One Stubborn Texan
Kara Lennox

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“Stranger’s coming,” Bert Klausen announced from his perch by the front window of the Linhart General Store. Bert, former owner of the store and now firmly retired, spent most of his winter days in a rocking chair warming himself by the wood-burning stove, staring out the window and munching on dill pickles. No one came or went in Linhart, Texas, without Bert’s knowing.

Russ Klein added an extra scoop of coffee grounds to the pot he was making. Maybe it was a customer.

“It’s a female, and quite a looker, too. She drives a beemer,” Bert announced between crunches on his pickle. “A white one.”

“BMW, huh?” Russ ambled to the front of the store, pretending to straighten the camping gear as he went. He stepped over Nero, the bloodhound asleep on the floor, and opened the stove to poke at the burning logs with a stick. That time waster complete, he closed the grate and peered out the window; a cold drizzle made everything outside look gray and depressing. He couldn’t miss the snazzy white car parked across the street, but the driver was nowhere to be seen.

“Went inside the post office,” Bert said, answering Russ’s unasked question.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Maybe she’ll come in here when she gets done there,” Bert mused hopefully. The wilderness outfitting business wasn’t exactly brisk this time of year, not like spring and summer, when tourists and college kids streamed in by the dozens to stock up on food, beer and camping supplies. Breaks in the winter monotony were scarce.

“Maybe,” Russ agreed with practiced indifference, though his gaze never left the white car. He wondered what other excuse he could find to linger at the front of the store. A stranger in town on a cold, gray weekday was cause for curiosity. A female stranger in an expensive sports car was hard to resist. Russ was a sucker for flashy city women and he knew it. He never learned, not even after Deirdre.

The door to the post office swung open and she emerged, looking like a bird of paradise hatching in a sparrow’s nest. Sonny Fouts, coming out of the hardware store, paused to stare at her, but she didn’t seem to notice as she strode up the sidewalk, her briefcase swinging at her side, a cell phone glued to her face as she carried on an animated conversation.

Russ sucked in his breath as he surveyed her from the ground up, starting with the pair of dark green high-heeled boots with a row of fringe that swung to and fro with each bouncy step. Her snug black skirt skimmed over trim hips and stopped well above the knees, revealing sleek, slender legs. Above the skirt she wore a short suede jacket bearing an abundance of snaps and more streamers of fringe. Her hair tumbled in luxuriant black waves from beneath a beret.

Most people in Linhart wore hats—straw cowboy hats in the summer, felt in the winter, and gimme caps from the feed store. But not berets. Way too French for a town founded by German immigrants. Way too citified.

“Oo-ey, she’s somethin’ else, eh?” Bert said with his usual candor. “Kinda on the skinny side, maybe. Uh-oh, look out, she’s headin’ this way.”

Bert quickly picked up a three-day-old newspaper and pretended absorption in it. Russ walked casually to the back of the store to check on the coffee, facing away from the door as if the lady didn’t interest him much. It was a lie, of course. Her type always interested him.

Russ resisted the urge to turn around when the jingling doorbell announced the arrival of a customer. He heard the rustling of Bert’s newspaper and the halfhearted thumping of Nero’s tail against the wooden plank flooring.

“Help you, missy?” Bert asked politely. “Bert Klausen, at your service.”

The woman dropped her cell phone into her purse. “Hello, Bert.” The voice was honey-smooth, confident. “Yes, I’m sure you can help me. I was told I could find Russ Klein here.”

Something inside Russ jumped at the realization that this bird of paradise was looking for him. He turned around, schooling his features. “I’m Russ Klein.”

She smiled a hello, and he forgot any rational greeting he might have summoned. Lord, what a smile. What a face. She made him think of an impish angel in dress-up clothes as she came toward him with her arm extended. Her hand was cool and delicate when he shook it, the long nails painted a pumpkin color. He didn’t squeeze too hard for fear he’d break something.

“What can I do for you?” he asked when he’d recovered enough of his wits to speak. Bert watched from the corner of his eye, pretending renewed interest in the newspaper.

“My name is Sydney Baines,” she answered in an accent just shy of exotic.

Oh, hell. The woman had left several messages over the past few days, identifying herself as a private eye and claiming she had an “urgent matter” she wanted to discuss. Russ had ignored the calls, thinking it was a scam. What legitimate business could a P.I. have with him? He lived an uncomplicated life.

She extracted a black wallet from her green suede purse and snapped it open so that he could examine her credentials.

Russ studied the ID: Sydney Baines, Licensed Private Investigator, New York City. Now her accent and her mode of dress made more sense. And the fancy car.

“You came all the way from New York to find me?”

“I tried calling, but my messages went unreturned,” she said, not a hint of censure in her voice. “It’s very important that I talk to you.”

“Want some coffee?” he asked, putting off whatever business she had with him. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like what she’d come to say. Was some long-lost acquaintance of his mother’s hoping to get a handout? They’d be mighty disappointed. The quarter-million dollars—his mother’s divorce settlement from twenty years ago—was long gone.

Sydney smiled reassuringly. “I’d love some coffee.” Then she lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “Is there someplace private we can talk?” She gave a tiny nod toward Bert, who continued to scrutinize the old paper as if it contained the world’s secrets.

“I can take a hint,” Bert said. “I’ll just unpack those new camp stoves that came in earlier.” With that Bert shrugged into a threadbare jacket and ambled toward the back of the store, disappearing into the storage room.

“Have a seat by the stove.” Russ nodded toward the cozy sitting area Bert had just vacated, figuring he might as well get this conversation over with. “I’ll bring the coffee. Cream? Sugar?”

“Cream, please.” Sydney made her way toward the two wooden chairs by the potbellied stove.

Russ kept a wary eye on her as he rummaged around for two clean cups. She was on her phone again, talking and nodding as she slipped her arms out of her jacket, revealing a silky green blouse that draped over lush, round breasts. She gazed at the wide array of camping gear. Because the store was small, Russ utilized every nook and cranny to display backpacks, sleeping bags, tents and all manner of gadgets. He hung kayaks, canoes and bicycles from the ceiling.

Finally she concluded her call, sliding the phone into a jacket pocket. “This is quite a place you have,” she commented. “You could buy just about anything—” Her voice broke off. “Oh, a dog.”

