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  Still, having feelings about Libby didn’t mean Sam needed to act on it, for Chrissake’s. It wasn’t a mandate, it wasn’t a siren call. And it didn’t change anything.

  He just needed to handle this the way he handled his life—keep his hands busy, his thoughts on benign things. Keep to himself, mind his horses, mind his life. Sam hated feeling unsettled. It made him want to settle himself, and in the past, the go-to for settling had been alcohol. He’d known for a long time that he was best all alone, best making birdhouses and checking on society’s rejections, like Millie Bagley. The moment a woman entered his picture was the moment the wheels always began to fall off his sturdy little applecart.

  The worst of it was that Sam had put Tony up at the ranch, which meant he couldn’t exactly avoid Libby forever. Moreover, Tony had called him a couple of times since he’d been up there, feeling low. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, man, he’d said. I just fixed a car for free, and I need the cash. What’s the matter with me? I don’t know how to be anything but a soldier, you know?

  Yeah, Sam knew.

  I don’t want to go back out to the Beeker place, Sam. There’s some pretty bad demons in the dark out there, you know what I mean? I hate it out there. I feel so alone and all I want to do is drink.

  Funny how Sam could find salvation in being alone, whereas Tony found only demons. Sam was the one who’d suggested Tony ask about staying on a little longer at the ranch. He understood how it felt when demons were crawling up your back. Tony needed to be with people to keep the demons off his back.

  Sam had agreed to take Tony to an AA meeting tomorrow, which meant he’d have to drive up there and get him. If he could figure out a way to sneak in and steal Tony, he would. That’s how messed up he was feeling about Libby Tyler.

  This afternoon, he was headed home, but thought he would stop in the hardware store to see if T.J., the owner, might take Tony on, give Tony something to do, something to keep his hands busy. It was Sam’s way of finding Tony his own version of birdhouses to build.

  He reached Pine River and turned onto Main Street.

  Pine River was once an old mining town that had been turned into a tourist destination. There wasn’t skiing here; Pine River was a destination for summer tourists. They came to hike and to shoot the rapids, to bike, to camp. Any outdoor activity one could think of, one could find around this spot in the Colorado mountains.

  The buildings along Main Street had been fabricated to look like the Old West—some of them legitimately so, some of them bad knockoffs. The UPS store, for example, had been made to look like an old hotel. Before that, it had been a standard stucco building with two front windows.

  Sam was looking at the porch railing they’d recently put up when he happened to spot the little red car with the dented rear fender parked in front.

  That was Libby’s car.

  He clenched his jaw and drove on to the hardware store.

  T. J. was happy to see Sam, but he began to wince and make noises that sounded as if his lunch had disagreed with him when Sam brought up Tony.

  “Tony D’Angelo, huh?” he said, and made a whistling sound through his teeth. “Ain’t he the guy who scared everyone half to death at the Fourth of July thing?”

  T. J. was referring to Pine River’s celebration of the holiday. Before the fireworks, locals performed dance numbers and sang, and gave the obligatory speeches. That was the weekend Tony gave in to the call of booze. Sam hadn’t been there, but he’d heard about it from some Pine River cops. Tony had been distressed by some speech, and had stood up, shouting profanities at the councilman, ranting about soldiers who had died in a useless war. They’d had to carry him off, and after some wrangling, had agreed to let Tony’s girlfriend at the time take him home.

  A couple of days later, Sam had gone out to check on him. It was divine intervention, he supposed, because he’d found Tony in his living room surrounded by empty beer cans and a bong. He had a gun pointed at his temple and was tearfully contemplating the end of his life.

  “He’s a vet, T. J.,” Sam said. “He was having some issues, but he’s doing pretty good now. He went to treatment, he’s not drinking—in fact, he’s rebuilding a couple of cars up at Homecoming Ranch without any trouble.”

  “I don’t know,” T. J. said. “I mean, I support our troops, I do. And I respect you, Sam. But I know you’ve had your troubles, too, so you might not be the most objective about this guy, you know?”

