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  Sam didn’t say anything. He just kept a firm grip on Libby’s wrist.

  Libby watched Ryan walk back to his truck, hitching up his Wranglers before he climbed in. He put the truck in gear and drove past her, giving her a wave out of his window before pulling onto the road.

  Libby was too stunned to move. I wish things hadn’t happened like they did. I’m sorry. Was he really apologizing for all of it? Of course he was; what else could he mean? You are really special. Did he still love her, is that what he was trying to say? Let’s just take a step back and let the dust settle.

  Let the dust settle! Into what? Where could that dust possibly settle?

  Libby’s thoughts were racing. Dr. Huber said that Libby’s fantasy of Ryan telling her he’d made a horrible mistake, and that he loved her and wanted her back was only a fantasy, and perhaps an unrealistic one to hope for. That may very well be true, but Libby held on to that fantasy in the most private reaches of her heart. She just wanted Ryan to realize how stupid he’d been, how he’d lost the best thing that had ever happened to him. That was it, some acknowledgment that he was wrong. Beyond that, she only wanted to see the kids.

  Ryan had treated her so badly. But she had loved him so, more than anything, and more importantly, she had loved Alice and Max with all her heart.

  Could a man like Ryan truly recognize a mistake? Could he ever make it up to her? Could she ever forgive him, at least forget what he’d done, for the sake of Max and Alice? She didn’t know, but she didn’t mind his lame apology one bit. A small smile of vindication began to curve at the corners of her mouth.

  She turned around, and collided with the hard wall of Sam. She’d completely forgotten him in the last few moments. She hadn’t even noticed he was still holding her wrist.

  He let go of it now, folded his arms, and stared down at her. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

  “Umm . . . no,” she answered honestly. She didn’t think it was a good idea to tell Sam anything about Ryan. But damn it, she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. “No, I don’t believe I do. But thanks for . . . stopping by.” She gave him a friendly pat on the upper arm, stepped around him, and walked into the store.

  “Good morning!” she called to the woman behind the counter.

  “Well good morning,” the woman said, surprised by her cheerfulness.

  Libby marched to the freezer section at the back of the store. She heard the tingle of a bell as the door opened again, but she continued to peruse the frozen cases, debating the idea of consuming ice cream before ten in the morning, particularly given her recent bit of weight gain from such practices.

  But it was an extraordinary morning, and Libby picked up a pint of Rocky Road. And a pint of Neapolitan. And one of Caramel Crunch for a well-balanced breakfast. With the pints stuffed into the crook of her elbow, she stepped back and let the freezer door shut—and stared into the eyes of Sam Winters again.

  “Let’s try this again,” he said congenially. “What were you doing up at Ryan’s house?” He leaned his shoulder against the freezer door, as if he thought they were going to be here awhile, chatting it up like neighbors. He looked a little odd in such a casual pose—Sam was an imposing man with big shoulders and bigger arms. He probably intimidated a lot of people.

  But he did not intimidate Libby. “Sam,” she said, smiling, “I hope this doesn’t come across as rude, but it’s really none of your business. And yet, I’m going to tell you, because I know you will insist. I was using a shortcut to go to town. So . . .” She shrugged. “I guess I’ll see you around.” She started to move past him, then paused, stepped back, and said, “By the way, thanks for . . . you know, helping me,” she said, referring to his telling Ryan that she was meeting him and running late. “See you.” She walked on.

  At the counter, she put her ice cream down and dug out a ten from her wallet. Her money situation was not great. She’d gotten a little bit of severance when she was given the “opportunity” to leave her job at the sheriff’s office, which was a nice way of saying she was fired. She was lucky to have free room and board out at the ranch, and hoped that she might make enough off the events they held out there to live. So far, nothing could be further from the truth. It was bad enough that Madeline was paying for the utilities, but half the time, Libby didn’t have money for groceries.

  Lately, she’d been thinking she might have to sell her shitty car if things didn’t turn around, and buying three pints of ice cream was definitely not high on her priority list.