“He’s not for sale,” Russ said. But when he turned back toward Sydney with the coffee in hand, she wasn’t smiling. In fact, the supremely confident expression she’d worn earlier had fled and she was sitting stiff as a pine plank in her chair as Nero sniffed enthusiastically at her boots.

Russ brought the coffee over. “Nero, go lie down.”

The old dog looked at Russ with a surprised expression, then ambled over to his customary place by the stove and settled down with a huff. But he continued to watch Sydney with almost as much interest as Russ felt.

“Are you afraid of dogs?” Russ asked, handing Sydney a cup of coffee with cream. “’Cause old Nero here is about as vicious as a butterfly.”

“I’m not exactly afraid of dogs, I’m just not a dog person,” she said decisively, her enormous melted-chocolate eyes still fixed on the bloodhound. She was probably hoping Russ would send Nero outside, but Russ wasn’t about to submit the arthritic old dog to the chilly, damp weather when he didn’t have to. Not even for a pretty stranger.

Despite her denial, Russ knew the woman’s aversion to Nero was more than a simple preference. She was afraid. Probably afraid of bugs and snakes, too, and he was sure her dainty little hands had never baited a fishhook with a nice, fat, slimy earthworm.

Her cell phone rang, playing a snippet of something jazzy. She checked the caller ID but didn’t answer, choosing instead to turn her attention back to Russ.

He sat close enough to her that he could detect her surprising, spring-morning scent. He’d expected a woman like her to be wearing something stronger, one of those expensive designer perfumes that grabbed you by the throat.

Deirdre’s perfume had been that way. And why was he thinking about her all a sudden? Just because Sydney was obviously a sophisticated urban woman was no reason to compare the two. Deirdre was ancient history. Sydney was here and now, and he was more than curious about her reasons for seeking him out so persistently.

Sydney pulled off her beret and hung it on the back of the chair. A wavy strand of her hair fell across her cheek, and Russ felt the illogical urge to smooth it back from her face. Before he could do something foolish, though, she tucked the hair behind her ear.

Taking a sip of coffee, Sydney pulled her scattered thoughts together. She really wasn’t comfortable around dogs, especially big dogs like this one. They were dirty and smelly and noisy. She wondered how the health department would feel about one in a general store. But that wasn’t her problem.

Edward Russell Klein was her problem. Or maybe the answer to her prayers.

She studied him silently. He was about the right age, thirty-two. She hadn’t expected him to be quite so gorgeous, however. Even in a plaid flannel shirt and worn, soft-looking jeans that molded to his backside, he could put any of the Gucci-wearing men she knew in New York to shame. Being a wilderness outfitter must work the muscles, she mused, because he had firm, taut ones in all the right places.

She liked his hair—thick, wavy, a bit long, light brown and streaked by the sun. She couldn’t exactly see him visiting a salon for highlights.

Sydney’s face grew warm as she realized she’d been staring at him rather rudely.

“Is something wrong with the coffee?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“You did say cream, right?”

“Oh.” She took another sip, wondering at her lack of composure. “It’s very good, thank you.” He was probably used to women staring. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t stare?

He took a long sip of his own coffee. “Well?” he said, sounding more bemused than impatient. He gazed at her, waiting. His eyes were a vibrant sky-blue, deep and unfathomable.

Wrap your mind around your business, Syd. “The firm I work for, Baines & Baines,” she began, “specializes in matching up unclaimed property with the rightful owners. I believe I’ve found a small sum of money that might very well belong to you.”

“Small, huh? Do you always travel all the way from New York for small sums of money?”

“Actually, I was visiting an aunt in Austin,” Sydney said smoothly even as she upped her respect for Russ Klein’s intelligence. He wasn’t some country bumpkin she could easily dazzle. “But I thought I could take care of this while I’m here. If you could answer a few simple questions, we might be able to settle this matter and you could have a check in your hands very soon.”

“What’s in it for you?” Russ asked. His tone wasn’t exactly confrontational, but neither was it warm and friendly.

“Baines & Baines works strictly on a commission basis, which means you won’t owe us any money until we recover funds for you. If you’re the person I’m looking for, you simply sign a contract authorizing me to claim the funds on your behalf and entitling the agency to a percentage of anything we recover.”

“How big a percentage?” Russ asked suspiciously.

“Ten percent. It’s actually quite low. Most other P.I.’s in this business charge far more.” In this case, Sydney had deliberately decided on a low commission, not wanting to take the chance of another investigator undercutting her.

Not that any other heir-finders were on Russ’s trail. She’d happened, quite by accident, onto the information that had led her here. A very different case had taken her to Las Vegas, where she’d been checking into the legality of a certain contested marriage that had taken place in a wedding chapel now known to have performed numerous fraudulent weddings. She’d nearly fainted when she’d stumbled across Sammy Oberlin’s name. For years, investigators had been trying to track down Sammy’s mysterious son, known only as Russell. But only Sydney had the lead—the name of Sammy’s first “wife,” Winnie, never legally married to him, who may very well have borne him a son.

The trail had led to Texas.

Russ made no comment. He simply studied her every bit as frankly as she’d done him. Her face felt warm, but maybe it was simply being too close to the stove. It wasn’t as if she’d never received attention from a handsome man before—though not lately. For the past few months, trying to take care of her father’s agency, as well as her own business, she’d barely had time to brush her teeth, much less nurture a social life.

Finally Russ spoke. “As far as I know, I haven’t misplaced any money.”

“That’s the thing,” she hurried to explain. “Most of my clients don’t realize they’re due some money. Sometimes it’s a bank account that’s been forgotten or a utility deposit. But most often, I search for missing heirs. Sometimes when people die with no will or an old or bad will, it’s a real chore to locate the heirs.”

“Are you saying someone died and left me some money?” He didn’t look as pleased by that possibility as most people were.

Sydney didn’t answer his question. Instead she said, “It’s not prudent for me to reveal too many details until we have an agreement.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re afraid I’ll cut you out.”

Yes, exactly. He’d figured out her game pretty quickly. “Mr. Klein, I deal in information and information has value. Surely you can see I wouldn’t have much of a business if I gave away information for free.”

He continued to scowl suspiciously at her. She hadn’t yet seen him smile.

“I provide a service,” she continued, trying to make him understand. “I reunite people with money and property they never even knew about. And for that, I charge a fee.”