  Sam thought maybe he was a little more objective about him than T. J., seeing as how he’d been through it, but he didn’t argue. He shook his hand, and said, “Thanks anyway.”

  All Tony needed was a break. Just one. Sam believed in him.

  He picked up a couple of things he needed before leaving and walked out, pausing on the walk to notice that the sky was even grayer than when he’d gone in. Gray was a perfect match for his mood.

  “Hey, Sam, wait up!”

  He turned around to see Gwen Spangler walking toward him. She was holding the hand of her son, who was dressed for soccer, and Sam instantly assumed the worst. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure! Everything is great,” she said cheerfully. “I just wanted to say hi. How are you?”

  Sam liked Gwen. She had a short bob of blond hair and was wearing dental scrubs with a lot of smiling teeth plastered on them. “I’m good. How are you?”

  “I honestly can’t complain. I guess I could complain about how busy we are—it seems like we work all the time, but then again, someone has to pay the bills, right?”

  “Right.” Sam was lucky—he didn’t worry about bills. He lived so simply that he’d actually amassed a sizable nest egg.

  “I haven’t seen you around,” she said. “In fact, I don’t see you unless . . . you know.” She glanced down at Max. “When there’s some drama in town.” She gave him a lighthearted roll of her eyes. “Speaking of which, I hear she’s determined to get on the Leo bandwagon and cause more trouble.”

  Libby’s volunteering for the committee hadn’t been at all like that. “She’s known him a long time,” Sam said, unwilling to discuss Libby in front of Max.

  “Hey!” Gwen said. “You should join our committee! We’re going to have a couple of single members.” She waggled her eyebrows at him.

  Joining a fundraising committee to meet women was about as enticing as a root canal. “I’m all booked up,” Sam said.

  “Oh, sure you are.”

  “Mom, let’s go,” Max said, tugging on her hand.

  “Yes, we don’t want to be late again,” Gwen said to the boy, and to Sam she said, “Jerry Baylor is the coach, and he does not like tardiness. Think about the committee!” she called over her shoulder as Max dragged her out to her car.

  Sam watched Gwen strap Max into his booster seat, and then pull away, headed for the city’s municipal park and soccer fields.

  He looked the other way up Main Street, to the UPS store. The red car was gone.

  He had a funny feeling. He debated following his instincts, but then again, he had meant what he said—no more hand-holding. He would not be her keeper. He’d done that enough in his life, and it never worked out for anyone.

  Sam drove down the road to the turnoff to Homecoming Ranch. But as the clouds seemed to sink lower over the mountains, obliterating the view of the tops, Sam’s resolve seemed to sink, too.

  He turned his truck around and headed back to Pine River, cussing at himself the whole way.

  SEVENTEEN

  Fat, heavy snowflakes were beginning to fall on the soccer field, creating a thin veil between Libby and the little boys running around chasing a soccer ball. Libby tightened her sweater and drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, annoyed with such an early snow.

  She could see Ryan from her perch on a bench at the far end of the field. The only reason she knew it was Ryan was because she had seen him drive up in his truck. He was standing behind the fence that served as a backstop when the kid
s played baseball. His fingers looped into the chain links, just above his head, and he leaned against the fence, watching Max, calling out to him, encouraging him to run or to kick.

  Libby tried to spot Gwen or Alice, but couldn’t see them. Generally, Alice was beside the bleachers, practicing her dance steps. Sometimes, she managed to rope in a couple of friends to be her backup dancers, but this afternoon, Libby couldn’t see any girls playing beside the bleachers.

  She’d been sitting on the bench for about ten minutes, watching Ryan, watching the big flakes come down, and debating whether or not she should approach him. She didn’t want Gwen to suddenly show up and call the police again. She could just picture Sam’s dark expression that she was even contemplating it, but this was the opportunity Libby had been waiting for, the chance to speak to Ryan alone, to ask him where exactly they stood and if she could see Max and Alice.

  Libby stood. She nervously pulled her braid over her shoulder and pulled her sweater together, folding her arms over it. She began to walk around the field toward Ryan.

