by Kara Lennox
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?”
Chapter Nine
“I didn’t exactly lie,” he tried, but she was having none of it.
“You knew I was looking for you and you did everything in your power to convince me I was on the wrong track, including letting me waste two days hiking up to this godforsaken place—”
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have done it. But if you’d stayed in Linhart you eventually would’ve met someone who knew the truth. I had to find a way to get you out of town.”
“You could’ve sent me on a wild-goose chase somewhere besides here,” she said. “Maybe to a spa, or a resort.”
“This was the first thing I thought of. I figured all the papers and letters and pictures upstairs would keep you busy.”
“But not forever. Or were you planning for me not to come back…ever?”
He hoped she was kidding. “I was going to send my mother to the spa, actually. But that didn’t work out like I planned.” His mother had simply called the spa and rescheduled her visit for next month, easy as pie.
He braced himself for Sydney’s explosion. Whatever she threw at him, he deserved it. If he ended up without the chili pot over his head, he’d be lucky.
But the explosion never came. She was studying him as if he were some new species of insect she’d never seen before.
“I really don’t understand. I’ve seen people lie, cheat and steal to try to inherit money that didn’t belong to them. But I’ve never seen anyone work this hard not to inherit money.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Enlighten me.”
“I don’t want to be rich. I’ve seen what extreme wealth can do to people. How much do you know about my father?”
“Sammy? Not a whole lot, other than that he owned a very profitable casino and had ties to organized crime. That part isn’t my business. His will is my business. He left you half of his estate—he must have loved you a great deal.”
Russ laughed. “You gotta be kidding.”
“Well, something caused him to write his will that way.”
“Maybe he wanted to get revenge on his wife by cutting her out of her inheritance.”
“She received more than ten million, as well, so it wasn’t that.”
“Then the gesture was born out of pure guilt.” That was the only thing Russ could figure.
“Who cares why he did it? He did—it’s ten million dollars. You can’t just pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“That’s exactly what I have in mind. The poor bastard thought anything could be bought or sold with cold hard cash. Well, not me. He can’t buy my forgiveness for what he did, not with any amount.”
Sydney was silent for a while. She ate some of the potatoes, chewing thoughtfully. “What did he do that was so horrible? Did he abuse you?”
“Maybe I could have dealt with that. What he did was almost worse. To Sammy Oberlin, I was invisible. I didn’t exist. He wanted my mother in his bed, but he certainly didn’t want to marry her or take any responsibility for the consequences.”
“He didn’t pay child support?”
“He always handed my mother money for whatever she claimed she needed, but there were never any formal payments.”
“So this whole thing is a gesture of defiance,” Sydney concluded. “A grudge match between you and your deceased father. Who do you think is winning?”
When she put it like that, it sounded ridiculous. “There’s more
to it.”
“So keep explaining.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation. My reasons are my own. Let’s just leave it at that.”
She sat there silently for a while, pondering. “All right,” she finally said. “If you’ll help me carry the dishes to the sink, I’ll wash them.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You cooked, it’s only fair I clean.”
He had to give her credit, she was trying to honor his wishes. But try as she might, it was clear she was confused and upset by his decision. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. No one liked being duped. “I’m sorry I can’t be more accommodating.”
She shrugged. “It’s just a million-dollar commission. Easy come, easy go. You brought me up to this cabin under false pretenses. I almost froze to death, I had to use that disgusting outhouse because you neglected to tell me there was a marginally adequate bathroom, I ate the grossest meals imaginable because you didn’t tell me the can labels were on the bottom, but, hey, you don’t owe me anything. And I’m not the kind of person to carry a grudge.” She managed to get herself upright and hobble to the kitchen sink without his assistance. “Just bring me the dishes, okay? I can lean against the counter. It’s probably best if we don’t talk about this anymore.”
She was probably afraid she’d do him violence if they talked any more. They were stuck with each other and isolated from any witnesses.
Russ decided he better do as she asked and consider himself lucky she wasn’t throwing dishes instead of washing them.
He carried their dishes to the sink and saw that Sydney was staring at the pump, mystified. Good gravy, she didn’t know how to work a pump, either?
“If the bathroom has running water,” she asked, “why doesn’t the kitchen?”
“Because Bert did exactly what was needed to put in a bathroom. No more, no less. The pump worked fine, so why replace it?”
“So idiots like me can wash dishes?”
Russ put a large pot in the sink. She stood aside and let him pump away, and after thirty or so seconds, a stream of cold water started to fill the pot. “I’ll have to heat some water on the stove. You might want to take a seat.”