Finally, his frown faded to something more like thoughtfulness. She released the breath she’d been holding. Maybe she’d gotten through.

“I don’t begrudge your right to make a living however you see fit,” he finally said. “But I don’t think I’m the person you’re looking for.”

“But you don’t even know who I’m looking for,” she pointed out. What was the deal with this guy, anyway?

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want more money. I make a comfortable income and I have everything I need.”

For a moment, Sydney just stared. “You mean, you won’t even answer a few questions?” She’d never had anyone refuse to let her hook them up with their money, not unless they already had an idea of where the money was. Most considered the sudden appearance of an heir-finder a gift from on high.

“I’m a very private person. I don’t like people poking around in my personal life.”

“Just one question. Please. Is your mother’s name Winifred? Or anything similar?”

“My mother’s name is Vera.”

Sydney sagged. So he wasn’t the right one. “And your father? What’s his name?” she asked, just to be sure.

Russ’s expression became suddenly fierce. “I don’t have a father. My mother’s never been married.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so nosy, but do you at least know his name?”

He rubbed the tops of his thighs, looking out the window. She knew she’d made him very uncomfortable, but she had to be thorough.

“My mother slept with a lot of men,” he finally said.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. If Russ didn’t even know his father’s name, it was doubtful the father even knew of his existence. Damn, she’d been so sure she was on the right track. She had some other Russell Kleins to check out in neighboring towns, but this one had been her top candidate. He was the right age. Winnie’s son was most likely between thirty and thirty-three. If she couldn’t find him in this general area, she would have to widen her search to all of Texas—or the whole darn country, if it came to that. But that would take time and time was a luxury she didn’t have.

“I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing,” Russ said, and he seemed to relax slightly. “Could I buy you lunch? The Cherry Blossom Café across the street makes a mean chicken-fried steak, so at least you won’t leave Linhart hungry.”

She struggled to regain her equilibrium. “No, thanks,” she said brightly. “Do you know any other Russell Kleins, perhaps relations of yours? Or any Winifred Kleins?”

“This town is full of Kleins. You can’t hardly throw a rock without hitting one. But I don’t know any others with the names you mentioned.”

“Well, if you think of anyone, would you let me know? And maybe you could ask members of your family if they know. I’ll be staying at the Periwinkle Bed & Breakfast.”

“You’re staying here?” he asked, surprised.

“I’m going to spend some time going over documents in your courthouse—birth and death certificates, property records, that sort of thing. Not all records are available online. I’m also going to be tracking down a few more Kleins in neighboring towns.”

“You could still do with lunch.”

She couldn’t deny that the offer tempted her. But she was on a tight schedule. She couldn’t leave her father alone for more than a couple of days, not when he was in such a fragile mental state. Although his depression had lifted somewhat, he still had bad days when he needed her close by.

“I appreciate the offer,” she said. “Maybe another time.”

She stood and picked up her things, keeping an eye on the dog, who was still watching her with unnerving intensity. She thanked Russ Klein for his time and headed for the door, deciding quickly on a new strategy. “Oh, Mr. Klein?”

“You can call me Russ.”

“Russ, then. This sum of money we’re talking about. It might interest you to know that it runs into eight figures.”

Russ Klein’s jaw dropped and his eyebrows rose so high they almost met his hairline. Finally she’d gotten a reaction out of him.

“That’s ten million,” she supplied.

“I can count the zeroes. Ten million? Dollars? That’s what you call a small sum of money?”

“Call me if you have any ideas.” She hurried out of the store, resisting the temptation to stay and press the matter. Let him sit on that information and see how long he claimed he didn’t want or need more money. Maybe he wasn’t the Oberlin heir. But she had this nagging sensation he knew something and just wasn’t telling her.

Chapter Two

Russ blinked a couple of times as he tried to wrap his mind around ten million dollars. This had to be a mistake. Only one person ever in his life had that kind of money and there was no way…

When his vision cleared, Sydney was gone. The jingling of the bell on the door announced her departure. He resisted the urge to chase after her and demand to know more. That was exactly what she wanted and he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, he moved to the window to watch her walk to her car.

She had quite a nice hitch in her git-along, as Bert would say. As she started to climb into her car, a gust of wind caught her hat and snatched it off her head. She pirouetted gracefully, managing to catch the beret with both hands just before it sailed out of reach. At the same time her eyes caught his and she tossed him a wave and a mischievous smile.

How had Sydney tracked him down? When Sammy had sent him and his mom away, he’d done everything possible to erase every trace of their presence in his life.

A whine and the clicking of toenails on the wood floor brought Russ’s attention back to Nero. The dog was on his feet, sniffing furiously around the legs of the chair that had been Sydney’s, then on the floor where her purse and briefcase had been.

“Don’t worry, Nero, she’s gone,” Russ said in a soothing voice.

The dog hardly looked relieved. He pressed his nose against the wood floor and traced an invisible trail that meandered toward the door, his floppy jowls puffing out with each breath. Then he stopped, sniffed mightily into the air and gave a sharp bark.

“What’s wrong with you?” Russ wondered aloud. The city girl had certainly played havoc with his own senses. Maybe her intriguing perfume, which lingered in the air, had upset Nero’s equilibrium, as well.

After a few more anxious sniffs, however, Nero padded to his spot by the stove, plunked himself down and promptly went to sleep.

Bert emerged from the storage room, frowning. “Why did you lie to that girl?”

“Why did you eavesdrop on my private conversation?” Russ shot back, though he’d known that was exactly what Bert would do. As dear as he was, Bert was insatiably curious and a terrible gossip.

“I didn’t listen on purpose, just picked up a word now and then. And the issue is you’re lying. Thought you knew better.”

“I didn’t lie. My mother’s name is Vera. Vera Edwina.” But mostly known as Winnie.

“You’re splittin’ hairs. We both know the girl was talking about Winnie. She probably just assumed Winnie was short for Winifred. Which means she was looking for you.”

“I don’t want to be found,” Russ said flatly. Not even by a gorgeous city woman with big brown eyes.

“She’s gonna figure it out,” Bert said. “All she has to do is ask the right person. Ten minutes in this town and she’ll find out your mother goes by Winnie.”