  He didn’t notice her at first. He backed away from the fence, stuffed his hands into his pockets. But then he happened to turn his head, and he smiled.

  A ribbon of anticipation ran through Libby. She believed in that moment that it was true—Ryan regretted what he’d done, and she felt an almost euphoric sense of vindication.

  And then Ryan’s expression changed. He looked back over his shoulder, and then pointed to the parking lot across the street, gesturing and directing her there. Libby hesitated, but Ryan’s gestures grew urgent.

  She changed direction, headed for the parking lot, darting across the street and between two parked trucks. She stepped out from between them and saw Ryan striding toward her.

  He looked furious.

  “What the hell, Libby?” he demanded, throwing his arms out as he strode closer. “Gwen and Alice are over there,” he said angrily, jabbing at some point over his shoulder. “What if they saw you?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought about calling, but I—”

  “Calling?” he almost shouted at her.

  Libby’s gut turned sour. “I wasn’t going to call you,” she quickly amended. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. But I need to speak to you,” she said, taking a step backward.

  Ryan gaped at her incredulously. “Speak to me? You’re not supposed to speak to me!”

  A snowflake plopped down on her eye, and Libby brushed it away. The sour feeling was turning nauseous. “I know, but I thought that—”

  “You thought what, Libby?” he demanded angrily. “What crazy-ass thing did you think now?”

  “Daddy!”

  The sound of Alice’s voice startled them both. She was skipping down the parking lot toward them, kicking up snow. Far behind her was Gwen, who was engaged in conversation with two women, and had not, apparently, noticed Libby. Libby reflexively stepped back in between the trucks before Gwen could see her.

  “What did you think?” Ryan demanded, advancing on Libby and ignoring Alice.

  “Stop it,” Libby said harshly, as Alice paused to scoop up some snow. “You get to say whatever you want in parking lots, is that it? But I’m not allowed to speak?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You must be as crazy as they say.”

  Libby’s pulse ticked up. She took a deep breath. “You told me twice, in parking lots, that you were sorry,” she said. Alice was approaching, making Libby panic a little. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “What is the matter with you?” Ryan hissed, looking her up and down.

  “I want to see the kids, Ryan. Alice has been calling—they miss me, too, you know.”

  Alice suddenly slipped into their midst and threw her arms around Ryan’s leg. “Daddy!” she said gleefully, and then saw Libby. “Libby!” she shrieked, and darted around Ryan to throw her arms around Libby.

  “What are you talking about?” Ryan exclaimed angrily.

  Libby could taste the sourness in her throat now.

  Looking baffled, Ryan stared at his daughter. “Alice,” he said, crouching down beside her, “have you been calling Libby?”

  “No,” Alice said emphatically.

  The sourness in her rose up on a swell of humiliation. Libby suddenly understood, suddenly realized that her fantasy of a happy medium had impinged on her common sense. Her suspicions that Alice didn’t have permission to call were right. Alice was generally a truthful child, but she was still a child. And yet Libby had pushed down those suspicions to have what she wanted—some contact with her.

  “Alice,” Ryan said, peeling his daughter from Libby’s leg, “Don’t you ever call her.”

  “I didn’t!” Alice cried.

  “Ryan, don’t,” Libby said frantically. “It’s okay—I misunderstood.”

  “You misunderstood?” he said, rising up again to face her. He was angry; his brown eyes had gone almost black. “What part did you misunderstand, Libby? I’ve tried everything to get through to you. Alice, go to your mother,” he said, pointing in Gwen’s direction.

  “Daddy—”

  “Go,” he said more forcibly.

  He turned back to Libby as Alice scampered away. “What the hell do I have to do to get through to you that it’s over?”

  “Good God, I know that it’s over,” Libby said. “I just want to see Max and Alice—”

  “I thought I could appeal to you on the basis of friendship, ask you nicely to leave me the hell alone—”

  “Friendship!” Libby repeated, rattled by the notion.

  “Yeah, I know. Stupid,” Ryan said, nodding angrily. “I should have known that wouldn’t work. You’re too damn needy.”

