One Stubborn Texan

Chapter Eight

“Carry me to the bathroom,” Sydney said the moment Russ brought her inside the cabin. “I’m taking a shower and no one is stopping me.”

“You really should elevate that foot.”

“I’m taking a shower,” she said through gritted teeth. “I cannot stand being dirty one more instant.”

The shower was actually a primitive tub conversion with a circular shower rod and a basic white plastic curtain. A tiny window let in just enough light to enable her to find the faucet. She reached inside the curtain and turned on the hot-water spigot. Nothing happened.

Russ hovered behind her, ready to catch her if she fell. “I’m afraid there’s no hot water, only cold,” Russ informed her.

“The nightmare continues.” Sydney closed her eyes, then opened them, hoping to change reality. Still no hot water. She closed that faucet and turned on the cold, which rewarded her with a gush of rusty water that gradually turned clear. It wasn’t just cold, it was icy.

She didn’t care. She turned on the shower, then started un-buttoning her blouse. “Unless you want to see me naked, I suggest you leave.”

He appeared to seriously consider the choice, which only made her madder. He’d blown any chances of seeing her naked when he’d tricked her into coming out to this nightmare of a cabin.

“Let me help you get your other shoe off,” he said.

She was perfectly capable of doing that herself, but for some reason she let him help her. She sat on the edge of the tub while Russ unlaced her hiking boot. It felt sexy, having him remove an item of clothing, even if it was just a boot. She was ashamed to admit that riding on his back with her arms wrapped around him, she’d become even more aware of him as a man-his scent, the hardness of his muscles.

She didn’t understand how she could be so angry and aroused at the same time, but there it was.

“I don’t think my ankle’s broken,” she said. “It’s starting to feel a little better.” Whether this was the truth or merely wishful thinking, she didn’t know.

“Good. I’ll go turn on the generator, then bring you a robe.”

It was the coldest shower Sydney had ever taken. It was also the fastest, unless she wanted to turn blue all over and catch pneumonia. The only soap in evidence was a small sliver in the soap dish. She used it gratefully.

When she turned off the water and opened the curtain, she found a towel and a flannel bathrobe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. With the towel in one hand she rubbed herself briskly, supporting herself on a towel bar with the other, still standing on only one leg. Her teeth were chattering as she wrapped the soft, flannel robe around her body.

She washed her underthings in the sink and hung them over a towel bar to dry. Now she could think about sitting down someplace and resting.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Russ raced to her side to help her to the ratty old sofa where she could stretch out and prop up her leg. Her ankle throbbed like nothing she’d ever felt before, and she’d known pain in her life. Though she’d only been five years old when she’d been attacked by the dog, she remembered the excruciating pain of her injuries and the subsequent surgeries as if they’d happened last week.

Though she got queasy at even the thought of entering a hospital, she wondered if she’d made the right decision in refusing the helicopter.

“Would you rather go to bed?” Russ asked.

Now, there was a loaded question. Her body responded as if he’d meant it in a different way. Considering her current opinion of him, her body needed to get with the program. “Um, no, the sofa. I’m not much of a lying-around-in-bed-person.”

“Something tells me you’re not much of a sitting-around-on-the-couch person, either.” He set her down on the sofa, where she immediately stretched out.

“Why do you say that?”

“It didn’t take me long to figure out that you’re one of those people who can’t sit still. Your schedule is always packed and you like to multitask. You work hard…and you play hard, but probably not often enough.”

“Are you a psychic or something?” He’d nailed her. She was always trying to do two or three things at a time, always trying to squeeze one more client in, one more appointment early in the morning or in the evening. These past few months had been doubly hectic, tending to her father and his clients and his financial situation, keeping his house reasonably clean, cooking instead of eating out because her father missed her mom’s cooking, not that Shirley had been any better at it than Sydney, who was an awful cook. She had let her leisure activities, what there were of them, slide because there simply wasn’t time.

Russ laughed. “No, the signs are there for anyone to see. An unnatural attachment to your cell phone and restless hands. You fidget and drum your fingers and look at your watch a lot.”

“Idle hands are the devil’s tools,” she quipped. “I happen to like getting things done.”