“I didn’t think she’d be staying around long enough to ask,” Russ said. He realized now that his strategy of misleading Sydney Baines would only delay the inevitable. “I definitely didn’t know she was staying at the Periwinkle.” Fortunately, the two elderly maiden sisters who ran the B and B in their Victorian home were certifiably dotty. They could cook up a wonderful breakfast, but they lived a good deal in the past and nothing they said made much sense.

“I’ll just have to keep an eye on her,” Russ said. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t talk to anyone who knows Mom.”

“I don’t get it,” Bert said. “Didn’t that purty gal say she wanted to give you money?”

Apparently Bert hadn’t heard Sydney reveal the exact amount. Thank God for small favors. If Bert knew Russ was turning his back on ten million dollars, he would call the men in white coats. And maybe he was crazy. But he had his reasons. “Money doesn’t solve all problems,” he said. “And for some people, it just creates more.”

“Ah,” Bert said, nodding, finally getting it. “You’re right about that. If you want to stop that gal from finding out the truth, you better get over to the Periwinkle and keep a watch on her.”

Russ nodded. “You’ll mind the store for me?”

Bert shrugged. “Like I got anything else to do?”

“And you won’t say anything to Mom, right?”

“Mum’s the word.”

Russ wished he could take more comfort in Bert’s promise to keep quiet. But Bert kept his cell phone charged and ready, just in case he had a juicy tidbit to pass along. He had little else to do but watch who came and went on Main Street.

As Russ walked the five blocks to the Periwinkle B and B, he formulated a strategy for dealing with Sydney Baines. If she wanted to bury her nose in the courthouse records, there was no harm in that, he supposed, since the records were in such a jumbled mess she probably wouldn’t be able to find anything. But he ought to take some precautions, just in case.

Maybe he’d volunteer to help her look.

The prospect of spending more time with Sydney wasn’t at all unpleasant. She was the brightest thing to enter his store all winter. Maybe that single dark curl of hair would escape and fall across her cheek again. And maybe next time he saw it there, he would give in to temptation and smooth it back.

“IS EVERYTHING SATISFACTORY?” asked Miss Gail Milhaus, one of the owners of the Periwinkle Bed & Breakfast. Or maybe it was Miss Gretchen. Sydney had a hard time telling the septuagenarians apart. They were identical twins who dressed in identical vintage outfits, complete with matching barrettes in their long, silver hair. They also had a pair of identical cats that liked to wrap themselves around first one set of ankles, then the other.

“It’s a lovely room,” Sydney assured her hostess, reaching down to pet one of the cats. She didn’t trust dogs, but cats were okay.

The misses Milhaus had made her feel very welcome. Since it was the off-season she was the only one staying at the B and B. She’d also gotten a very good room rate, almost as low as if she’d stayed out at the motel on the highway. But here she got to sleep in a soft bed with a feather comforter, take a bubble bath in a huge, claw-foot tub and enjoy a gourmet breakfast in the morning.

Sydney wasn’t really much for fussy Victorian decor. She didn’t like clutter and bric-a-brac, and her apartment back in Brooklyn could be described as minimalist. But her room in the B and B, painted shell-pink and featuring an abundance of cabbage roses, had a certain charm and, thanks to a crystal bowl of potpourri, it smelled wonderful.

“You look so like Miss Moony,” said Gail—or Gretchen. “Are you here for the boat races?”

Boat races? This time of year? “I’m doing some research,” she said. “Actually, I’m looking for a man.”

The elderly lady clicked her tongue. “They’re a waste of time, you ask me. Gretchen and I have lots of boyfriends, but it never works out in the long run. We’ve always been so close and men don’t like that.”

“Well, I agree, men are a lot of trouble,” Sydney said with a smile. “But I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I’m trying to locate a man who has come into an inheritance. His name is Russell Klein.”

“An inheritance? How exciting. And my goodness, there’s that nice Mr. Klein who runs the general store and rents out the canoes and such. Could he be the one?”

“Unfortunately, I’ve already talked to that Russell. I don’t believe he’s the man I’m looking for. The one I want has a mother named—”

The sound of the door chime interrupted her. Gail stepped out of the room and looked down the stairs. “Gretchen, are you getting that?” When her sister didn’t respond, she said, “Excuse me, I’ll have to get the door. Perhaps it’s one of our suitors.”

Sydney smiled after the woman turned away. They were such nice Southern ladies—but a bit unhinged. She doubted they would have any useful information for her.

She unpacked her small suitcase. She hadn’t brought a lot of clothes with her, only enough for a couple of days. If she didn’t find Sammy Oberlin’s heir in that amount of time, she would have to admit defeat and return to New York.

What a picnic that would be, breaking the news to her father that he was going to have to declare bankruptcy.

When she was unpacked, she opened her briefcase, tucked her small suede clutch inside and headed downstairs. She wanted to get to the courthouse right away. When she’d talked to a county official on the phone yesterday, he’d admitted that their records were a terrible mess and that only the last five years’ worth had been put on computer. That meant hours of digging. Actually, she didn’t mind that type of work. She was fascinated by the details of people’s lives, the births, the deaths, the weddings. Old photos and diaries always sparked her imagination, causing her to speculate what people’s lives had really been like.

At the bottom of the ornate, carved-oak staircase, Sydney skidded to a stop. Russ Klein was standing in the entryway, chatting amiably with Miss Gail.

“Oh, there you are,” he said, flashing a dazzling smile at Sydney. “I thought since you were new in town, you might like a tour.” Apparently the lure of ten million dollars had changed his tune.

She might have overplayed her hand, revealing to Mr. Klein—Russ—the amount of money involved. But she’d needed to shake him out of his complacency. And given his sudden appearance, maybe she’d done just that.

Even if he wasn’t the right Russell, if he did help her locate the heir, she’d be happy to donate a portion of her commission as a finder’s fee. He was probably counting on that.

Miss Gretchen joined her sister. “Oh, it’s Mr. Jones, the man from the post office. How nice to see you.”

Miss Gail turned to Sydney. “You won’t get a better tour guide than Mr. Jones here.” Miss Gail said. “Excuse us, will you? Sister, we’d better see to the horses.”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Miss Gretchen agreed, and they bustled off, arm in arm.

“The horses?” Sydney asked. “What century are they in? And why does she call you Mr. Jones?”

Russ shrugged. “Last week I was Curtis. Don’t worry, they’re harmless. So how about the tour?”

“That’s very generous of you, but I really don’t have time to be a tourist,” she explained. “I only have a couple of days to spend in Linhart and I need to get to the courthouse this afternoon.”

