“This is all there was?”
Sam blinked at the sight of her empty plate. He looked at his housemate and blinked again.
“Where did you put it all?”
“I haven’t eaten a decent meal in almost four months. Are you going to finish yours? No? Well, I’ll do it for you.”
Sam watched as his plate was removed from under his nose. She finished his supper, then sat back with a sigh.
“I’m going to sleep now,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth and yawning. “Don’t be here when I get up.”
“Look,” he began, “I signed a contract . . .”
“You also let a who knows what into my garage, screwed up my water heater, and cleaned my house. If that wasn’t breach of contract, I don’t know what is.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I never kid.” She rose. “I sleep with a gun, so don’t think about trying anything funny.”
“I’d rather waltz with an angry polar bear.”
Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “I’m sure you would. Which is just fine with me, mister. You can stay the night, but you sure as hell better be gone when I wake up.”
And without a single compliment about dinner, or even a thank-you, she left the room. Sam gritted his teeth at her rudeness. No wonder Mr. Smith had laughed so gleefully when Sam had signed his name on the dotted line. Sam had never thought to wonder why no one had wanted to board at the Kincaid house. It had been a cabin straight from one of his Sunday-morning, lots-of-snow-on-the-ground snuggling fantasies. How was he to know the snugglee would rather be snuggling with a rifle than him?
Sam sighed and rose, cleaned off the table, then made himself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Though he was tempted to stay just to irritate Sydney, he knew he was probably better off cutting his losses and leaving. But not until after Friday. He needed Sydney’s kitchen for his day job. She could put up with him for a while longer.
He cleaned up the kitchen, then headed back to his room. He sat down and turned on his computer, ready to dive into chapter twenty-one.
And then he found himself staring blankly at the computer screen, distracted by the image of a beautiful woman with dark hair and pale eyes. He sighed and turned off the machine. Creation would have to wait until morning. He needed to go to bed before the day could hand him any more surprises.
Though he doubted the Fates or Mr. Smith could top what he’d been handed already.
SYDNEY WOKE, DISORIENTED. Then she realized she was in her own bed, under a toasty-warm comforter, and she smiled. There was nothing quite like coming home. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed her work so much. She never appreciated home more than she did after three or four months out in the wild.
She fumbled for her watch, wanting to know the time and the date. She flopped back on her bed and groaned. Twenty-four hours gone without a trace. She vaguely remembered a trip or two to the bathroom, trips made without encountering her housemate.
She sighed deeply and burrowed back down under the covers. Much as she wanted to kick Sam’s arrogant, overbearing self right out the door, she knew she couldn’t afford it. Though she was just as good a guide as any man out there, city boys were reluctant to use her. She’d had to cut her fees drastically just to get business. It was the reason she’d decided to rent her spare bedroom. Joe had assured her he would find a suitable renter. Damn him, anyway.
Well, it was either keep Sam or starve. She couldn’t give him back the rent money he’d paid all up front because she’d already spent it. She hated the thought, but it looked like she was stuck with him until December.
She rolled out of bed and pulled her robe around her. She rubbed her arms vigorously as she left her bedroom and made her way to the kitchen. She was used to traveling in the dark, when necessary, and had no trouble finding her way. Or spotting the creation that sat cooling on the counter.
Cake. Sydney’s mouth began to water at the sight. She wanted it to be warm, but no, that might be too much to hope for. She got a knife, for the sake of propriety, and cut herself a generous slice right out of the bottom tier. Whatever else his flaws, Sam certainly could bake rings around Sara Lee. Sydney closed her eyes and brought the slice up, then opened her mouth to bite.
“Stop!”
Her eyes flew open. She squinted into the beam of a flashlight.
“Don’t move.”
Sydney stood, frozen to the spot, as the flashlight approached. The cake was very carefully and gingerly removed from her hand.
“Hey—” she protested.
“Quiet,” Sam growled. “You just ruined six hours’ worth of work, lady, so right now it would be a very good idea for you to just wash your hands and go back to bed.”
“It’s just cake—”
“It’s a wedding cake!” Sam exploded.
“You’re getting married?” This guy was certifiable.
“It’s not for me! It’s for Eunice and Jeremy. Tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock.”
His face was illuminated by the flashlight he held between his forearm and chest as he carefully set the slice of cake onto a plate. And she wanted to laugh.
“You make wedding cakes?”
“It pays the bills. Turn on the light. I’ve got major surgery to perform here.”
Sydney obediently turned on the kitchen light, then she caught an unobstructed view of Sam’s face—and his furious expression. She backed up a pace in spite of herself.
“Uh, I’m sorry . . .”
Sam reached behind her and jerked a cake knife out of the pottery utensil holder sitting on the counter. He didn’t spare her a glance.
“I didn’t realize . . .” she began.
Sam was pulling ingredients out of her cupboards, strange things she didn’t usually keep, like flour and sugar. He didn’t respond as he got out a bowl and started mixing these foreign substances together.
“Look,” she began, his silence starting to make her uncomfortable, “can’t you just fix it? Patch it together? It would probably take a lot of time to rebake it.”
