreciation.

He stepped inside the door and Libby suddenly popped into view. She had a dish towel tied around her waist, another one draped over her shoulder. He also noticed something else—his kitchen was clean. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it clean. And the fire was blazing, which meant she’d kept it stoked. “What happened?” he asked, hearing the reverence in his voice that something wonderful and transformative had happened to his house.

“Ah . . . nothing,” she said uncertainly. “I cooked,” she added, gesturing to the stove as if that weren’t obvious. “I hope that was okay. I was starving and I figured you’d be hungry, too. You said help yourself,” she continued, sounding apologetic.

“I did. It smells great. And you’re right, I’m hungry.” Now that he’d smelled actual food, he was ravenous. “Did you get the horses in?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t know how long you’d be gone.”

“Thank you.”

She gave him a thin smile and turned back to the stove.

Thin as it was, Sam wasn’t ready for smiles. He could hardly look at her without a wildly contradicting mix of emotions rifling through him.

“Do you want to eat?”

“Yes, I’d love to. I’m just going to wash up.” He started for his room, but on his way out of the kitchen, he paused and looked back at her. Libby was watching him warily. “Don’t think because you are feeding me that I am going to forget what happened today,” he warned her.

Libby snorted. “Are you kidding? You have the memory of an elephant, and I didn’t expect a little snow to change that. I hope you like turkey.”

Sam debated mentioning how long that turkey had been in his freezer, and decided he was too hungry to worry about it.

In his room, Sam had to move a stack of books that had served as a doorstop in order to shut the door. A man living alone up in the mountains didn’t need a lot of privacy.

He pulled off his shirt, felt exhaustion in his muscles and limbs. It had taken a lot of work to winch that truck out of the ditch, and then it had been a very slow trek down to the valley floor with the cattle bellowing behind in the trailer. The tedious drive back had given him plenty of time to think about the problem of Libby.

Sam sat on the edge of his bed, rubbed his face with his hands. What the hell did he do with her? He couldn’t keep covering for her, couldn’t keep allowing her to walk away from obvious violations of the restraining order. And there was something else. He didn’t need this sort of drama in his life. It was the thing he’d learned in the course of his treatment and sobriety that he had to avoid. For a man who walked a tightrope every day—which he did—there was no place for anxiety and stress to go.

He’d been fully prepared to give her a dressing down, but then she’d brought in his horses, had cleaned his damn kitchen, and had cooked for him. When was the last time someone had cooked for him? Years? It made him feel almost strangely normal, and Sam didn’t want to feel normal. Normal was deceiving. Normal made him believe things could be different for him.

He took a quick, hot shower, pulled on a long-sleeved T-shirt that said “Denver Rodeo” and some loose jeans. He combed his hair back and returned to the kitchen, bracing his arms overhead against the archway. “Smells good,” he said. “What is it?”

Libby looked at the pot on the stove. “I’m not sure. I’m going to say it’s Greek. But without the lamb. Or lentils. But it has turkey and peas and rice, and I made a great yogurt sauce, which was really hard to do seeing as how you have nothing in this kitchen. How do you survive? Anyway, it’s not gourmet, but it should be filling.”