“I’ll walk you there, then,” Russ offered. “Gil Saunders, the county records clerk, is a good friend of mine. We go rock climbing together. I’ll make sure he gives you the access you need.”

Rock climbing? Yeah, she could see that. Russ Klein in shorts and a T-shirt, clinging to the side of a cliff, muscles bulging as he—

Get a grip, Sydney. “I’d appreciate your help, thanks.” Sometimes government officials could be difficult, so if Russ was willing to grease the wheels for her, she’d let him. “Let’s go.”

Sydney headed for her car, but Russ merely stared in amazement. “You’re going to drive to the courthouse? It’s only a few blocks.”

Sydney considered her high-heeled boots. They weren’t the best for walking and she was just getting used to the luxury of driving everywhere in a place where parking was plentiful and free. But she could survive a few blocks and the drizzle was giving way to sunshine. She put her keys back in her briefcase.

“Lead the way.”

As they headed down the brick walkway toward Gibson Street, Sydney couldn’t help but smile. “Those Milhaus sisters are a couple of characters,” she said to Russ. “Imagine, living in that great big house your whole life, never marrying, never going out on your own.”

“I don’t think either of them could bear to leave that house. Their great-grandfather built it and it’s been in the family ever since.”

The Periwinkle wasn’t the only Victorian on Gibson Street. The wide avenue was lined with grand homes, all of them painted in vibrant colors and many of them with signs out front indicating they were also bed-and-breakfasts.

Russ pointed out some of the more historically notable homes and who lived there now.

“It seems strange to me,” Sydney said, “knowing so much about your neighbors. I barely know the names of the people who live right next door to me in New York.”

“One reason I would never live in a big city,” Russ said.

“So you’re here to stay?”

“You couldn’t pry me away from this town. I go to Austin or San Antonio out of sheer necessity sometimes, but other than that, everything I need is right here.”

Sydney nodded in reply. Russ did seem to belong here, despite the fact he didn’t talk with the native twang most of the other residents had.

“Did you go away to college?”

“Nope. I took some classes at the Boone County Community College, but I figured I didn’t need a degree to do what I wanted to do, so I never got around to graduating.”

“So you’ve always worked at the general store, doing the wilderness-outfitter stuff?”

“Worked at the store since I was fifteen. I started out just renting a couple of canoes and serving as a guide, and it grew from there. I bought the store from Bert about six years ago so he could spend his retirement fishing. But he can’t stay away from the place—I think he gets a kick out of telling me how to do things.”

Sydney couldn’t imagine living that kind of life. It was so different from everything she knew. Yet part of her found it appealing. Her life was so hectic, so overscheduled. The closest she ever got to the wilderness was sitting on a park bench and feeding the crumbs of her cream-cheese bagel to the pigeons.

The Boone County Courthouse sat in the center of a small town square. Constructed of limestone, it was three stories tall, with a clock tower as a fourth level. Sydney consulted her slim gold watch. “The clock keeps good time.”

As if on cue, the clock chimed the hour. It was one, and Sydney hadn’t had lunch. But she was used to skipping meals. She was usually just too busy to eat.

“I’m turned around,” Sydney confessed. “Where’s Main Street?”

“The north side of the square. The general store is on Main about three blocks east. Sure you don’t want some lunch before you get to work?”

There were several cute little restaurants with colorful awnings lining the square. Somewhere, someone was grilling meat and it smelled like heaven.

“Maybe something quick,” she said.

“How about a sausage on a stick? Best German sausage you’ll ever eat.”

“Okay.”

Russ led them to a little German deli, where he ordered two sausages to go. They took them to a bench on the square and sat. Sydney was glad Russ had brought lots of napkins. But despite the mess, she found it quite pleasant, sitting with the sun warming her face, sharing conversation with her host. He’d certainly thawed out. He hadn’t scowled at her once since he’d arrived at the B and B. Maybe his initial coolness was just a small-towner’s natural caution with strangers from the city.

She again wondered why he was going to the trouble of helping her out. Surely he wasn’t this accommodating to every stranger who arrived in Linhart.

It had to be the money. In her experience, money was the prime motivating factor in most people’s lives. Well, that and sex. And Russ…hmm. Was it possible he found her attractive? He’d certainly been watching her attentively. She’d made it clear she was leaving in a couple of days, but maybe he thought she would be up for some easy, no-strings sex. Living in a small town, it was probably impossible to have any kind of sexual liaison with another local, at least not without long-lasting repercussions.

Not that she ran around having casual sex right and left, but she did like the anonymity of the city. She certainly never ran into any of her ex-boyfriends—the city was just too damn big.

Well, just because she was from the city didn’t mean she was easy. If Russ had a quick roll in the hay in mind, he would be disappointed. Not that the idea was without merit. And not that she’d mind the flirtation while she was here.

“Linhart is really a very nice town,” she said.

“You sound surprised.”

“It’s a lot prettier than some of the other towns I’ve seen, that’s all.” Not that she’d seen all that many. She’d been to her father’s hometown south of Austin only once, but that was more than enough. Talk about depressing.

Sydney finished her sausage and her bottled water, cleaned her hands with a moist towelette and reapplied her lipstick. Russ watched this process with undisguised interest—and perhaps a little amusement.

He threw their trash away in a nearby litter bin. “Ready?”

She nodded, feeling the first curls of temptation in the pit of her stomach. She could hook up with Russ. What harm would it do? She’d had virtually no social life since her mother died; even most of her girlfriends had quit calling because they’d become tired of her turning down their invitations to dinner, movies and parties.

Though she spent a lot of time with her father, she was lonely. She and Russ were both consenting adults.

He raised one eyebrow in a look that told her he was reading her thoughts. And that was enough to bring her back to her senses. She had work to do, a last chance to save her father from himself. Besides, she really wasn’t the kind of woman who slept with strangers. As soon as she got back home, she would call some of her friends and initiate a few outings, maybe have dinner with the downstairs neighbor who’d invited her out a couple of times. Otherwise she would have to get a cat and start going by “Miss Sydney.”

Chapter Three

Russ couldn’t believe the mess the county records were in. There’d been a flood a few years ago and volunteers had carried the files out of the basement willy-nilly in boxes and stacks so they wouldn’t be destroyed. They’d returned the records to the basement after the flood, but nobody had bothered unpacking the boxes or refiling the records.

