Love Came Just in Time (39 page)

Her pale eyes flashed. “What of it?”

“You just about ruined my reputation. I'd say that means you owe me.”

“I don't owe you anything—”

“The Clan tells me your father always paid his debts. A pity his daughter doesn't have the same sense of honor.”

Ouch, that had to have stung. He waited for her to slap his face, and he knew he would have deserved it. Instead, she started to wilt right there in front of him. And that he couldn't bear. He had to do something drastic.

“Giving up already?” he demanded.

Well, that took care of the withering. The fire immediately came back to her eyes. “All right. What do you want?”

“I've already paid up through December. I'm moved in and I don't want to move out. The way I see it, you owe me a place to stay.” She started to balk, and he quickly continued. “You wouldn't want word to get around that you're a chicken, would you?”

“That's blackmail,” she snarled.

He nodded.

She gritted her teeth and looked away. Sam watched the wheels turn, wondering what she wrestled with.

“I won't bother you,” he said, in a low voice. “I'll be a perfect gentleman. You won't even know I'm there,” he lied. He fully intended to give her no choice but to notice him. And he had the feeling he knew just how to do it.

“You'll cook?” she asked.

Bingo. “You bet.”

“Cakes?”

“Whatever you want.”

She looked back up at him and frowned. “Don't break any more windows. And don't mess with the water heater.”

“Done.” He held out his hand. “Truce?”

She ignored his hand. “Get out of my way. I've had enough of this wedding garbage. And come home soon. I'm ready for dinner.”

Come home soon. Sam rubbed his fingers over his mouth to hide his smile. Maybe there would come a day when Sydney Kincaid would say those words and mean them in an entirely different way.

Now all he had to do was figure out how to convince her that she wanted to mean them in an entirely different way.

Because, whether he wanted it or not, he had just fallen head over heels in like with the orneriest woman west of the Hudson.

SYDNEY BROUGHT IN an armload of wood and shivered as she dumped it in the bin next to the fireplace. It had taken her an entire week to chop enough to last until the new year. On Monday she'd been a bit irritated that Sam wasn't coming out to help her. On Tuesday she'd been completely annoyed with him. Either she wasn't very good at hiding her emotions, Sam was very bright, or he had begun to feel guilty, because he'd come out Wednesday morning, dressed in sweats and sneakers, ready to help.

He'd succeeded only in almost chopping off all the toes on his right foot.

Sydney had decided right then that chopping the wood herself was far less aggravating than watching over Sam while he helped. So she'd sent him back inside to play on his computer while she worked like a dog.

Well, at least they'd be warm for the next couple of months. The cabin was actually centrally heated and had two backup generators in case the main power supply went out. The wood served as merely a last resort, as well as something of a luxury. There wasn't anything Sydney liked better than to turn off all the lights, sit in front of the fire and dream she was sitting there with an attentive man. He didn't have to be gorgeous, or built like a football player; he just had to be nice. Of course, if he was gorgeous and built she wouldn't argue.

And just such a man was living with her.

She brushed her hands on her jeans and walked out of the house. She had to get out. Fast—before she started to let her imagination run away with her. She backed her Jeep out of the double garage, then got out to close the door. Sam bounded out onto the porch.

“Where're you going?”

“Town,” she said shortly.
Please don't say you want to come along.

“I want to come along. Wait for me, Syd.”

She closed her eyes briefly and prayed for strength. It wasn't that he was handsome. It wasn't that he was built like a linebacker without the excess pudge around the middle. It wasn't that he could cook up a meal like a trained chef.

It was the way he said her name.

She got into the Jeep and slammed the door shut. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the steering wheel. Letting Sam stay had been a very bad idea. Guilt was a very bad thing. She would have kicked him out if he hadn't held that stupid cake over her head.

The passenger door opened, the car dipped slightly and the door closed.

“Hey, what's the matter?” His low, husky voice washed over her like a soothing, warm wave. “Want me to drive?”

