When Justin showed up, and he and Tony puttered around the ranch, fixing this or that, it really seemed to help perk Tony up. And it gave Libby an idea.
One night, she lured Sam to the ranch with the promise of lasagna. Before dinner, she took him up a muddied path through a stand of cottonwoods to Mrs. Kendrick’s garden. The garden was concealed by shrubbery. Inside the garden was a hammock stand, an old stone bench, and some empty clay pots. Tony and Justin had recently cleaned up the flower beds, digging out the weeds and debris.
“A little late in the season for gardening, isn’t it?” Sam asked, looking around.
“Yes,” Libby said. “But it will be less work in the spring. There are a million jobs like this at Homecoming Ranch,” she said.
Sam laughed as he stood behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and rubbed. “There’s a million jobs like this around every place in the mountains.”
“Right,” Libby said, and twisted around in his arms. “Therapeutic work. Things to do with your hands.”
Sam looked at her curiously. “I have a feeling there is a message here.”
“What if,” she said, “veterans who needed a place to stay, to learn how to be in the world again, came here? What if we made this a therapeutic place for them?”
Sam looked around the garden.
“We have the bunkhouse. We even have two cabins. We could have several up here at a time.”
“Something like that would take money,” Sam pointed out. “Money you don’t have,” he added, touching his finger to her nose.
“I thought of that,” she said, and slipped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest. “I’ve done a little bit of research into rehabilitation for vets. I need to do more, a lot more, and talk to some people—but I’ve learned there is the possibility of grants and donations to help.”
Sam didn’t say anything. Libby felt a twinge of disappointment. No doubt he was thinking it was too impossible, too far-fetched. She lifted her head and risked a look up at him and was surprised when Sam smiled.
“I think it’s a great idea. Don’t get me wrong—it will be hard to execute, and you’ll need a good plan for it . . . but I think you might be onto something,” he said, looking around at the neat little garden, nodding his head.
“Thank you!” Libby said, and squeezed him in a hug.
“For what?”
“For not shooting it down.” And for giving her something to think about, something on the horizon to look forward to.
Unfortunately, there were other worries that needed her immediate attention. It was clear to her that she would have to get a job, but before she was submerged into the ocean of working long hours for little pay, she really wanted to help Leo get that van.
Finding out the schedule of the committee meetings proved to be the most difficult thing of all—no one seemed to know when or where they were.
She finally managed to get hold of Deb Trimble one morning to get to the bottom of the mysterious committee meeting times. Deb didn’t seem very happy to hear from Libby, especially when she knew the reason for the call. “Ah, well,” she said, in a singsongy voice. “I’m not sure the next meeting has been set.”
“Next?” Libby said. “You mean there’s already been one?” No one had called her in spite of repeated inquiries.
“We’ve just started,” Deb quickly clarified. “It’s been a lot of email, that sort of thing.”
“There’s an email loop?”
“Ah . . . no. Not a loop,” Deb said. “Informal.”
Libby frowned at the wall before her. “So . . . do you think in the emails someone might have mentioned the time and place of the next meeting?”
“I guess I remember something about it,” Deb said. “Let me look.”
A moment later, she told Libby the next meeting would be held Wednesday at noon at the church. That was the time the women’s group met every week—Libby knew this because Dani went every week. Which meant that it wasn’t a very hard meeting time to remember or to pass along.
Libby knew what was going on, and she wasn’t going to be put off.
“Everyone is coming back with their ideas of fundraising activities, and we’re going to vote on what we can realistically pursue in the next two months,” Debbie said. “There are a lot of good ideas already, Libby. A lot.”
“Great!” Libby said confidently. “I’ve got a couple of good ideas, too.”
“I’m sure you do,” Deb said, and Libby chose to ignore the strain of sarcasm in her voice. She’d never had any issue with Deb Trimble and she wasn’t going to create one.
On the day before the meeting, Libby met her mother for coffee in Pine River.