  Libby mentally stumbled over the grain of truth in that statement. That she was standing here, wanting something from a man who had so thoroughly wronged her was pretty good evidence.

  Ryan shifted closer, glaring down at her, his glare oddly veiled by gently falling snow. “So let me tell you as plainly as I can—there is nothing left of us. Nothing. I don’t want you anywhere near me or my kids, do you get that? Don’t come around us! You’re not their mother, you’re not their aunt, you’re nothing! You’re nothing to them and you’re nothing to me!”

  That was a punch right in the soft belly.

  “Here’s the God’s honest truth, Libby. The only reason I ever dated you is because I needed a goddamn babysitter. That’s it—I needed someone to watch my kids. And you messed that up about half the time.”

  “That is not true,” she said, her voice made breathless by such a vile statement. “I held this family together.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Ryan spat. “Why didn’t you tell Alice to stop calling? Why didn’t you text me to tell me she was calling you? Because it’s all about you, isn’t it? You think you’re doing something noble and worthy for my kids, and the truth is that you couldn’t possibly be worse for them if you tried.”

  “Me?” Libby said, and suddenly shoved Ryan in the chest, surprising him. “If I was so bad for them, why did you leave them with me while you were betraying us, huh? You’re saying these things to appease your own guilty conscience, Ryan. You know what a lying bastard you are”—Libby was startled by a hand to her shoulder; she whirled about, expecting Gwen—

  “Good, I’m glad you’re here, Sam,” Ryan snapped. “I’m done. I’m done being nice.” He shifted his gaze to Libby again. “You know what? You aren’t going to see these kids again. Ev-er! Go babysit someone else’s kids because mine don’t need you around.”

  Libby felt sick with disgust. The depth of Ryan’s cruelty astounded her. He’d put two small children in her care when they were two and four years old and had allowed her, encouraged her, to love them beyond measure. They were the two children who Ryan had allowed her to believe were the fabric of the life they would have together. And then he had abruptly removed them from her care for no reason other than her services as babysitter were over.

  A flash o
f burning, impotent rage shot through Libby. Her skin tingled with it, just as it did the day she’d taken a golf club to his truck. She felt flush with heat, imagined that snowflakes were sizzling off of her. “You bastard,” she said, her voice shaking. She tried to lunge toward him, but Sam’s arm came around her and held her back.

  “Yeah, come on, hit me,” Ryan said.

  “Go watch your son play,” Sam said curtly, and forced Libby to turn partially away from Ryan.

  “Handle it, Sam!” Ryan shouted.

  “How do you sleep at night?” Libby yelled at Ryan.

  “Hush,” Sam said, and ushered her along, forcing her to walk through what was now a heavy snow. A heavy, white curtain now between Libby and the family she thought she’d built. The pain in her was real, the fury consuming her. “What are you doing?” she demanded, trying to twist out of Sam’s grip.

  “Don’t talk,” Sam said curtly. “Don’t say a word. I’m so angry right now I could put my fist through a tree.”

  “You? I’m livid!”

  “Don’t say another word!” he said sternly.

  “I deserve to see them! I earned that right!”

  Sam suddenly stopped and glared down at her, his jaw tightly clenched. “Libby, don’t talk. Not a word, not a single word.” He resumed the march, striding across the parking lot to his truck, pushing her along in front of him. He opened the back door—where people in custody were placed—and put his hand on her head, pushed her inside as if she were handcuffed. When she was seated he said, “Sit there. Don’t move, don’t open your mouth, don’t do anything but breathe. Is that clear?” He shut the door soundly.

  She could hear the crunch of gravel and snow beneath his boots as he walked around the back. The crunch suddenly stopped, and she felt an abrupt thud on the side panel, as if he’d kicked or shoved the truck.

  In the next moment he opened the driver’s door and put himself into the truck and turned the ignition. He turned on the windshield wipers. He didn’t speak, or look at her in the rearview mirror. He put the truck into reverse and backed out, then hit the gas so hard that the truck fishtailed a bit.