  “Caramel Crunch!” the woman said. “That’s my favorite. Must be that time of the month,” she said with a wink.

  “Do you have a spoon?” Libby asked.

  The woman’s brows waggled up to her hairline. “Girl needs a fix. Over there, sweetie, next to the pickles and hot dogs.”

  Libby swept by the condiment stand, grabbed a handful of spoons, and walked outside. And who should be perched against the hood of her car, his ankles crossed, his arms still folded? Sam Winters. This guy was like a Whac-a-Mole game—he kept popping up.

  “We’re going to have this conversation if you like it or not,” he said before she could speak. “So don’t try and brush me off again. And be nice when you answer me. What were you doing in the Vista Ridge subdivision this morning?”

  “You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that,” she said. “But did I miss a constitutional amendment memo? It’s still a free country, right?”

  “I said be nice. Didn’t we review the concept of free for you just a couple of days ago?” he asked, making a little swirling motion in her direction.

  “Yes.” Libby sat down on the curb, reached for the first ice cream in her bag in preparation for The Talk. Rocky Road—that would do. She pulled the top off the carton and stuck her spoon into it.

  “Why were you driving by Ryan’s place after we had chat number . . . what was it, three, four?”

  “Four,” she said. If there was one thing that could be said for ol’ Buttinsky, it was that he possessed a pair of gorgeous hazel eyes. They seemed to pierce holes in Libby every time he looked at her. She always had an uncomfortable squirmy feeling that he was seeing more than she intended to show. “And in answer to your question, yes, I was driving by his house,” she said, and stuck a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.

  Sam sighed. He looked up at the sky a moment, as if he was carefully considering his response. Or trying to keep from blowing his cool. “Girl, you’re just begging for trouble, aren’t you?”

  “No. No, I am not begging for trouble,” she said thoughtfully through a mouthful of ice cream. She swallowed. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but some things are beyond my ability to control.” She glanced up. “I don’t mean in a baseball bat kind of way. I mean, in general.”

  “What, driving by Ryan Spangler’s house when there is a restraining order against you is beyond your ability to control? Because that’s a fast-lane ticket to jail.”

  “No, not that,” she said, shaking her head a little, then pausing to push unruly curls back from her face with the back of her hand. “I could control that if I wanted to. But I don’t want to. I want to drive by and see what’s going on, and that’s the thing I can’t control.” Anger management issues, her mother had said. Dr. Huber was a little more sophisticated in her diagnosis. She’d said Libby had suffered from Brief Reactive Psychosis, and it was nothing a little psychotherapy, antidepressants, and the development of coping mechanisms wouldn’t cure. So far, eating was the only coping mechanism Libby had managed to ace. She wasn’t in therapy—that cost money, and that was something she didn’t have a lot of. But her mother had paid for the medicine, and she was taking that religiously.

  In spite of the meds she was taking, Libby was not feeling zen, she was feeling strangely giddy in that moment, her mind swimming with Ryan’s apology. That meant she had not manufactured their relationship or their love. After beating herself up for so long for being so stupid, that realization alo
ne made her want to do cartwheels.

  She wondered if she could still do cartwheels and stuffed another big helping of ice cream into her mouth. Sam was studying her, almost as if he was waiting for her to say more.

  When she didn’t, Sam pushed away from her car, stepped off the curb, and sat beside her. There was a lot of warmth in his eyes. Libby had noticed that before, on the day she’d gone off on Ryan’s truck. Sam had not looked afraid of her, like Sarah Drew, who clutched her purse to her breast, staring in horror. Sam had looked as if he understood. She could remember feeling comforted somehow that it was him who took the club, as if he was one person in the midst of the chaos who was there to help her, not hurt her. She remembered feeling grateful to him—for stopping her, for being there, for protecting her.

  He smiled a little now, and his eyes crinkled in the corners. Libby felt a tiny little wave of electricity go through her that she found both disturbing and exciting.