He opened an old trunk and pulled out another crocheted afghan in a hideous green and orange zigzag pattern, to go with the granny-square blanket. He settled both blankets over her, then propped her swollen ankle on a pillow. “The blanket smells a little like mothballs, but I noticed you were shivering.”

She wasn’t surprised. The cabin had started to warm up earlier when the sun was shining through the windows. But now that the clouds had moved in, so had the chill.

Russ rubbed his hands together, obviously a bit chilled himself. “I’ll get a fire started in here.”

The fire sounded wonderful. And just a little too cozy. While Russ went outside to get extra wood, Sydney delved into her backpack where she’d stashed her purse and pulled out her pillbox. She always had Tylenol with her. Not that she ever got headaches, but she liked to be prepared for any eventuality. She swallowed a couple of caplets dry and hoped for the best.

What were they going to do stuck here until at least tomorrow? There was no television, no radio, no CD player. The only form of entertainment in evidence was a bookcase full of books. She supposed in a pinch she could wile away the hours by reading. Lord knew she didn’t want to go back anywhere near those boxes of papers in the loft. She’d seen enough of Bert Klausen’s family to last a lifetime.

When Russ returned he had an armload of firewood for the stove. It looked like enough to keep them warm for a while. She watched with interest as he went about the business of building a fire.

“My gosh, what did you do in here?” He scratched his head as he stared into the pile of matches she’d left on top of the logs she’d loaded into the stove.

“What does it look like? I tried to light a fire.”

“You can’t just light logs with a match. You need kindling and starter material-”

“Well, I didn’t know that! How do you do it?”

“You need small sticks first.” He selected a few about the width of his finger and arranged them in a loose pile. “Then you need something to get the fire started. Newspaper will do.” There was, indeed, a stack of yellowed newspapers against the wall near the stove. He took a section, separated the pages and wrinkled one of them up, positioning it strategically in the pile of sticks, then grabbed the box of matches.

When he opened the box, a puzzled look crossed his face. “How many did you use?”

“A bunch.”

“Well, let’s hope I’m better at this than you are, or we’re in for a cold night.”

She didn’t think she could stand another night freezing her butt off. Hmm. Maybe they’d have to snuggle together to conserve body warmth. Oh, hell, where had that thought come from? She was supposed to be mad at him.

He only took one match to do the job. In moments a cheerful blaze was burning inside the stove. Russ began feeding in larger sticks and logs. He watched it, occasionally poking it with a metal stick, until he was satisfied that the thing wasn’t going to fizzle out. Finally he closed the grate.

Manly man makes fire. He was building heat in other places besides the stove. Apparently Sydney’s hormones were not indifferent to the fire-building or the whole rescuing the damsel in distress. What next? Would he go out in the forest and bring home a woolly mammoth? And if he did, would she throw herself at him in a fit of abject feminine adoration? Why did this Daniel Boone stuff make him so appealing?

It was the novelty of it all, she decided. She didn’t know many men in New York who could survive away from Manhattan for longer than a few hours. Some she knew would positively wither away without their daily Starbucks and New York Times crossword puzzle.

Russ sat in the big easy chair across from Sydney. “So what was it like, growing up in New York? Did you have a big family?”

“No, I’m an only. And it wasn’t like I was raised in a skyscraper. We had a little house in Brooklyn-my father still lives there. I went to public school and did all the normal things.”

“I take it you were very close to your parents.”

“In a way. Truthfully, they were always so wrapped up in each other and the business that they never paid that much attention to me, so long as I stayed out of trouble. But I was okay with that. I didn’t want them to dote on me the way my friends’ parents seemed to. I was always off doing my own thing, anyway. If there can be an upside to my mom’s death, it’s that my dad and I have grown closer. I know him better now than I ever have.”

“You followed in their footsteps, so there must have been some fondness there.”

Sydney laughed. “Probably I became a private investigator because I wanted to prove something to them. That I was as good as they were, something like that. But I found out I really did like the work. So it’s all turned out okay.

“What was it like for you, growing up here? You did grow up here, didn’t you?” she qualified, remembering that Russ didn’t have that strong Texas drawl common among Linhart’s residents.

He looked wary for a moment, but then it seemed to pass. She remembered then that he’d never had a father. Maybe things hadn’t been so sunny, growing up illegitimate in a small town.