Gil Saunders, the county records clerk and a good friend, had shown Russ and Sydney to the basement. “Sometimes I can find things, if you know exactly what you’re looking for,” Gil told Sydney. “I’ve got some high-school kids lined up to help me get this mess organized, but they won’t start till next month.”

“I wish I could tell you exactly what I’m looking for. But I’m not sure. I just need to browse.”

“Have at it, then.”

When Sydney had gone to the ladies’ room, Russ had taken Gil aside and explained to him that it was important Sydney never locate any records having to do with him or his mother.

Gil, a real friend, didn’t even ask why. He quickly gathered up the few things he could lay his hands on—Russ’s mom’s business license and the deed to her little house—then took them to his office and hid them in a drawer. Unfortunately, that was all he could do. He couldn’t guarantee Sydney wouldn’t come across something in the old records, but the chances of her finding what she was looking for in this mess were minuscule.

Sydney, on the other hand, saw the basement as a personal challenge. “Just stand back and watch,” she said with a grin. “If there are pertinent records to be found in here, I’ll find them.”

She actually seemed to like groping around in the mildewed boxes and dusty drawers, and she did seem to have a knack for knowing which piles of records would yield Kleins.

Still, after almost four solid hours of this tedious, grimy work, broken only by frequent trips upstairs to check her cell phone, which didn’t get a signal in the basement, she’d found absolutely nothing that pointed to the Russ Klein she was looking for. Thank God.

She was clearly disappointed and Russ felt bad for her. Of course she would be disappointed, getting so close to a million-dollar commission she was unable to collect. He didn’t feel bad enough, however, to help her out.

In fact, he was probably doing her a favor. Everyone thought being an instant millionaire would give them a dream life. Russ had the personal experience to know it could just as easily ruin a life.

The sun was already setting as they exited the courthouse. “So what are your plans for tomorrow?” Russ asked as they headed back toward the bed-and-breakfast.

“I’m going to track down every Klein family in this area and talk to them personally,” she said. “Someone, somewhere, must have heard of this Winnie Klein.”

Russ cringed. Any person passing on the street had probably heard of Winnie. He needed to get Sydney Baines out of this town, somehow. Which gave him an idea.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I have a little cabin not far from here. It’s just a hunting cabin in the woods, but there are a whole bunch of family papers stored there—boxes and boxes of photo albums and letters and I don’t know what all. You’re welcome to look through those. It’s possible the people you’re looking for moved out of the area. Or this Winifred person could have gotten married out of state, changed her name. Maybe you could uncover some clue.”

He could see that the idea appealed to her. But she hesitated. “I should talk to your mother. She might remember—”

“No, I wouldn’t waste your time there,” he said firmly. “Mom knows nothing about her family history. My grandparents were divorced and she never really knew anyone on the Klein side of the family.” All of which was true.

“Then who does this cabin belong to?”

“A cousin on my grandfather’s side.” Bert actually was a very distant cousin, if you went back about six generations. “I got to know him pretty well, and he gave me a key to the cabin.”

“You’re kind to offer to let me look, but I have some appointments tomorrow morning in Longbow and Conklin. More Russell Kleins. They’re all too old to be the heir I’m looking for, but they might have relations the right age. But if I still have no information by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll give your cabin a try.”

Good. Longbow and Conklin were nearby, but not close enough that the residents would know Winnie, not unless he was truly unlucky.

“I’ll be at the store whenever you’re ready to go.”

“If nothing turns up, I’ll come by around one o’clock.”

“And what about tonight? Any plans?”

“I’m going to wash all this grime off me, then I’m going to do some reading.”

That wasn’t the answer he wanted. If she spent the entire evening at home with the Milhaus sisters, Winnie’s name might easily come up.

He feigned shock. “What? You’re only here for a couple of days and you’re going to spend the evening reading?”

“What can I say? I don’t lead a very exciting life.”

“I could change that. Do you like to dance?”

“I’m not a good dancer,” she said warily.

He didn’t blame her for being cautious. His actions this afternoon could be interpreted as merely friendly. He’d done nothing to indicate he was romantically interested in her. But now he was veering into boy-girl territory. He’d asked her out on a date.

As pretty as she was, she probably got hit on constantly.

“You don’t have to be a good dancer to have fun, especially country-dancing,” he said. “There’s a club over on Highway 350 that has a pretty good band on Thursday nights.”

He could see she was tempted.

“We could have some Mexican food beforehand,” he added. “I’ll take you to a place where they have the best tamales in the whole state. Bet that’s one thing you can’t get in New York.”

Finally she smiled. “Okay, you got me. How can I resist the best tamales in Texas? But, Russ, if you have any plans for us…You know the kind of plans I mean?”

Oh, yeah. “A guy always has plans. Do you have a boyfriend back home?” Or even a husband. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, but these days that was no guarantee.

“No, but…I just want to keep things light.”

“No problem, Sydney. I’m pleased just to have your company for the evening, no expectations.”

“Okay, then. Pick me up in an hour. What should I wear?”

“Jeans. Comfortable shoes.”

“I didn’t bring either.”

He shrugged. “Improvise. This club doesn’t exactly have a dress code.”

RUSS KLEIN was a gentleman, Sydney would give him that. He arrived exactly on time, and though he eyed her skirt and blouse dubiously, he said nothing. At least she’d worn her lowest pair of heels, in case she actually got up the nerve to dance.

She was almost disappointed Russ didn’t drive a pickup. She thought every good Texas boy drove a truck. Instead, his vehicle of choice was a Bronco. It was shiny and clean and smelled nice. Even better, though, was the music: he was playing Stevie Ray Vaughan on the stereo.

“You like Stevie?” she asked.

“I’m surprised you even know who Stevie is.”

“My father is from Texas. He made sure to teach me all about the Texas blues.”

“You might actually like this band tonight, then. It’s not the usual twangy country stuff, though that’s good, too.”

Tia Juana’s Tamale Factory was a hole-in-the-wall in a strip shopping mall. But the parking lot was packed and when Russ opened the door the smell that greeted Sydney made her mouth water. They found a table and Russ went up to the counter to order for both of them.

