Return to Homecoming Ranch (Pine River #2)

That was painful and sobering to hear. “What happened?” Libby asked. “I only know that you were asked to go.”


“Nothing splashy, no wrecks or shootings, thank God,” Sam said. “What happened was that I picked up a kid for burglary. Caught him right there, with the stuff in his truck. But I was drunk, and the paperwork was incoherent, and so was I. The kid was savvy, too, and he kept accusing me of being drunk. Loudly. Yelling at other officers that I was drunk, and he was right. I had plenty of excuses for it—long shift, no sleep, whatever—but it was apparent to everyone by then. I was a drunk.”

“And the sheriff fired you?”

“No,” Sam said with a shake of his head. “What he did was give me a chance, and for that, I will always be grateful. He called me into his office the next day. I’ll never forget it; all the top brass were there. His chief deputy, the head of human resources, the attorneys. Basically, he gave me an ultimatum: either I went for treatment at the facility the department had already arranged and get sober, or I would lose my job. Plus, he said he would see to it that I never worked in Colorado law enforcement again. But if I did as he asked and went for treatment, maintained sobriety, and proved I could be trusted, he’d find a job for me. He kept his word—that’s why I have this position now.”

“Oh, Sam,” Libby murmured. “It was brutal, wasn’t it? Treatment, I mean. It’s such a depressing place to be.”

“It is definitely that,” he agreed. “The drying out wasn’t as bad as the therapy, and facing things you don’t want to face. All those old childhood hurts and traumas you didn’t even know you had, but somehow drink to numb them. I never knew what an issue I had with my old man until I went to therapy, for example.”

Libby smiled ruefully. “I remember lying on this cot. I felt like I was literally on the floor, and I kept telling myself, if I could just peel one shoulder up, just one, I could get up and make it right. But there was some invisible weight on me and I couldn’t even do that.”

Sam took her hand in his. “I know, it was hard as hell. But in the end, I can say it was the best thing to happen to me. The sheriff was being a friend, and to tell you the truth, I was actually a little relieved. I was at the bottom, and I knew it. I just didn’t know how to crawl out of that hole, and he offered me a rope.”

“What happened to Terri?” Libby asked.

Sam’s expression changed. He looked sad. “She still refused to admit she had a problem, or quit, even though she was going through a fifth of vodka a day. And when I came out of treatment ninety days later, sober, and ready to reboot my life, she wouldn’t stop drinking. She wouldn’t or couldn’t do that for me, or for herself. And I . . .” He closed his eyes as if the memory pained him. “I left her. I couldn’t stay married to her. It was either me or booze, and she chose booze. I chose sobriety.”

“Heartbreaking,” Libby murmured.

Sam smiled and lazily traced a line down to her wrist. “You know when you go to a concert in the park, and everyone is sitting on blankets, but it seems there is always one person up front, totally into the music, dancing alone, like they are the only person there?”

Libby nodded.

“Well, that was Terri. When I first met her, I thought she was a free spirit, a woman who danced to her own beat and didn’t care what the world thought. But now I look back and see that she was dancing for attention. She was always dancing for the attention, and not because she was moved by some artistic spirit. Alcohol gave her attention. Not all good, but attention all the same. And whatever had been between us had drowned in the booze a long time ago.”

He glanced at the fire.

Libby laced her fingers with his. Her problems with Ryan and the kids felt so small in comparison to what Sam had been through. “Have you had a drink since?”

“Once,” he admitted. “A couple of months after treatment when I was living in the halfway house. But I had a sponsor who shook me up and got me back to meetings, and I haven’t had a drink since that day.”

“But that’s great,” Libby said.

Sam gave her a patient look as if he’d had this conversation before. “It’s okay, Libby, but it will never be great. Every day I go without drinking is a victory, and it’s always going to be that way.”

He sighed, leaned his head back against the couch. The recounting of his past had exhausted him.

“Thanks for confiding in me.” Libby turned around, leaned against the couch beside him, and stretched her legs out next to his and folded her arms across her middle. Sam had his own private demons, just like her. The difference between them was that he was better at controlling his demons now than she was. “We’re not that different, are we?” she mused.