The bar was crowded for a Thursday night, but then again, the Stake Out was the destination for hungry singles in Pine River. As Sam pushed through the crowd, he could smell the booze, and there were dirty glasses on the bar, empty shot glasses, empty beer glasses. Two bartenders were walking quickly back and forth behind the bar, carrying four or five drinks at a time.
It never ceased to amaze Sam how the smell of alcohol and cigarettes could make him yearn so for a drink. He could feel the desire rising up like leavened bread, suffocating everything else inside him.
He saw Libby instantly. She was laughing at something a man was saying. A man who was practically on top of her, his eyes fixed on her breasts. Sam walked around to where she was. Her back was to him, so he put his hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Libby, let’s go home,” he said.
She jerked around, her eyes wide and bloodshot, and she teetered on the edge of her stool. “Home! Where’s home, Sam? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to go with you,” she said, jerking her shoulder out from underneath his hand.
“Hey, pal, the lady doesn’t want you around. So take a walk,” Tom said, standing up from his barstool. He was several inches shorter than Sam.
“I’m not taking a walk,” Sam said. “I’m taking her home.”
“Don’t be like that,” Libby said. “Tom’s been really nice to me.”
“Yeah, I bet he has,” Sam put his arm around her waist and made her stand up. “Where’s your purse?”
She looked around her. “I don’t know. Oh. There it is.” She slid down to get it from where it had somehow ended up on the floor.
“Dude, I said, leave her alone,” the man said, and when Libby dipped down, he put his hand on Sam’s arm. Sam swung so fast he surprised himself. He connected with the man’s jaw and sent him tumbling to the ground.
Libby popped up, gasping with surprise. “Sam!”
“I’m calling the cops!” the man said angrily, clambering to his feet.
“I am a cop.” Sam grabbed Libby by the hand. “Let’s go.” He yanked her away from the bar and stalked through the crowd, pulling her along behind him. Everyone had turned to see what the commotion was, and several stepped out of their way as he marched through. Libby stumbled along behind him.
With every step, Sam felt his belly churn. He hated this. He hated scenes, he hated drunks. And he especially did not care for the woman he loved to be so drunk. Yes, he loved Libby, of course he loved her, he’d always loved her. And to see her like this was beyond maddening to him.
She said nothing until he opened the passenger door of the truck. She turned around then, swaying on her feet, and said, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re always sorry, Libby. Get in.”
“No, really. I’m really sorry. More than I am ever sorry about anything, because, I, you know, I love you, Sam.”
Sam rolled his eyes. He knew all about drunken proclamations of love and the promise to do better. “Get in,” he said, and helped her inside the truck. He walked around to the driver’s side, stepped in, and started the truck.
Libby slid down in her seat. “I thought you loved me, too.”
He wasn’t going to respond to that. He’d been in this situation too many times to count, and it left a bitter taste of resentment in his mouth that he should be here again. There it was again, the overwhelming desire for a drink.
“Okay, you’re mad, but what was I supposed to do?” she demanded, banging her fist on the console.
“I assume you are talking about taking those children,” he said sharply. “You were supposed to let someone else handle it, that’s what. Let it be Gwen’s problem, and not yours.”
She slid deeper in her seat. “I know. You think I don’t know? But Alice would have been crushed,” she said, saying it with so much conviction she almost tipped over.
“And she would have survived,” Sam said curtly.
“That’s not—”
“Stop,” he said angrily. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Fine,” Libby snapped and folded her arms across her middle.
Before Sam turned off onto the road up to Homecoming Ranch, she had passed out.
TWENTY-NINE
It was already noon by the time Libby made her way downstairs, one hand on her throbbing head, the other on the handrail. She felt awful, like she’d been dragged back from the brink of hell. Libby was not a drinker beyond the occasional glass of wine with dinner. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d even drunk liquor.
She’d drunk what felt like bottles of it last night.
Madeline was sitting at the kitchen bar, papers strewn in front of her when Libby stumbled in. “So you’re alive,” she said simply.
“Debatable,” Libby said. She shuffled to the coffeemaker and turned it on. “I guess you know Sam brought me home.”
Madeline snorted. “I know. It took the both of us to pour you into bed.”
“That bad, huh?” Libby asked with a wince.
“Worse,” Madeline said, sounding sympathetic.
Libby groaned. “I was so stupid last night, Madeline. Where is Sam now?”
“I don’t know, probably still in Montrose,” Madeline said.