The other patrons who crowded into the place were a real cross section. Sydney saw working men in their overalls, young couples all dressed up for a night on the town and senior citizens. As in New York, multiple cultures and languages mingled easily, sharing a common love for good food. She was used to thinking of Texas as almost another world and was surprised at the reminder that people were the same everywhere.

“Popular place,” Sydney observed when Russ returned.

“You’ll know why when you taste the food. It’s also cheap. Uh, which is not to say I wouldn’t have spent more on you.”

“Oh, so you’re a smooth talker.” She suspected he was putting on a bit of an act for her, but she responded to it anyway.

When they called Russ’s name and he went to collect their food, he returned with a tray loaded with a mountain of Tex-Mex.

“Oh, my gosh. Where do you start?” she asked.

“Anywhere you want. Just dig in. I got lots of everything, so there’s bound to be something you like.”

After sampling the guacamole, the crunchy beef tacos and the shredded chicken tamales, Sydney declared that she liked it all. “I’m not going to fit into my clothes if I keep eating like this.”

“We’ll work it off dancing,” he said.

If the restaurant wasn’t exactly classy, the club was downright questionable. Russ pulled up to a barn-sized corrugated tin building with a flickering neon sign that read Kick ’em Up Club. The dirt parking lot was filled with beat-up trucks and motorcycles. If the handful of kids smoking near their bikes was any example, Russ in clean jeans and shirt was on the elegant end of the dress scale.

A three-dollar cover charge got them inside. Sydney almost laughed: if you wanted to hear live music in New York, you had to pay at least ten.

The inside of the club was like a big cave. Tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly around the dance floor and a bar lined one long wall. Onstage, the band was just getting set up, but a jukebox pumped country twang into the beer-rich air.

“We better grab a table fast,” Russ said. “This place gets packed when the Jimmy LaBarba Band plays.”

“Hey, Russ, over here!” A couple of guys were waving to Russ from a table already crowded with beer bottles.

“Do you mind sitting with some friends?” Russ asked. “We can get our own table if you want.”

“No, let’s sit with a group.” That way, it would seem less like a date.

The group consisted of two couples who were kayaking buddies. It seemed whatever the outdoor activity, Russ was involved. Cycling, hiking, swimming, windsurfing—he did it all. The other couples were friendly to Sydney and she made herself relax and go with the flow. It had been so long since she’d socialized with people her own age and it felt really good just to kick back and enjoy herself.

Russ hadn’t exaggerated—the band was good. Sydney was familiar with most of the songs, covers of her dad’s favorite artists like Lyle Lovett, Delbert McClinton and Omar and the Howlers. But they also played a few original songs and Sydney was impressed enough that she bought their CD as a present for her dad.

After a couple of beers, the band had launched into a set of more traditional country fare. The music was a little more dance-friendly.

“What do you say?” Russ asked. “Want to give it a try?”

“Okay.” What the heck. If she made a fool of herself, it didn’t matter. She’d never see these people again.

She soon knew she’d made a mistake. Russ was a good dancer and before the end of the first song he had her two-stepping like a pro. But the feel of his hands on her—he held one of her hands and put his other on her waist—left her flushed and breathless.

When the band started a slow song, she knew she should insist they take a break. But she didn’t. She let herself go into his arms, let herself rest her head against his shoulder.

It felt so good, better than anything she could remember in a long time, and she knew she would think about this night a lot in the days to come and the longing to be with him again would consume her.

The party broke up relatively early, it being a weeknight and all of them having to work the next day. The band was still going strong, though, as they left the club.

Russ held her hand as they walked across the parking lot to his car, ostensibly to guide her around the many potholes. But she liked the feel of it.

“That was really a lot of fun,” she said as he drove her back to the B and B. She half hoped he would ask her to go home with him. As vulnerable as she felt, she might have succumbed to the temptation. But he honored her request that they keep things light. He walked her up to the front door of the B and B.

“You have a key?”

“Oh, yes. Miss Gail and Miss Gretchen made a point of informing me that they went to bed promptly at nine o’clock and after that I was on my own till morning.”

“They’re nice ladies. And they cook a mean breakfast.”

“Oh, no, I can’t even think about more food! I’m still stuffed from dinner.”

“Make room. The sweet rolls are not to be missed.” He kissed her once on the cheek and then very lightly on the mouth. It wasn’t nearly enough. “Good night, Sydney.”

“’Night.”

She watched him through the window as he walked back to his Bronco with that loose-limbed gate, and couldn’t help regretting what would never be.

AT A LITTLE BEFORE ONE O’CLOCK the following afternoon, Sydney returned to Linhart. Every lead she’d followed that morning had been a bust. She had two choices: concede defeat or take Russ up on his offer to go through the papers at his cabin. Defeat wasn’t an option.

A bunch of papers in an old cabin was a weak lead, but she wasn’t exactly depressed by the work that lay ahead. She was curious to know more about Russ and his family. Last night he had deftly sidestepped any questions she’d asked about his relatives, but he’d done it so smoothly she hadn’t really realized it until later, when she’d lain in bed dissecting the date.

Most people loved to talk about themselves. And while she guessed Russ really was a private person, she still had a hunch he was hiding something. But why would anybody hide from ten million dollars?

She knew her way through the town now, and she reached the square and navigated the one-way streets to get to Main, again marveling at what a pretty town Linhart was. A new, quaint scene greeted her around every bend. The town could have been mistaken for an Alpine village and the German influences were unmistakable: the Willkommen Guesthaus, the Dietzel Microbrewery, the Schnitzel Haus Family Restaurant.

Sydney pulled up to the curb in front of the general store, parking neatly between two trucks. If there was one thing she could do, it was parallel park, though her old Volkswagen Beetle back home was a lot easier than the beemer she’d borrowed from her aunt Carol. Sydney had been a bit nervous about driving the luxury car, but Carol, who lived in a fancy retirement community in Austin and seldom drove her car, had insisted she borrow it rather than getting a rental.

Given the state of Baines & Baines’s accounts, Sydney had readily agreed. After her mother’s death, her father, Lowell, had fooled her into thinking he was doing okay, but eventually she’d discovered the state of his finances. If she’d known how bad things were, she could have intervened sooner. Now, unless she could track down the elusive heir, it was too late for the business.