“I don’t have any siblings, either,” he said. “We lived with my grandmother for a time, but mostly it’s been just Mom and me. She always made everything an adventure. She was like a kid herself, sometimes. Then there was Bert-he kind of unofficially adopted me. He’s the one who taught me all the outdoors stuff.”

“So while I was running wild on the sidewalks of New York, you were running wild in the countryside.”

“Pretty much. Linhart is a good place for a kid. Everybody knows everybody and we all watch out for each other.”

They fell silent for a while. Sydney stared up at the timber ceiling. “Who built this cabin?”

“Bert’s grandfather, or maybe great-grandfather, Victor Klausen.”

“Wouldn’t that make him your great-grandfather, too?” Sydney asked. “Since you two are cousins and all.”

“I’m related on his mother’s side. We’re only distant cousins.”

“So you knew all along I wouldn’t find anything about the Kleins here.”

“I really didn’t know what all was here,” he said uneasily.

“You’re really not a very good liar. But right now, I’m going to choose not to pursue the reasons why you worked so hard to get rid of me. You’re stuck with me now, pal.”

“It’s not that big of a hardship.”

There he was, flirting again. “So, about the cabin. How old is it?”

“At least a hundred years. It was all done by hand. Can you imagine cutting those trees down with a hand saw, working each log, fitting them together so exactly? You don’t see that kind of craftsmanship anymore. I’m trying to keep the place in good repair for Bert. He doesn’t come up here often anymore.”

Sydney imagined the hike would be a bit rigorous for a man Bert’s age. If he came here at all, it was testament to his health.

She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes, thinking she’d rest just for a moment.

The next thing she knew, it was dark outside and a wonderful smell was drifting through the cabin. Her ankle had awakened her; apparently the Tylenol had worn off.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. That was when she realized Russ had tucked the afghan around her and added a third blanket, a solid-blue woolly thing. But the cabin was also toasty warm and Russ was bustling around working at something on the cook top of the woodstove, the source of the heavenly smell.

A man who could cook. Surely whatever he’d concocted wasn’t out of a can. The closest thing to a man who could cook among her New York friends was one who could get them dinner reservations at the latest trendy restaurant.

She found her purse and a couple more painkillers. Something stronger would have been welcome, but the over-the-counter stuff at least took the edge off her discomfort.

She chanced a look at her ankle. The swelling had gone down some, but the Technicolor special effects were even more dramatic. She’d never seen such creative bruising.

“You’re awake,” Russ said.

“Mmm. Sorry I passed out on you like that. You must have been bored, sitting around with no one to talk to.”

“I’m never bored up here. There’s always something to do-hiking, fishing or just sitting outside listening to the wind in the trees. Even when the weather’s bad, like today, there are always repairs and improvements to make on the cabin. Just keeping it clean takes time. The place gets dusty even when no one is here.”

Even better. A man who wasn’t afraid of a little housework. More and more she was beginning to see that Russ was a breed apart.

“What are you cooking?”

“Fried potatoes with onion.”

“That’s what we’re having for dinner?” Not that she was complaining. After her previous few meals, just about anything sounded insanely delicious.

“I’ll heat up some chili, too.”

“Where did the potatoes and onions come from?”

“There were a few Idahos in the bin under the counter. They keep a pretty long time in the cool and dark. The onions I picked earlier today, on the way up here. They’re wild onions, growing along the side of the trail, and I figured the freeze would kill them so I might as well harvest a few.” He flipped the potatoes with the skill of someone who knew how to use a skillet and spatula.

“We can have canned fruit for dessert,” he continued. “Pineapples or peaches, your choice.”

“Wait a minute. How can you tell what’s in the cans? The labels are missing.”

“The contents are written on the bottoms with a Magic Marker. We had a flood at the store that washed the labels off a few cases of canned goods. We were able to identify the cans by the cartons, but we couldn’t sell them. So we bring them up here or eat them at home.”

“You might have told me to look on the bottoms of the cans,” she huffed. “You wouldn’t believe the nauseating meals I ate-cold.”

Russ laughed, but then quickly sobered. “I’m sorry. I should have taken more time to prepare you for an overnight stay here. I had no idea you wouldn’t know how to light the stove. It’s pretty much like a fireplace or a campfire.”

