And I was like, “What is crazy, Alex?” which of course Deb didn’t get because she’s not that into Jeopardy. I remember thinking that usually nothing surprises me—I mean, I’ve been through a lot and I also watch Duck Dynasty—but I was surprised. I did not expect that from Libby. Sure, I’d heard reports she was driving around Ryan’s house and acting weird. But Ryan dumped her out of the blue, and you know, people do crazy things when they find out the guy they thought they were going to spend the rest of their life with was actually banging his ex-wife. Talk about salt on the wound.
Still, I never thought Libby Tyler would be one to pick up a golf club and go to town on Ryan’s truck. She’s got that really tight T-shirt that has a big flowery peace sign, and I thought she bought into that whole thing. Peace, I mean. And I never thought Libby would end up in the hospital. Not like my hospital, with a lot of IVs and catheters and nurses who are constantly sticking something into you, but a quiet hospital where they pipe in Yanni and you sit around and talk about your feelings and rest a lot.
She was only there a week, but in Pine River, any walk through the funny farm is Big News.
I’ve had time to think about this, and here’s the truth: Libby Tyler is not crazy, no matter what you think you’ve heard. Sure, she’s had some crazy moments, but you would, too, if you’d walked in Libby’s shoes. Everyone has always loved Libby. Everyone. She joins everything, always wanting to help out, always wanting to do good. She’s bubbly, she’s always had this super positive outlook even when things were not looking so great to the rest of us, she’s cute as hell, and she’s got a great butt. Not that I’ve been ogling it or anything.
Libby went through some stuff is all I’m saying. Some people go through stuff and they bite down and shake it off, and then do something like make off with all your investments years later. Some people just reach that point where they can’t take it anymore and they bash in a few windows with golf clubs, and then they’re over it. That’s Libby. I mean, would Sam Winters have a flaming torch for her if she was truly crazy? No way. So don’t listen to the Methodists about Libby. Listen to me.
Oh, by the way, I’m Leo Kendrick. I have motor neuron disease, which makes me a genius, because the famous physicist Stephen Hawking has it, too, and I’ve never met anyone with MND who wasn’t totally brilliant. I’m not bragging about it, I’m just letting you know that I’m right most of the time. It can be annoying to lesser mortals, but if you’re a genius, you learn to live with a little disgruntled envy coming your way.
Anyway, there’s a lot more about Libby and Homecoming Ranch you’re going to want to know, so let’s get this party started.
TWO
Two Years Ago
On the last Sunday in June, the Pine River Colorado Church League held its final softball tournament. It had become such a major event in town that the officials had moved it from the municipal fields out to Pioneer Park on the old Aspen Highway. A cottage industry of junk food and bouncy castles had grown up along with the tournament, and even if a person wasn’t terribly interested in church league softball, there was enough for a family to do on a Sunday afternoon.
Sam Winters, a deputy sheriff, had been back in town only a month after several months away. He hadn’t been on vacation. He hadn’t even been anywhere fun. He’d spent three months at a treatment facility in Denver for alcoholism, then another six months in a halfway house working construction while he tested the new, wobbly legs of his sobriety.
It was still difficult for Sam to say it, even at the AA meetings he attended each week: he was an alcoholic. A recovering alcoholic, thank God, but an alcoholic all the same. It had cost him everything—his job, his marriage, the best years of his life.
Sam had come back to Pine River and a new position at the sheriff’s office. He’d once been on track to be the chief deputy with an eye toward running for sheriff one day. Not anymore. He was fortunate that the sheriff had let him back on the force in any position.
Since coming back, Sam didn’t get out much. Sobriety was still something he was learning to live with, and he felt safest away from the temptation of life up at his house up in the mountains. It was a lonely place to be, but it was necessary. Women, friends—there were too many opportunities to drink, too many reasons to convince himself he could have just one. Sam couldn’t have just one. He’d come back from the depths of his own personal hell and he never wanted to be there again.
Still, it was a beautiful afternoon, and Sam liked softball. A church tournament sounded innocuous, and he decided to venture out.
Sam dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He pulled a ball cap down low over his eyes—an old habit that he used to believe kept people from noticing that he’d been drinking—and drove down to Pioneer Park.