After exiting the car, Sydney made a final check of her appearance, smoothing the olive wool skirt over her hips and adjusting the collar of her black silk blouse. Maybe the zebra-stripe jacket was a little flamboyant for small-town Texas, and it was true she hardly needed it—the weather had improved a great deal from yesterday morning’s dreary drizzle, but it matched her long scarf and she was a sucker for matching accessories.

When she reached the general store’s front door and opened it, she found Bert sitting by the stove again, crunching on another pickle. He was just the sort of quirky old man you’d expect to find in a small Texas town. He was thin and slightly stooped, with wispy silver hair and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing.

“Hello, again,” he said without much enthusiasm

“Good morning,” she said as she strolled in, bringing a gust of wind with her. “Where can I find Mr. Klein?”

“He’s busy right now,” Bert replied, not meeting her gaze.

Was she imagining things, or was the man just a little hostile toward her today? “I told him I might drop by around one,” she said, checking her watch. It was five minutes after. “But I don’t mind waiting a bit if he’s busy.”

She would wait as long as she had to, since she had no other leads to follow. She could have flown back to New York today, but she’d already paid for the extra night at the Periwinkle.

Besides, if she were honest with herself, she wanted to see Russ again.

Bert sighed impatiently. “He’s in back gettin’ some supplies ready for a camping party. You can go through the storeroom and out the back door, if you want. But I think you should know—he makes a terrible boyfriend.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just a word to the wise. I’ve seen the city girls come and I’ve seen ’em go. He might look like a good catch, but unless you like fishing and camping, you’re not likely to see much of him. And if you have any notions about dragging him to the city and putting him in a suit, you might as well give up right now.”

Sydney resisted the urge to laugh, because Bert was obviously sincere. He was trying to protect his friend from what he saw as a predatory female, an evil city woman.

“My dealings with Russ this afternoon are strictly business,” she said.

“That’s not what I hear.”

Oh, dear. She hadn’t meant to become the center of gossip. Another reason she liked the big city. No one cared whom she dated; no one paid attention to what time she came home or even if she came home. Not unless she counted her father, who’d developed an unnatural dependence on her lately. He’d already called her twice this morning with problems at the office he wanted her to solve. He’d made it clear he wanted her home—yesterday.

Bert returned to his newspaper, but Sydney could tell he was still watching her suspiciously. She made her way across the wood floor, around the counter and into the storage area, feeling Bert’s gaze burn between her shoulder blades the whole way.

The large storeroom was lined with all manner of products, from canned peas to laundry detergent to cat food. Stacks of camping gear—tents, sleeping bags, lanterns, cooking utensils—covered the floor. Big canoes hung from hooks in the ceiling. A thick steel door to the outside was unlatched and only slightly open.

Sydney peered through the crack, catching sight of Russ before he saw her and pausing a moment to savor the sight. She had to admit, he was one of the most attractive men she’d ever come across. His image had remained firmly implanted in her mind long after he’d dropped her off last night—hair with streaks of burnished brass and eyes the same color as a clear winter sky. He again wore faded jeans and much-laundered flannel shirt that revealed firm muscles every place she looked.

That rugged, outdoorsman look fit him as gracefully as the tailored-suit look fit some other men she knew.

As he leaned over to drop an armload of gear onto a blue tarp, his shirt stretched invitingly across wide, powerful shoulders. Sydney could easily guess what that soft flannel would feel like, how the firm body beneath the fabric would react to her touch.

She’d been thinking about it—had thought of little else, really, even when she’d been tracking down long-shot leads. She’d pretty much decided they’d done the right thing last night. One or two nights with this man would never be enough, yet anything more permanent was out of the question for her right now with her home in New York and her father depending on her. She couldn’t possibly maintain a relationship with a man who lived half a country away from her.

Russ turned to pick up a cooler and caught sight of Sydney. Immediately his chiseled features rearranged themselves into a smile. As he came closer, she caught a hint of his intriguingly masculine scent.

“Any luck with the other Russells?” he asked.

“Nothing but dead ends. Your cabin full of papers and photos is sounding better and better. Have I come at a bad time?”

“I have to get all the supplies ready for a camping party that’s set to show up any minute.”

“Need some help?” she asked. “I can tote and lift.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “I can handle it, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes.”

“Please, go ahead. I noticed a historical museum on the next block. That looks interesting. The curators at small museums are often a wealth of information. Maybe I’ll just run over there—”

“No.” He said it, so emphatically she jumped. “I mean, the guy who takes care of the museum will talk your ear off about everything you don’t want to know about and it’s hard to get away from him. If you’ll just wait a few minutes, I’ll be done here and I can devote my full attention to you.”

“Well, okay.” But she still thought the museum sounded interesting. And talkative people were lifeblood for a private investigator like herself. She’d never had any problems with people who talked too much, only with people, like Russ, who kept their mouths shut. Fortunately, there were a lot more talkers in the world than silent types.

She found a perch on the edge of a concrete planter and watched him work.

He disappeared into the storeroom and returned with a tent, a lantern and some other items Sydney didn’t recognize.

After his third trip, a battered pickup truck bearing four boisterous college kids whipped into the parking lot.

Sydney waited patiently while Russ dealt with them, answering yet another call from her father, who couldn’t resist checking up on her every few hours. Ever since her mother’s death, her father relied on daily pep talks from Sydney to keep him going.

“I wish you’d tell me what you’re up to down there,” he huffed.

“I told you, I’m following a lead. It could mean a good commission. I’ll tell you more about it when I know more.” Lowell would freak out if he knew she had a lead on the Oberlin case. It might be just the thing to blast him out of his depression, but her likely failure might make things worse. “Aunt Carol is doing well.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Lowell Baines concluded.

Darn it, even in his depressed state, his instincts were sharp. It was almost impossible to fool him. “I have to go, Dad. I’ll be home soon. Love you.”

“But, Sydney—”

She disconnected. Otherwise he would keep her on the phone forever, pestering her.

Russ was piling gear into the bed of the pickup and answering questions about terrain and the weather forecast, which was apparently of some concern. Although the sun was shining now, rain was due to move into the area that evening and Russ gave careful instructions for preventing the tents from washing away.

During one of his trips between the storeroom and truck, a sleeping bag toppled from his arms. She retrieved it for him and carried it to the pickup while the college boys eyed her breasts. Russ shot them a look that ended the ogling.

His display of primitive protectiveness made Sydney’s blood sing through her veins. She was looking forward to getting his “full attention.”

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