Sam stopped and turned his head slowly to look at her. “Too bad you couldn’t have thought about that before you ruined it.”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“That hardly matters now, does it?”
“I didn’t ask you to come live here,” she said, sticking out her chin stubbornly, struggling to find some way to defend herself.
“That really isn’t the point, is it, Sydney?”
Sydney felt lower than the lowest grubworm. So she bristled even harder.
“You should have told me not to touch it.”
“You’ve been asleep for twenty-four hours. I didn’t want to wake you and find myself without my family jewels.” He turned and reached into the refrigerator for a plate encased in Saran Wrap. He handed it to her. “Roast beef sandwich. Here’s a can of pop. Go eat it somewhere I don’t have to look at you.”
“This is my house,” Sydney said in a last bid to save her pride.
“Yeah, well, this is my kitchen at the moment and I don’t want you in it.”
Sydney clutched the cold can in her hand and walked out of the kitchen with her head held high. No, she wasn’t upset. Sam’s kindness in making her dinner didn’t hurt her. His anger didn’t bother her. His assurance earlier that he’d rather dance with an angry bear than touch her didn’t trouble her either. After all, she was Sydney Kincaid, wilderness woman. She was every inch her father’s daughter, bless his crusty old soul. She’d survived on her own since her seventeenth birthday, since Sydney the elder had died on his way back in from the woodpile. She didn’t need anyone. She’d made it all by herself, and damn anyone who tried to imply differently. The very last thing she needed in her life was a man, especially a man who would probably starve to death five yards from the house unless someone showed him the direction back to the kitchen.
She shut and locked her door, put the supper Sam had fixed for her on her nightstand, then thre
w herself onto her bed and tried to burst into tears.
It didn’t work. So she rolled over on her back and looked up at the ceiling. She hadn’t cried in thirteen years, not since before her father’s funeral. If she hadn’t cried then, a simple snubbing by her housemate certainly wasn’t going to bring tears to her eyes now.
She ignored her supper and crawled back under the covers. Tomorrow was Eunice and Jeremy’s wedding. If she didn’t go, the town would think her a chicken and the Clan down at the store would grumble about her cowardice. If she went, the women would shake their heads sadly and pity her that she couldn’t find a husband.
Not that she wanted one; no, sir.
No, she reminded herself again as she drifted off to sleep. The very last thing she needed was a man.
Especially one as handsome and useless as Sam.
Chapter Four
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Sam stood in Flaherty’s dilapidated Grange hall and felt as if he’d been transported to another planet. His mother would have succumbed to another fainting fit if she could have seen his current surroundings. He found, however, that the place was growing on him. There was something good and solid about the beat-up wood under his feet. He looked around at the reception guests and felt the warmth increase. These were good, honest people. At least he never doubted where he stood with them.
“Oh, Sam,” Eunice gushed, “you’re so talented!”
“It’s just a hobby,” he said modestly. But if the bride was happy, then so was he.
“Well, I’ve never seen anything so fancy, ” she said, looking adoringly at the three-tiered wedding cake adorned with icing flowers. “And look, Jeremy, there’s already an indentation where you should cut the first piece. Sam, how in the world did you bake it that way?”
“That’s my secret,” Sam said pleasantly. He looked over Eunice’s head for the culprit. He and Sydney hadn’t come to the wedding together, which was no doubt safer where she was concerned. He had the feeling he would have been tempted to strangle her if he’d had her alone in a car in the middle of nowhere.
“You know,” Eunice continued, “Mother has already recommended you to all her friends. I’m afraid you’ll soon have more business than you can handle.”
Sam grimaced. He would spend his mornings baking and his evenings repairing whatever damage Sydney did to his creations. He could hardly wait.
Besides, he already had more business than he could handle. Though the Clan at the general store seemed to find him somewhat lacking, the mothers of Flaherty did not. He was certain it was that author mystique. It would pass. But hopefully not before December. Baking cakes for the local Ladies Aid Society provided him with spare cash and free lunches every Wednesday. A guy couldn’t ask for much more than that.
His mother was, however, apoplectic over the news that he was making a living elbow-deep in flour.
His older sister periodically sent him papers to sign that would transfer his assets to her account, on the off chance that his dementia extended to his signature.
Sam turned his thoughts away from his family and back to the wedding guests. It was shaping up to be an afternoon for the annals.
First he was accosted by Estelle Dalton and her eighteen-year-old ingénue daughter, Sylvia. Sam took one look at Sylvia and decided against it. No matter that he was thirty-five and almost old enough to be her father; the girl looked like she couldn’t fix a broken fingernail, much less a leaky sink. They would drown within a month.
Then there was Ruth Newark and her daughter, Melanie. No, definitely not. Both of them looked like they’d just stepped out of the pages of Vogue. Sam had visions of watching his royalty checks be spent faster than he could haul them in. Then Ruth announced that she fully intended to live with her daughter and future son-in-law. Sam wondered why. Then Ruth pinched him on the behind when Melanie’s back was turned, and he understood. He fled to a safer corner of the reception hall.
