One Stubborn Texan

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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