Sam checked on his horses and fed them, then took a shovel, cleared a path out to the meadow, and sent the horses out. When he returned to the house, he found his coffeemaker on, and made himself a cup.
With coffee in hand, he walked back to his bedroom, but Libby wasn’t there. He returned to the kitchen and looked out over the deck, thinking she’d perhaps gone down to the barn. He saw her footprints, all right, but they didn’t lead to the barn, they led across the deck, down to his work shed.
Sam’s heart made a tiny leap to his throat. Dirk was the only person who had seen his work shed, and even that had made Sam uncomfortable. There was something about the birdhouses that made him feel vulnerable, that set him apart from the world, and he wasn’t quite ready to open up that side of him.
He walked outside.
Libby was standing just inside the shed, wearing his down jacket and his Wellingtons. She was looking up, to where he’d hung a galaxy of birdhouses—the sun, the moon, a few of the more recognizable planets. When she heard him step in behind her, she turned around, her blue eyes bright. “Look at all these birdhouses!” she exclaimed, as if she’d just discovered a treasure.
“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Where did you get them?”
“Where did I . . . I made them.”
She gasped and looked around again. “You’re kidding. You made them?” She reached out, her fingers gliding over his replica of the Hindenburg blimp. “By yourself?”
“No, forest gnomes helped me. Yes, by myself.”
“Sam! They’re amazing! Do you sell them?”
“Nah, it’s just a hobby.”
“But they’re remarkable! Look, it’s the Capitol—and the White House!” she exclaimed with delight, rising up on her toes to examine that one.
Sam thought of the hours he’d spent in here, when his thoughts would meander to vodka and then back to the work at hand. Every piece of wood, every bit of tin, every hole he’d drilled and every design he’d carved on those birdhouses represented one more step away from alcoholism, one step closer to sobriety. They were the monuments to his struggle, to the progress he’d made, and a reminder of how much work he would throw out if he ever drank again. He needed these birdhouses, and that was his dirty little secret. He needed to see them and touch them in order to stay on his path.
Libby stooped down to peer at the Eiffel Tower, which Sam considered one of his better pieces. “How do you know how to even do this?” she asked, her voice full of awe, which, Sam thought, gave him no small amount of pleasure. “You really should sell them.”
“No,” he said instantly. “They’re for me.”
“But . . .” She stood up and turned in a slow circle. “There are so many of them.”
“I know. But every one of them means something to me.”
Libby gave him a questioning look.
“Every single one of them represents a bottle I didn’t drink, Libby. They are for me.”
He could almost see her questions whirling about in her head. But she apparently understood that they were important to him because she said, “Well, they’re wonderful. I love them. If you’re not going to sell them you might want to think of building a bigger shed.” She laughed. “I love them so much, Sam. I love them even more now that I know they are little pieces of you.”
He was surprised at how good her praise made him feel. He was reminded of an ugly Sunday afternoon when, in a vodka-infused haze, Terri had called him a worthless whittler. Mostly, those sorts of insults rolled off his back, but perhaps it had been the venom in her voice or the fact that Sam had believed himself fairly useless at the time that had made that insult stick with him all this time.
“I should plow the road. We should be out of here by this afternoon. I’m sorry that I don’t have any food to speak of.”
“I’m good,” Libby said airily. She slipped her hand behind his head, pulling it down so that she could kiss him.
Sam couldn’t resist her. He put his hand around her waist, pulled her into his chest and kissed her a little more deeply. He lifted his head. “Be good,” he warned her.
Libby laughed, the sound of it warm and light in that shed. “Don’t ask for the impossible.”
A tiny bell of warning clanged somewhere in Sam’s head again but he ignored it, and left Libby standing in his private sanctuary.
TWENTY-ONE
When Sam dropped Libby off at the ranch that afternoon, Libby wasn’t sure who was more eager to greet her, the dogs or Madeline.
“Hey, Sam,” Madeline said, smiling coyly, her gaze sweeping over him.
“Madeline,” Sam said. “Hi, Tony,” he added, looking over Madeline’s shoulder.
Madeline didn’t turn around. Her laser-sharp gaze had shifted and was drilling a hole right through Libby.
“Sorry about the car, Libby,” Tony said. “It’s probably the belt. Those old cars, the belts can go like that,” he said, and ran both hands over his crown, lacing his fingers behind his neck. “I should have taken a closer look.”