Next there was Bernice Hammond and her daughters Alvinia, Myra, and Wilhelmina. Sam immediately had visions of the women dressed in breastplates, brandishing swords and making him listen to Wagnerian opera for hours at a time. Not that having a handywoman around the house wasn’t an appealing thought. But a quartet of Amazons just wasn’t for him. These were mountain women. They needed mountain men. He didn’t want to grow a beard, and he wasn’t all that fond of plaid flannel shirts—his ancestry aside. No, these gals were not for him.
Sydney walked through his line of vision, and he felt a scowl settle over his features. Now, there was definitely not the right woman for him. She was irritating. She was selfish. She had no manners at the dinner table. It was no wonder she was still single.
“Well,” a smooth voice purred from beside him, “would you look at that?”
Sam looked down and gulped when he saw Ruth Newark sidling up to him. He suppressed the urge to cover his backside.
“What?” he asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
“Sydney Kincaid. Have you ever seen such a pitiful creature?”
Sam looked at Sydney. She was wearing jeans and a dark blue sweater. Not exactly wedding-reception attire, but it certainly suited her. She must have felt him looking at her because she turned around. She looked at him and smiled weakly. He started to smile back, then remembered how annoyed he was with her. He scowled at her. She turned away.
“Joe’s been trying to set her up for years,” Ruth continued. One of her hands disappeared behind her back. Sam took a step to his left, moving his buns away from certain trouble.
“Oh?” he managed.
“No one will take the bait. Why would they? She can’t cook, she can’t keep house. Perfectly worthless as wife material.” Ruth turned to him and put her hand on his chest. “Poor Sam, stuck out at the Kincaid place with that creature. Why don’t you move in with us, honey?” She dragged her fingers down his chest. “You can have my bed. I’d be more than willing to sleep on the couch just to get you out of that wild woman’s house. Or maybe we could share the bed. If you want.”
Sam watched Ruth’s hand slide down his belly, over his belt. He hastily backed away with a muffled yelp.
“Now, Sam,” Ruth coaxed, “don’t be shy.”
Sam had never considered himself a coward; rather, he was a man who knew when to cut his losses and run. So he ran, straight for the men’s room.
He hid out there until the men who came in started to look at him strangely. He knew better than to hang around any longer. His reputation was tattered enough as it was. So he crept back into the reception hall, keeping his eyes peeled for Ruth the Bun Molester.
The Clan from the general store stood huddled near one end of the buffet table. They looked terribly uncomfortable in their Sunday best, but Sam noticed they didn’t let that stop them from noting everything that went on around them. The reception would no doubt provide fat for them to chew on for quite some time.
The Ladies Aid Society stood at the other end of the buffet table, probably discussing the Clan. Then again, maybe they were discussing the Jell-O salad Mrs. Fisher had brought. Sam had overheard someone say she’d used regular marshmallows instead of the mini variety. The ensuing uproar had been enormous.
The rest of the population stood around in groups, dividing themselves up by age. Sam felt comfortable with none of them, so he remained against the wall, hoping he could blend in with the woodwork.
The bride and groom stepped up to the table, and the cake ceremony began. As Eunice made a comment about Sam’s cake-cutting-guide indentations, Sam searched the room for his misbehaving housemate, determined to give her a few more glares before the afternoon was over.
He found her without much trouble. She was at the far side of the reception hall, leaning back against the wall in the same way he was. She was alone and watching Eunice and Jeremy with an expression he didn’t understand right off. When he finally figured out what it was, he felt like someone had slugged him in the gut.
It was hunger. It wasn’t envy, it
wasn’t disdain; it was hunger, plain and simple.
He watched people drift past her. Men her age ignored her. Women her age gave her looks that would have made most women break down and weep. Sydney did nothing, but her spine stiffened with each look. Even from across the room, Sam could see that. The Ladies Aid Society snubbed her with a thoroughness that made Sam’s blood pressure rise. Not even the Clan came to her rescue.
Sam’s scowl faded into a thoughtful frown. This was something he hadn’t expected. If there was one thing he wouldn’t have figured on, it was that Sydney Kincaid would be vulnerable. But there she was, looking so lost and forlorn that he could hardly stop himself from striding out into the middle of the room and blasting the general population for ignoring her. Sydney might be irritating and pigheaded, but she didn’t deserve this. The men should have been fighting among themselves to get at her. Instead, they avoided her like three-day-old fish.
Then Sydney met his eyes. She pulled herself up to her full height and threw him a scowl that would have only infuriated him ten minutes earlier. Now he understood exactly why she was glaring at him.
But there was no use in letting her in on his realization. So he glared back while his mind worked furiously, trying to assimilate what he’d just learned and understand what he wanted to do with that knowledge. Was it pity he felt? No, he didn’t think so. It was something that went far deeper than that. Seeing Sydney vulnerable, watching her draw her dignity around her like a cloak, had touched something deep inside him, something he’d never felt before.
When he realized what it was, he had to lean back against the wall for support.
She had awakened his chivalry.
It was frightening.
It was obviously a latent character flaw that had been lurking in a forgotten corner of his Scottish soul. He wondered if there was some ancestor he ought to be cursing for it.