Sam happened to live off this same long road up the canyon. His log house was a right turn onto a dirt road at the old abandoned fishing cabin, about a mile up. He loved it up here, but living high in the mountains wasn’t for the faint of heart. Winters were hard, and civilization was a good drive away. Still, it was one of the most serene places on earth—Sam knew God’s hand when he saw it.
Eventually, the road grew steeper, and the surface changed to caliche. Sam bumped along until he came to the iron gate between two thick wooden posts. For decades, an old, weathered, wooden sign had hung over this gate, but now a new sign swung overhead in the breeze. It was shiny and red, big enough that Sam thought passengers in planes passing overhead could see it.
It read “Welcome to Homecoming Ranch.”
It was an awfully big sign to mark a ranch that very few people saw.
The gate was open, so Sam drove through, down past more cottonwoods and spruce trees, past a manicured meadow where a few cows grazed. The property was fenced by split rails, and on the far side of the meadow were a dozen concrete tent pads. Two one-room cabins had been built, but the other pads remained empty, almost as if they’d given up. Through a stand of alder trees, one could see the ranch house, set back against the mountain and the pines.
Sam parked in the drive in front of the house with the pitched roof and funky gables. Libby’s little red car was parked in front of the garage, but there were no other vehicles. He got out and looked around for the dogs. Four of them lived up here, usually lounging under the porch. He was a little disappointed that none of them was around this evening, because he really liked those mutts.
He jogged up the porch steps. They’d been recently repaired. He was glad for it, because the last time he’d been out here, he’d almost put a boot through one step. Been out to see Libby a couple of times in the last month. The girl had had a rough summer.
Sam rang the doorbell. He heard the sound of someone running, and then it sounded as if that person slid across the floor and was stopped by the door. It flew open, and Libby’s wild, curly black hair filled the space behind the screen door. She was smiling—
Until she saw it was him, and her face instantly fell. “Oh. Hi, Sam.” She peered past him, as if she were looking for someone or something else.
He would not take that personally. Much. “Nice to see you, too,” he said. “Expecting someone?”
“Umm . . . no.” She suddenly gasped and whirled around, disappearing from view. Sam waited a moment, listening, expecting her to come back. When she did not he called out, “Libby?”
She didn’t answer him. He heard some banging that he guessed was coming from the kitchen. He knew what was going on here. Libby didn’t intend to come back to the door. She was hoping he’d go away. Sam sighed, pushed the screen door open, stuck his head in, and shouted, “I’m not going away, Libby! You’re going to have to talk to me if you don’t want trouble.”
“Trouble! What are you talking about, Sam Winters? I think you have the wrong person!” she shouted from the back of the house.
“I’m coming in,” he warned her. He knocked the dirt off his boots and walked into the house.
His footfall on the worn pine floors echoed down the hallway. He followed the sound of the banging and the scent of fresh-baked bread through the living room, where a fire was glowing in the hearth and a chenille throw was draped over the couch, as if someone had been napping. He stepped into the adjoining kitchen, ducking his head to go through the door.
He liked this old house; it was homey. The kitchen looked straight out of the 1950s, with chintz curtains, an old stove, Formica countertops, and floral wallpaper. Each room had four walls—none of the big open spaces so popular now. But it was a charming, cozy house.
Libby had donned an apron and was pulling out pots and pans on the other side of the breakfast bar, pretending to be busy. Sam glanced around—papers were stacked haphazardly on the small breakfast table. Through French doors that led into the dining room, he saw candles and Mason jars and some strange bow-looking things strewn around the room. It looked like a massive craft project underway.
But the kitchen was spotless, not a thing out of place. And that smell—Sam wouldn’t have minded in the least sampling some fresh bread, but he was fairly certain he would not be offered any. He took off his hat, put it on the breakfast bar, and dragged his fingers through his hair, which, he absently noticed, had gotten so long it touched his collar. He needed to do something about that.