One Stubborn Texan Read online

  Sydney unlaced her boot. Her face was tight with pain, her breath ragged. He eased the boot off her foot as gently as he could, but he could tell he was hurting her. When her foot was free, he peeled off the sock. Her ankle was swelling up fast, but at least there were no obvious bones sticking out.

  “If we’re lucky it’s just a bad sprain,” Russ said. “Have you ever broken anything before?”

  “No. But this h-hurts bad.”

  “Put the sock back on for now. We need ice.”

  “Where can we find ice up here?” she asked as she gingerly pulled the sock over her swollen foot. “For that matter, how do we get back to the trail?”

  He had ideas for both of those dilemmas. He helped her to stand, letting her lean on him as she balanced on one foot and brushed the leaves off her skirt. She was bleeding from a scrape on one knee, and the sleeve of her fake zebra jacket was torn almost all the way off, revealing a shredded silk blouse and another scrape on her shoulder.

  He took off his backpack, stuffed her discarded boot inside and tossed the pack up the hill as far as he could. Then he stooped down, bracing his hands on his bent knees. “Climb aboard.”

  “What?”

  “You’re gonna ride piggyback. It’s the only way I can think of to get you back to the trail. Hop on.”

  She was in no shape to argue. She did as he asked.

  He wished she were pressing her body against him for some other reason. He was acutely aware of the feel of her bare thighs around his waist. Her tight skirt was probably hiked up as high as it would go. Her breasts were pressed against his back, her slender arms wrapped around his neck and her head was ear to ear with his. She’d lost her hat during her tumble down the hill, but he didn’t remind her of it. The thing would just get in the way and he suspected it would be no use against freezing rain.

  Climbing the steep hill with an extra hundred or so pounds on his back was no picnic, but he managed it, pulling himself up using saplings as handholds, being careful not to jar Sydney’s injured foot in the process. Occasionally she made a quiet little gasp, and he knew the pain must be intense. But he had to hand it to her, she was pretty stoic. She ought to be cussing him up one side and down the other for getting her into this predicament.

  This was what he got for trying to deceive her. He should have known better. Hell, he didn’t want his old man’s money because he hated the deceit and shallowness Sammy Oberlin represented. His money and his lifestyle had nearly ruined his and his mother’s lives. When they’d moved to Linhart, they’d turned over a new leaf and started fresh, their lives based on honesty and integrity, the value of working for an honest living, being part of a community.

  Yet he’d deceived Sydney in a big way. So much for honesty and integrity.

  When he reached his backpack, he tossed it all the way up to the trail. A couple of minutes later he and Sydney made it safely to the trails themselves. He set Sydney down and caught his breath.

  “How you doing?” he asked.

  She shrugged, which probably meant not too well. Her ankle was the size of a softball inside her sock.

  “Is there any way you can walk? Leaning on me for support and with a walking stick, maybe?”

  She held on to his arm and tried to put weight on the foot. But there was no way. After three tiny steps she was in tears and her face was a stark white.

  “Just leave me here to die,” she said pathetically. “Save yourself.”

  “C’mon, gimpy. I can carry you.” But her injury meant they wouldn’t be returning to Linhart today, possibly not tomorrow, either. He could carry her three miles with no trouble—he often carried nearly that weight on long hiking trips. But he would have to move slowly on the rough trail to avoid another tumble, and they were running out of time. They’d spent too much time already. On the northern horizon, a wall of gray announced that the front was moving in—and it looked like a monster.

  At least the cabin was stocked with plenty of provisions. Not gourmet fare, but they wouldn’t starve.

  Once she was securely on his back again, he started back up the trail.

  “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “We’re going back to the cabin. It’s too far to the car, and it’s too dangerous trying to go downhill with you on my back.”

  “No, no, no, we have to get to town somehow. I need to get back home, I have work to do.”

  “Your work will have to wait.”

  “You don’t understand. My aunt and my father will be worried about me.”

  “You’re not exactly a kid,” he pointed out. “I talked to your aunt yesterday and she didn’t seem worried at all. Said she didn’t need the car and to take your time, she would see you when she saw you.”

  “But my father…okay, maybe it’s not that he’s worried about me, it’s the other way around. He’s ill and I don’t like leaving him alone.”

  “Ill?” Russ hadn’t realized that. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He had some health problems before my mother died, and then he went into something of a downward spiral, culminating in stomach surgery. Honestly, I thought he was going to starve himself to death. He’s improving now, but he’s a long way from self-sufficient.”