“No, I'm fine.” She lifted her head and rubbed her eyes. “I'm fine.”

“You've been working too hard.” Strong fingers were suddenly working their way under the collar of her coat to massage her neck. “I should have helped you with the wood. I'm sorry, Sydney.”

“You would have lost a limb by the end of the week,” she said, pulling away. “I just haven't been sleeping well.”

Sam retreated back to his side of the Jeep. “You'll have to come home and take a nap before dinner. Let's get going.”

Sydney eyed the package on Sam's lap as they drove toward town. “What's that?”

“First draft. My agent thinks I've been doing nothing but napping all summer.” He flashed her a smile that made her knees weak. “She has a rather inaccurate impression of my manliness, I'm afraid.”

Sydney doubted that. No woman with eyes could have formed an inaccurate impression of Sam's manliness. Sydney concentrated on the road.

“Do you ever read espionage novels?”

“Never,” Sydney fibbed firmly. “I haven't got the patience for them.”

“Romances?”

“Not those, either,” she lied. Wow, two lies in the space of ten seconds. With any luck, Sam would never look in her room and see what filled her bookshelves. “I've only got time to read up on work stuff. You know, trail information and things. Wilderness studies. Hunting techniques.”

“You're such a stud,” he said with a laugh.

Normally, that kind of comment would have stung deeply. But the way Sam grinned at her took all the sting away. She smiled weakly.

“I have a reputation to maintain.”

“I hear you're the best.”

“Oh?” Now, this was news. “Who from?”

“Mr. Smith. The Clan. Even Mrs. Fisher, who doesn't know when it's polite to use regular marshmallows and when it isn't. She was complaining Wednesday at the Ladies Aid meeting that someone needs to marry you and saddle you with a dozen kids before you run her sons out of business. A backhanded compliment, of course, but it was still a compliment.”

“She's an old biddy,” Sydney grumbled. Secretly, she was pleased. Maybe things were starting to look up.

Then why did the thought of half a dozen sable-haired, green-eyed children running around her house seem more appealing than showing dozens of spoiled executives the beauty of her land?

The general store saved her from speculating about that disturbing thought. She pulled to a stop and turned off the engine.

“Anything you want inside?” she asked.

“I have a list. I'm just going to run to the post office, then I'll come meet you.” He tapped the end of her nose with his finger. “Don't leave without me. I'm making apricot chicken tonight.”

“I'm convinced.”

He looked at her with a strange little smile before he got out of the car and made his way across the street to the post office in his high-top sneakers. Sydney shook her head as she walked up to the porch of the store. She needed to think about something more practical than Samuel MacLeod's smiles.

His feet. Yes, that was the ticket. Sam needed boots. Maybe Joe had an extra pair lying around. If not, he could order a pair. Sam wouldn't survive the winter without them.

She walked into the store, nodded to Joe, and approached the Clan. They grunted a greeting. Sydney jammed her hands in the pockets of her jeans and bestowed a rare smile on them.

“What's new, fellas?”

“Kilpatrick's heading south,” Zeke grumbled. “I said he'd never make it up here. Born and bred in California. No spine at all.”

“I
said he'd fold,” Amos said, leaning over to deposit a hefty bit of spit into the spittoon. “Guiding's a man's job. Ain't that so, Sydney?”

“You bet, Amos,” Sydney said, rocking back on her heels. It was no easy feat in her boots, but she'd had plenty of practice. “Not for cowards.”

Zeke looked up at her with a disapproving frown. “Still got that writer fella out at your place, Sydney?”

“He's paid through December,” Sydney said defensively.

“I heard Ruth Newark offered him a place. He shoulda taken it. Ain't right to have him out at your house, Sydney. Your pa wouldn't have liked it.”

Sydney frowned right back at him. “He's paid through December,” she repeated. “Money's money, Zeke.”

“And he's a single boy, Sydney.”