  She handed him a spoon and her bag of ice cream.

  Sam looked into the shopping bag. He took out the Caramel Crunch. “We can talk about your lack of control a little more while we take a drive,” he remarked as he popped the lid off the container.

  That brought Libby’s head up. “Take what drive?”

  “The drive I told Ryan we were going to take,” he said, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “You know, to help out the less fortunate.”

  Libby laughed. “Good one.”

  Sam did not laugh. He turned those eyes on her again, and Libby felt the heat behind them sidle down through her spine. “I just lied to keep you out of trouble. So we’re going to turn it into a half lie, you and me. And by the way, don’t expect me to ever lie for you again.”

  “No. No, no,” she said contritely. She glanced at her watch. She had two hours before she had to be anywhere. “I’ve got some things I have to do today,” she pointed out.

  “Like what? Drive by Ryan’s house again? What about his work? Maybe you should drive by there, too. Go in and say hi. Oh, and while you’re at it, maybe stop in at the school and see what the kids are up to.”

  “Not funny,” she said.

  “I didn’t intend it to be.”

  Libby groaned, took another generous bite of ice cream. “I am not driving by his work, Sam. It’s not like I’m a professional stalker here.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes!” Libby was not going to let him drag her down. She was feeling buoyant for the first time in weeks. “What is the purpose of this drive, again? So you can explain the concept of freedom to me again?”

  “I will if you need it. But if you will promise not to get mouthy or go where you’re not supposed to go, I promise not to bring up the R.O.”

  Oh, how Libby hated that term. It sounded so . . . criminal. “How kind of you, officer.” She spooned more ice cream. “Where are we going?”

  “Like I said—to see about some less fortunate people. It might do you some good to see that there are others out there with bigger problems than you.”

  Libby snorted. “I know. I volunteered at every charity in town, remember?”

  “Yes, I do. Why don’t you start volunteering again? It might help you keep your mind off those things that are beyond your control. Why’d you quit Meals On Wheels?” he asked.

  She suddenly remembered one cold afternoon more than a year ago when Sam had brought a truckload of potatoes to the Meals On Wheels kitchen. He’d gone down to Gunnison to get them from a farmer there. Libby just happened to be working that afternoon and had been happy to see him, because the two old men sorting through the food donations were as humorless as that gray afternoon.

  Sam had teased Libby as he’d tossed the potatoes to her, scoring her efforts to get them into storage boxes before he tossed another. It had been a really nice afternoon.

  Libby looked down at her ice cream, embarrassed. “Gas,” she said. “I’m a little low on funds.”

  “Well, come on. We’re going to go see an old acquaintance.”

  “Who?”

  He winked. “You’ll see. And the other one is a mechanic,” Sam said. “I bet he could help you with your car.”

  That certainly caught her interest. Libby looked at her junk car—she needed more than help, she needed a new car and the money to buy it. “Is he cheap?”

  “I’d bet so. He could use the work, too.”

  Libby shifted her gaze to Sam, prepared to give him a vague answer. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but looking at her in a way that made her stomach do that strange little fluttery-buttery flip again. Before she could figure out what the look was, Sam stood up.

  “Come on, it will be good for you,” he said. “You can take some notes about how law-abiding citizens live.”

  “Can I bring my ice cream?” she asked, and extended her hand for him to help her up.

  Sam pulled her up, and she landed so close that she could see how clean-shaven he was, and how square his chin was, and how his hair was not really brown, but more coffee-colored. When she stood this close, she didn’t see the badge at all.

  His gaze slipped to her mouth for a splintered moment, but long enough for her to feel that woozy electric charge run through her again. He said, “You can bring anything but a golf club.”

  A corner of her mouth turned up in a half smile. “You’re just a laugh riot today, Deputy Dog. Give me back my Caramel Crunch.”

  Sam smiled and handed her the container, then opened the door to his Dodge Ram patrol truck for her.