  Russ never would have done this to Sydney if he’d realized she had a father back home who needed her. If anything happened to the man, it would be on Russ’s conscience.

  “I’m sorry, Sydney, really. But there’s no way we can get back to town today. Unless…I could hike back alone and call in a medevac helicopter to fly you to a hospital. But the clearing at the cabin isn’t big enough for a landing. We’d have to lower a line with a harness and raise you—”

  “Stop, stop, you’re making me dizzy. I don’t like helicopters or hospitals and I definitely don’t like the idea of dangling in the air. Besides, the way this wind is whipping up, I’m not sure a helicopter would work.”

  Russ had been thinking the same thing, but he’d been willing to try it if that was what she wanted.

  “Your aunt promised she would call your father,” he said, wanting to make her feel better about the situation. “She’ll make sure he’s okay.”

  Sydney grumbled a bit more, but there wasn’t anything she could do.

  When he reached the creek, he followed the steep trail down to the water’s edge using a tree branch for support, then found a nice flat rock near where the water jumped over a little fall.

  “How are we going to get across the creek?” Sydney asked as he eased her to the ground.

  “One problem at a time. First, we’re going to do the next best thing to icing up that ankle. This creek is spring-fed and it’s freezing, even in summer.”

  Sydney folded her arms stubbornly even while balancing improbably on one foot. “I’m not sticking my foot in a freezing creek. It hurts badly enough as it is.”

  “Might take down the swelling, which would speed up your recovery,” Russ pointed out. “The sooner your ankle’s better, the sooner we can go home.” He sat down on the rock, pulled out his pocketknife and started trimming his nails as if he had all the time in the world. He did it only because it was such a country-bumpkin thing to do that he knew it would infuriate her.

  With a huff she leaned on his shoulder and maneuvered herself into a seated position next to him on the rock. She peeled off the sock. “Eww.”

  Her foot was turning blue. Not the best sign.

  “How long do I have to leave it in the water?”

  “About ten minutes should do it.”

  With another huff she plunged her foot into the water. “Yowwwww! Holy mackerel, son of a pigeon-toed sailor, that hurts!”

  Russ winced. “Want me to tell you a story to take your mind off the pain?”

  “No. I want you to reassure me I’m not going to lose all my toes to frostbite.”

  “Frostbite’s not a threat in these temperatures,” he said, though the cold north wind reminded him that hypothermia was. That lightweight jacket she had on
was totally inadequate in anything below fifty degrees, and that temperature was rapidly approaching.

  While she soaked her foot and called him bad names, Russ scouted along the creek until he found a better place to cross, rather than the log bridge they’d used before. He didn’t want to try walking across the narrow log carrying Sydney on his back. But a little ways upstream the water was shallower and he could simply wade across. His boots would get wet, but they were only a few minutes from the cabin.

  “It’s been ten minutes,” Sydney informed him when he returned. She already had her foot out of the water and was drying it off using her sock. She put the damp sock back on. “Can we go now?”

  Even more colors were coming up on her ankle now: purple, red, green, black. They would be lucky if she could walk on it the next day. If not, he was going to have to hike out alone and bring help to transport Sydney off the mountain. He hoped the ice storm the weatherman had been talking about was only idle speculation. Those alarmist forecasts seldom came true.

  With Sydney once again riding him like a horse, he started off to cover the last quarter-mile of the trail. “Does it feel any better?”

  “It’s cold,” she groused.

  When they reached the clearing and the cabin came into view, Sydney didn’t try to disguise her sigh of relief. “And here I thought I never wanted to see this place again.”

  “Was it really that bad?”

  “I had cold split-pea soup and sour canned cherries for lunch and I haven’t bathed since yesterday morning. Yeah, it was bad.”

  “So you didn’t know how to light the stove?” he asked.

  “Maybe you grew up knowing how to start a fire with flint and corncobs, but I haven’t a clue.”

  The poor thing. He’d meant to get her out of the way, not torture her.

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave… He should have known better than to try to deceive anyone. It never worked. Even if he succeeded in sending Sydney back to New York ignorant of the fact he was Sammy Oberlin’s son, what was to stop some other enterprising heir-finder from tracking him down the way Sydney had?

  He should suck it up and tell her the truth. She was already mad at him. He would just have to make sure there were no knives or heavy, throwable objects within her reach when he told her he was going to refuse the inheritance.

  Chapter Eight

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

  “You really should elevate that foot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why do you say that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “A bunch.”

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

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