In Search of Sam Read Online Free Page B

be a hundred times worse at his trailer. But I have to do it.
    I’m so busy rationalizing all this in my head that I stop seeing my surroundings, and the next thing I know, I’ve arrived. The sign is right there: Webb’s River: population 1,123 . Next up is the road leading to Greener Pastures Ranch, and my heart skips a few beats. I spent as much time there last summer as I did at Sam’s place. It started when Sam signed me up for riding lessons, but somewhere along the way my instructor became my boyfriend. But that’s over now. Micah and I both hoped our relationship would be more than a summer romance, but with him at university in Calgary and me in Vancouver, it wasn’t working. We still exchange texts and emails, but as friends.
    A little farther up the highway, I flick on my turn signal, slow down, and steer my little Honda onto the road leading to Sam’s place. I know the trailer and property are mine now, but in my heart they will always belong to Sam.
    As happens so often these days when I think about him, emotions threaten to swamp me, so I open the window and allow a blast of cold air to shock them away. The farther I get from the highway, the more leftover snow there is, and I am forced to concentrate on my driving. But as soon as I round the final stand of fir trees and see the trailer, my head is once more filled with Sam.
    The Honda crunches to a stop near the fire pit, and I turn off the engine. The world is so quiet, I imagine this is what it must feel like to be deaf. I reach into my pocket for Sam’s keys and, clutching them so tightly they dig into my palm, I stare hard at the trailer. Now that I’m here, I don’t want to go in. It’s not summer anymore. There won’t be wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, no wildflowers on the table, and no baseball game blaring from the television. The trailer will be cold and quiet and empty. It will mean Sam really is gone.
    I get out of the car. It’s windy, so I zip up my jacket, shove my hands into my pockets, and pick my way around the piles of snow to the shed.
    Sam always kept the doors open, so it feels wrong to see them shut tight. I find the appropriate key and remove the padlock. Inside it’s dark and damp and smells of wet hay. I hear a horse whinny, but that’s impossible. Jasmine has been gone for months. The fence separating her stall from the rest of the shed is gone too. The shed isn’t empty, though. In fact, it’s as full as it can be — full of Lizzie.
    I run my hand over the truck’s faded red fender to the driver’s door. Fishing the keys out of my pocket again, I open it and climb inside. The cold vinyl of the seat crackles as I slide behind the wheel. I pat the dash.
    â€œHow’re you doing, Lizzie?”
    I stick the key into the ignition and without even thinking put one foot on the brake and the other on the clutch. Instantly I’m taken back to the afternoon Sam taught me to drive Lizzie. I can’t help smiling. I’d never operated a standard transmission before, and I bucked poor Lizzie — and Sam — all over the field.
    I turn the key. Nothing. I don’t bother trying it again. Common sense says Sam took the battery out, but my heart says Lizzie’s in mourning.
    â€œI miss him too,” I say, patting the dash again and letting myself out of the truck.
    I lock the shed, sigh, and head for the trailer. No point putting off the inevitable any longer. I remind myself what I’m here to do: keep my eyes peeled for business documents, collect the photographs from the living room cabinet, find the string tie with the turquoise gemstone, and round up any other personal items Sam may have left. If I keep my mind on those tasks, I’ll be fine.
    As I step inside I’m met by a musty odour, but otherwise the trailer is the same — the toilet seat in the bathroom is even up — and for a second I imagine that Sam has