  SIX

  On the way out of town, they drove past the old county coliseum where the Rotary Club held the annual Halloween Carnival. About a year ago, Sam had ended up working the carnival, filling in for his old friend Dirk, a fellow deputy. Dirk was the only one of Sam’s acquaintances prior to rehab with whom he’d kept in touch. Sam was embarrassed by what had happened for one thing—the upward trajectory of his career at the sheriff’s office had ended in flames—and besides, he’d always made sure to buddy up to the guys who drank too much. Dirk wasn’t much of a drinker, and as far as Sam knew, he didn’t judge Sam for being a recovering alcoholic.

  Dirk had signed on to work off-duty at the carnival to make a little extra money, but the afternoon of Halloween, his sister had gone in for an emergency appendectomy in Montrose.

  Sam had been happy to step in for Dirk. He’d had nothing better to do, and he liked seeing the little kids in their Halloween costumes. All he had to do was keep watch, make sure no one got out of hand, and if they did, play bouncer.

  For kids who lived up in the mountains, who didn’t have subdivisions to trick or treat in, the carnival was the best candy haul around. And because that was true for the children, the carnival had evolved—now it offered something for everyone: games and candy for children, petting zoos, and a best-costume contest. For the adults, there was beer, dancing, and carnival food.

  For most of the evening, Sam had stood around watching children in store-bought and homemade costumes fill buckets shaped like pumpkins with candy. He could remember watching families and thinking how he’d always imagined taking his own kids trick or treating. He’d always wanted a big, close family—the opposite of what he’d had growing up. He and his sister had lived with his mother after his parents’ divorce. He rarely saw his father, and what he remembered of him was that he always had a drink in his hand.

  Sam had lived like most middle-class kids. He’d had his own Batman costume. He’d played sports, as many as he could. He’d turned into an adolescent, when every waking moment had been filled with thoughts of girls. He’d gone to college, gotten married, let alcohol get the best of him . . .

  But one of Sam’s fondest childhood memories was his friendship with Brian Campinelli. Brian had four brothers and two sisters. The Campinelli house was always loud, always a mess, and always fun. Brian’s mother was always hugging and kissing her children, even if they didn’t want it. She would even wrap Sam in her thick arms and hug him tight. He felt
wanted in that house.

  Sam had envied the chaos and the affection in the Campinelli house. It made him want that very thing for himself when he grew up—a big, rambunctious family, and every member assured of how much they were loved. But given that he was practically starting over with his life, he didn’t think that was in the cards any longer.

  Libby leaned over to check the speedometer. “You drive like a grandpa.”

  “I drive safely. You could use some tips in that department.”

  Libby snorted. “You know where your driving tips are on my list of things to care about? Way down here,” she said, fluttering her fingers down to the floor. She smiled at her joke and began to scrape the sides of the Rocky Road container of ice cream.

  “Are you going to polish off the other two pints?” he asked, amused.

  “Maybe.” She paused, her spoon filled with melting ice cream. “Do you know how much weight I’ve gained in the last five months? Ten pounds. Ten pounds! And five of those since Mountain View! I thought nervous breakdowns meant you didn’t eat. Well, it’s quite the opposite,” she said, waving her plastic spoon around. She filled her mouth with the last bite of Rocky Road ice cream. “I have to stop.”

  Sam didn’t think she needed to stop anything. He thought she looked good with a few curves on her.

  He remembered the way she’d looked the night at the carnival, dressed as a scarecrow. She’d painted her face, big black rings around her eyes, a red dot on her nose, pink cheeks. She had straw coming out of the waist of her baggy pants, and sticking out her arms and legs, and from beneath the brim of her wide hat. Naturally, she’d had Alice and Max in tow—Sam rarely saw her without those two. Max was dressed as Buzz Lightyear, and little Alice was a ballerina.

  He’d first spotted them at the kid’s spinning wheel. Alice spun the wheel, and it landed on an image of a piece of candy in a wrapper. Libby leapt into the air with a cheer. Little Max, his face tipped up to Libby’s, mimicked her.