“My fireplace at home is electric and I’ve never been camping in my life.”

“Never? Not even on a Girl Guide overnight?”

“Never.”

“That is the saddest case I’ve ever heard.”

“Have you ever been to Macy’s during a clearance sale?”

“What? No. What does that have to do with anything?”

“That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Our lifestyles are different. That doesn’t mean yours is better than mine. I happen to prefer bricks and concrete to trees and dirt.”

“Touché.” He flipped the potatoes onto a plate, then set about heating up the chili. She noticed he opened the can a lot more easily than she had.

“I just don’t understand why people would deliberately make themselves uncomfortable,” she said. “Hike up a mountain into the godforsaken boonies so they can sit in a tiny cabin with no central heat and air, no TV, no phone and substandard food.”

“And I don’t understand why people would choose to commute through hours of rush-hour traffic, breathe polluted air and never have a moment’s silence.”

Okay, maybe he had a point. Although she walked when she could, her job required that she spend a lot of time in her car, cursing the traffic, the smell of car exhaust and the noise.

“I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree about this,” she said.

“Fine with me,” he said amiably, but with the attitude of someone who secretly knew he was right.

When the chili was hot, Russ poured it into thick ceramic bowls. “Do you want to eat at the table or should I rig up a tray for you?”

“I can come to the table,” she said, not wanting to be treated like an invalid.

After he’d set their dinner and some dishes on the rough plank table, Russ helped Sydney to one of the ladder-back chairs. She still couldn’t put any weight on her left foot, but using a carved walking stick Russ had found and leaning heavily on him, she managed. Russ brought a small pillow from the sofa and propped her leg up on a second chair.

“You’re being so nice,” she said. “I feel really foolish, injuring myself and forcing you to be stranded with me, cooking for me…”

“It’s no big deal,” he said gruffly. “I told you I like spending time up here and Bert can handle the store for a couple of days. It’s not like I have many clients this time of year.”

“What about the dog?”

“Bert will take care of Nero, too.”

“Well, this smells really good.” She took a bite of the chili. It was pretty tasty-she’d always liked chili, even the kind that came out of a can.

“Okay for substandard fare? Not too hot?”

“I didn’t mean this was substandard,” she said, wishing she hadn’t been so critical of this place earlier. “I was referring to the other meals I ate here. This is good chili, nice and spicy.”

“That’s one thing we have in common. I love spicy food, the hotter the better.”

“Well, you’d be a mighty strange Texan if you didn’t like hot food. Aren’t you native Texans born with hot sauce running through your veins instead of normal blood?”

“Oh, but I wasn’t born in Texas. I spent the first-” He abruptly cut himself off, the look of panic in his eyes unmistakable.

RUSS COULD NOT BELIEVE he’d made such a hideous blunder. But subterfuge didn’t come easily to him. Sydney was right that he was a bad liar. He was just too damn honest for his own good. Of course, he’d decided it would be better to tell her the truth. But deciding and actually doing it were two different things. He’d wanted to pick the time.

“Where were you born?” Sydney asked innocently.

“Um…” Until now, he’d consoled himself with the fact he hadn’t lied outright to her. But now he was either going to have to lie or she would know he was the Russ Klein she was looking for.

“Russ? Cat got your tongue?”

“Let’s just say I’m not a native Texan. But my mom’s family is from Texas-right here in the Hill Country.”

“And you moved back here to be closer to them?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you move from? I have noticed you don’t talk like a Texan.”

Hell. He was sunk. Even if he lied, she would probably know he was lying, which would only make things worse. He felt guilty enough about luring her up to this cabin under false pretenses and letting her injure herself. If he didn’t come clean now, he’d dig his hole even deeper-not that he wasn’t already so deep he’d need an elevator to get out of it.

“Russ, are you going to tell me where you were born?”

He blew out a breath, resigned. “Nevada.”

“Las Vegas?”

“Yes.”

“Was your father Sammy Oberlin?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Sydney went very still. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God, you’re him, you’re really him. I knew my instincts were right about you.” Then she paused, staring at him with an uncomprehending look on her face. “Why did you lie to me?”