Sydney felt her good humor evaporate. “It isn't as if he wants anything to do with me,” she said sharply, then spun around and walked over to the counter. She shoved her list at Joe and pretended a mighty interest in the contents of Joe's glass case. She could name all the flies there and could tell which ones were best for what kind of fishing. Yessiree, that was certainly the kind of knowledge she needed to attract a man.

She looked up as the door opened, expecting to see Sam. Instead, she saw Melanie Newark and Frank Slater. Frank was the only male in Flaherty who had ever given her the time of day. He thought it was great that she had her own business, and he had even asked her out on a date. Once. Her one and only date.

“Hey, Sydney.” Frank smiled, coming over to her. “How's it going?”

“Great, Frank. How are you?”

“Frank, stop,” Melanie hissed.

Frank threw Melanie a faintly annoyed look. “What?”

“What are you doing, you idiot?” Melanie spluttered.

“Well . . .”

“Frank, you come away from her.”

“Now, Melanie . . .”

“You know she's desperate for a husband. Or maybe she isn't. Either way, you don't want to stand too close. And I certainly don't want you talking to her. It will ruin your reputation. Mother says no self-respecting man would get within ten feet of Sydney Kincaid.”

“Sure, Melanie,” Frank mumbled, moving away. “I guess you're right.” He didn't spare Sydney another glance.

Sydney looked back down at the case, blinking furiously. She didn't care what Melanie thought, or Frank for that matter. They were just stupid. Stupid, idiotic, ignorant jerks who didn't have a kind bone in their bodies.

“Here's my list, Joe,” a deep voice said directly behind her. “Alphabetically, just how you like it. Sydney, did you give Joe your list?”

She nodded, keeping her head down, mortified that Sam had probably heard all of Melanie's diatribe.

“Why, Sam,” Melanie purred, “how nice to see you again.”

Sydney peeked to her right in time to see Melanie shove Frank out of her way so she could get closer to Sam.

“Mother wanted me to invite you out for supper tonight.”

“Hey,” Frank complained, “I was coming out for supper—”

Melanie glared briefly at Frank, then smiled at Sam. “What do you say, Sam?”

It was the last straw. Sydney knew when to concede the battle. Not that she wanted Sam. No, sir. But he was her housemate, after all. She couldn't help but feel a little proprietary where he and his chocolate cakes were concerned. She backed up, intending to make a clean getaway before Sam started discussing his dinner plans.

She backed up straight into Sam's hard body. He grabbed a fistful of her jacket and held her immobile.

“Can't,” he said cheerfully. “Sydney's going to teach me how to fish this afternoon, then we're going to fry up our catches tonight.”

Sydney turned around, as best she could with him still clutching her coat, and gaped at him.

“Isn't that so, Syd?”

She could have sworn he winked at her. She couldn't even manage a reply. He pulled the hood of her coat up over her hair.

“Why don't you go out and warm up the Jeep? I'll get Frank to help me out with the goods. And, Syd, do you think I need boots for the winter? Joe, have you got any boots? Get moving, Sydney. We haven't got all day. The fish will be asleep by the time we get out to the river.”

Sydney got help to the door. Sam kept up a steady stream of nonsense conversation as he steered her past the booby-trapped floorboard and pushed her out the door.

“Go start the car,” he said in a low voice. “I want a quick getaway before Melanie's mother gets here. Move it.”

Sydney moved it. She walked out to her car, crawled in under the wheel, and started the motor. Then she put her head down on the steering wheel and tried to cry. It didn't happen. She steeped herself in the humiliation she'd just been through, repeating Melanie's words over and over again in her head. No tears were forthcoming. Not even the knowledge that Sam had wanted to leave quickly not because of her but because of Melanie's mother brought any tears to her eyes. As if he would actually want to stick up for her!

Though he had. Rather nicely, too. She shook her head. He hadn't meant it. He was just a nice person. He wanted nothing to do with her. He probably felt the same way all the other men in Flaherty felt. Sydney Kincaid wasn't good wife material. A woman who couldn't cook or keep house was a bad bet for marriage. Best stay away from her. Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation or anything.