Return to Homecoming Ranch (Pine River #2)

“Were the kids ever in true danger?” Sam asked.

Libby shook her head. “Nope. It was always me, assuming the world couldn’t spin without me. Ryan kept forgetting, and I kept hearing about it, and I kept imagining the worst. The worst. I remember sitting at my desk imagining someone luring Alice to their car with a puppy while she waited for her dad to show up.” She closed her eyes a moment. “I was a mess. Those two had been ripped from my life and I couldn’t handle it. Mom told me I had to do something useful and stop worrying so much, and when did I become such a worrier, and on and on,” she said. “When Dad died, and I found out about Homecoming Ranch, I thought, this is it! This is what I am going to do with my life! I have two sisters, and we can make this work!”

“You were thrown a pretty big curve ball,” Sam agreed.

“I thought two sisters was the best thing to ever happen to me. I thought we were going to live as one big happy family up here. It never occurred to me that Madeline and Emma wouldn’t want that.” She gave Sam a sheepish look. “There you have it, Lone Ranger, my life in a nutshell. One long road of disappointment.”

Those words resonated with him, because Sam had felt the same thing. So much hope put into a relationship, so much disappointment to come out of it. Disappointment in Terri, but mostly, disappointment in himself—for not seeing things he should have seen, for not being strong enough to fight alcoholism. He really wasn’t that different from Libby.

“Look, I know it’s been tough for you.” He was forgiving her, and he couldn’t stop himself. It was just too damn hard to be angry with Libby.

“You’re right, Sam, I hoped too hard. When Ryan told me he’d made a mistake, I hoped that maybe it was all a mistake, sort of like a bad dream. What I wanted, really wanted, was for him to say that he was sorry. I wanted him to say it out loud and grovel a bit, but I really wanted to hear him say he was wrong so I didn’t have to be wrong.”

“Okay,” Sam said, leaning forward and looking her in the eye. “I’ll let you in on a secret—Ryan isn’t man enough to admit he’s wrong. Be that as it may, no more talk of it tonight, okay?” He didn’t think he could hear another word without getting into his truck and going in search of Ryan, the snow notwithstanding. He picked up their bowls and stood. “I’ve got KP duty.” He started into the kitchen.

“But isn’t there something you need to say?” Libby asked.

“What’s that?”

“What you’re going to do with me. I mean, about the restraining order?”

That was a good question, and Sam really had no idea. But he wasn’t going to do anything tonight. “Depends,” he said. “Did you make dessert?”

A grin slowly lit Libby’s face. “No. But I bet I could find something to throw together.”

“Better make it good,” he advised her. “It could be the difference between freedom and a little cooling-off time in jail.”

“Wow.” Libby stood, her body almost touching his. “In that case,” she said, her gaze landing on his mouth and firing up his senses, “I really hope you have some sugar.”





NINETEEN

Libby watched Sam washing dishes, grateful that he’d let her talk, even offering a strong shoulder and a good ear. But give an inch and take a mile—Libby had dumped her entire life story on him, warts and all. Now, there was really very little Sam Winters didn’t know about her. She hadn’t told him that she’d once aspired to be a diplomat with spy privileges, but then again, she’d been ten years old.

Now, Libby wanted to know about him. She wanted to know what made him want to look after people no one else looked after. Or what romances in his life had taught him to kiss a woman so thoroughly she felt like she was floating. She wanted to know how he’d suddenly gotten so damn hot, and how she had failed to fully appreciate that in the past. She admired his trim waist, his broad shoulders, the way that loose pair of jeans rode low on his hips.

Sam noticed she was looking at him. “How about that dessert, Tyler?” he asked as he reached to put a pan away, revealing a glimpse of muscled abs.

“I’m thinking. You have to admit, your kitchen setup is pretty pathetic. You have cereal, and that’s about it.”

“Are you giving up? Opting for jail?”

“No way,” she said. “But I’m going to have to resort to a poor man’s dessert.”

“Syrup and bread?”

“No,” she said, horrified. “What sort of animal are you? Just stay here.” She picked up a big salad bowl she’d found, and brushed against him on her way out.

She stepped into the mudroom, gasping with shock at the cold. She stuffed her feet into the oversized boots again, stepped outside and, using her bare hands, filled the bowl with snow. She came back in, hopping around a little to stamp the chill from her bones.

Sam was leaning against the clean counter when she returned to the kitchen. He took a look at her bowl and said, “Snow ice cream.”