Truths I Learned From Sam 2-Book Bundle. Kristin Butcher

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Truths I Learned From Sam 2-Book Bundle - Kristin Butcher Truths I Learned from Sam

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be surprised.”

      I can’t argue with that. Anything more than a dozen and I’d be drop-dead amazed. There isn’t a house anywhere.

      “Maybe tomorrow we’ll take a tour,” Sam says, “but right now I think we should get you settled in. Come on. Lizzie’s right over here.”

      Lizzie? Now I’m confused. Mom never mentioned anybody but Sam. “Who’s Lizzie?”

      Sam chuckles and nods toward a truck parked where the bus had been.

      I expect to see someone sitting in the cab, but it’s empty. And that’s when it hits me — Lizzie isn’t a person. She’s Sam’s truck, and from the look of her, she’s about the same age as Kathy Ann. I think Lizzie must have been red once, but now she’s so faded, her paint blends in with the rust.

      Sam heaves my suitcase and backpack into the bed of the truck on his way to the driver’s side.

      “Hop in,” he says. “It’s not locked.”

      As I grab the door handle, I prepare myself for the worst. The outside of the truck is mostly road dust and rust, so I can only imagine what the inside is like.

      But I’m pleasantly surprised. Oh, there’s no denying the truck is old — the black vinyl upholstery on the bench seat is cracked, there’s duct tape over a rip up the back, and the chrome around the gauges has pretty much rubbed off — but there’s not a single hamburger wrapper or drink cup anywhere. The truck is clean.

      I climb in and reach for the seat belt. After scrab-bling blindly for several seconds I finally hunt for it with my eyes. It isn’t there. “What the — ” I mutter, feeling all around the window and down the door panel.

      Sam reaches over and pulls a strap out of nowhere. Then he draws it across my body and buckles it. “Lizzie doesn’t have shoulder harnesses — just lap belts,” he says.

      My mouth drops open. “You’re kidding! Is that even legal? How old is — Lizzie?”

      Sam smiles. “Same age as me. We were both born in 1972. It was a very good year.” He pats the dash affectionately. “Now, be a good girl, Lizzie, and take us home nice and easy. No fussing like you did on the way here.” He turns the key, and the truck chugs for a few seconds before rumbling to life. He pats the dash again. “Good girl.” His next words are directed at me. “Lizzie had a bit of a hissy fit earlier. She wasn’t in the mood for a drive. That’s why I was late picking you up. Sorry about that.”

      “Do you always talk to your truck?” I ask.

      I can tell by the creases around his eyes that my question amuses him. “Not always.” He shrugs. “But the truth is she’s better company than most people.”

      “Why do you say that?”

      He shrugs again. “She’s a good listener.”

      As we pull onto the highway, Sam switches on the radio, and Shania Twain shoots into every crack and crevice of the cab. Conversation is impossible, so I concentrate on where we’re going instead. Sam rolls down the window, and some of Shania swooshes out with the wind.

      We start back toward downtown Webb’s River, but just before we get there, Sam turns onto the crossroad leading to the school. As we hit the crest of the hill, I see it. I’m expecting a little red schoolhouse, but this building has at least eight classrooms. It looks like there’s a gym too. The school’s not new, but I’ve seen ones way older in Vancouver. The grounds have climbing equipment, swings, a soccer field, a baseball diamond, and a covered play area with hopscotches painted on the pavement.

      Sam turns down the radio and points ahead. “The high school is just over the next rise.”

      “There’s a high school too?”

      “We can’t keep them in elementary school forever,” he teases.

      The high school is even more of a shock. “It’s huge!” I say.

      “It has to be,” Sam replies. “Students get bussed here from all over the region. The school can hold a thousand students, though there were only about seven hundred this past year.”

      Then he turns up the radio again, and I go back to watching the scenery. It is all really pretty but so isolated. We’ve been driving fifteen minutes and except for the schools, there isn’t a hint of civilization anywhere — not so much as a crushed beer can. After twenty minutes, the paved road even disappears, and we’re suddenly bumping along on rutted gravel. After another ten minutes that’s gone too. Now it’s just two bare tire tracks running through a tree-dotted field. The truck slows. We have to be getting close, but I don’t see a house anywhere — until we round a stand of trees. And then —

      Holy crap! I shut my eyes and open them again, but apparently I’m not hallucinating.

      Chapter Five

      It’s a trailer. Sam lives in a freakin’ trailer! And I’m not talking a fancy big double-wide either. This thing is puny and ancient and über-ugly. The massive satellite dish on top makes it look like a giant air horn, and I find myself waiting for a blast that will smash my eardrums. How could my mother send me here? Wedding brain has clearly destroyed her ability to think. There is no way I can survive in this trailer for six minutes — never mind six weeks!

      I hear the bus driver’s voice in my head. A coach to Vancouver comes through here at nine thirty every morning. I cling to that knowledge.

      Sam is already hauling my stuff from the back of the truck, so I open the door and climb out.

      “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” he says as I join him.

      He got the humble part right, but I don’t say so. I don’t dare. If I open my mouth, everything I’m thinking will pour out, and that would not be good. I don’t trust what my face is doing either. I have a feeling horror is written all over it, so I walk ahead of Sam and pretend I’m checking the place out. Before I know it, I am.

      The trailer is white — in theory. In actual fact, it is more of a dirty grey. It sits on stacked concrete blocks. What should be open space underneath is stuffed with scraps of wood, plastic pails, cheap folding lawn chairs, a couple of milk crates — one yellow, one blue — and an assortment of rusty tools. Unpainted wooden steps lead to two doors separated by a window. There’s another smaller window farther along. A couple of big propane canisters stand at one end of the trailer, and then, of course, there’s that monster satellite dish on top.

      A little distance away is a firepit, surrounded by soot-stained rocks and topped with a blackened grill. Chopped firewood is stacked under a blue tarp. Behind that, mostly hidden by the trees, is a large shed — or maybe a really small barn. Sun and rain have warped the wood and weathered it nearly black. The roof is a collage of mismatched shingles. Scattered posts from what looks to have been a corral dot the field beyond.

      And that’s it. Everything else belongs to Mother Nature.

      Sam climbs the steps to one of the trailer doors and disappears inside with my bags, but in a matter of seconds he’s back. He beckons me. “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

      I smile — or maybe I grimace. Without

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