Love Came Just In Time Part 38

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 succ.u.mbed 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 pa.s.s. 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 a.s.sets 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 ingenue 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, brandis.h.i.+ng swords and making him listen to Wagnerian opera for hours at a time. Not that having a handy woman 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 s.h.i.+rts-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 m.u.f.fled 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 a.s.similate 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.

But as he turned the notion over in his mind, he found that the waves of n.o.ble sentiment that coursed through him were irresistible. He wanted to stand straighter. He wanted to find a sword and wave it around his head in an Errol Flynn-like manner, scattering enemies like leaves. The thought of rescuing Sydney Kincaid from injustice was tantalizing beyond belief.

a.s.suming she wanted to be rescued.

He shook aside that niggling doubt and put his shoulders back. He would rescue her. In fact, he was going to make the best d.a.m.n knight in s.h.i.+ning armor she'd ever seen.

Carefully, of course. He had fond hopes of fathering a few children in the future. No sense in getting Sydney's trigger finger itching too badly at first.

He took a deep breath. Then he fixed his most formidable frown on his face and crossed the reception hall to her, threading his way through the dancers, skirting the Ladies Aid Society and the Clan, and rounding the buffet table to where Sydney stood against the wall, looking as if she were going to run at any moment. But she stood her ground. He smiled to himself. Yes, sir, Sydney Kincaid would never back away from a fight.

He slapped his hand against the wall next to her head. "I suppose you heard about my cake-cutting guide."

Her pale eyes flashed. "What of it?"

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

"I don't owe you anything-"

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

honor."

Ouch, that had to have stung. He waited for her to slap his face, and he knew he would have deserved

it. Instead, she started to wilt right there in front of him. And that he couldn't bear. He had to do something drastic.

"Giving up already?" he demanded.

Well, that took care of the withering. The fire immediately came back to her eyes. "All right. What do

you want?"

"I've already paid up through December. I'm moved in and I don't want to move out. The way I see it,

you owe me a place to stay." She started to balk, and he quickly continued. "You wouldn't want word to get around that you're a chicken, would you?" "That's blackmail," she snarled. He nodded. She gritted her teeth and looked away. Sam watched the wheels turn, wondering what she wrestled with. "I won't bother you," he said, in a low voice. "I'll be a perfect gentleman. You won't even know I'm there," he lied. He fully intended to give her no choice but to notice him. And he had the feeling he knew just how to do it. "You'll cook?" she asked. Bingo. "You bet." "Cakes?" "Whatever you want." She looked back up at him and frowned. "Don't break any more windows. And don't mess with the water heater." "Done." He held out his hand. "Truce?" She ignored his hand. "Get out of my way. I've had enough of this wedding garbage. And come home soon. I'm ready for dinner." Come home soon. Sam rubbed his fingers over his mouth to hide his smile. Maybe there would come a day when Sydney Kincaid would say those words and mean them in an entirely different way. Now all he had to do was figure out how to convince her that she wanted to mean them in an entirely different way.

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

Chapter Five.

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

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

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

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

And just such a man was living with her.

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

"Where're you going?"

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

"I want to come along. Wait for me, Syd."

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

It was the way he said her name.

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

The pa.s.senger door opened, the car dipped slightly and the door closed.

"Hey, what's the matter?" His low, husky voice washed over her like a soothing, warm wave. "Want me to drive?" "No, I'm fine." She lifted her head and rubbed her eyes. "I'm fine." "You've been working too hard." Strong fingers were suddenly working their way under the collar of her coat to ma.s.sage her neck. "I should have helped you with the wood. I'm sorry, Sydney." "You would have lost a limb by the end of the week," she said, pulling away. "I just haven't been sleeping well." Sam retreated back to his side of the Jeep. "You'll have to come home and take a nap before dinner.

Let's get going." Sydney eyed the package on Sam's lap as they drove toward town. "What's that?" "First draft. My agent thinks I've been doing nothing but napping all summer." He flashed her a smile that made her knees weak. "She has a rather inaccurate impression of my manliness, I'm afraid." Sydney doubted that. No woman with eyes could have formed an inaccurate impression of Sam's manliness. Sydney concentrated on the road. "Do you ever read espionage novels?' "Never," Sydney fibbed firmly. "I haven't got the patience for them." "Romances?" "Not those, either," she lied. Wow, two lies in the s.p.a.ce of ten seconds. With any luck, Sam would never look in her room and see what filled her bookshelves. "I've only got time to read up on work stuff. You know, trail information and things. Wilderness studies. Hunting techniques."

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

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

"I have a reputation to maintain."

"I hear you're the best."

"Oh?" Now, this was news. "Who from?"

"Mr. Smith. The Clan. Even Mrs. Fisher, who doesn't know when it's polite to use regular marshmallows

and when it isn't. She was complaining Wednesday at the Ladies Aid meeting that someone needs to marry you and saddle you with a dozen kids before you run her sons out of business. A backhanded compliment, of course, but it was still a compliment."

"She's an old biddy," Sydney grumbled. Secretly, she was pleased. Maybe things were starting to look up. Then why did the thought of half a dozen sable-haired, green-eyed children running around her house seem more appealing than showing dozens of spoiled executives the beauty of her land?

The general store saved her from speculating about that disturbing thought. She pulled to a stop and turned off the engine. "Anything you want inside?" she asked. "I have a list. I'm just going to run to the post office, then I'll come meet you." He tapped the end of her nose with his finger. "Don't leave without me. I'm making apricot chicken tonight." "I'm convinced." He looked at her with a strange little smile before he got out of the car and made his way across the street to the post office in his high-top sneakers. Sydney shook her head as she walked up to the porch of the store. She needed to think about something more practical than Samuel MacLeod's smiles. His feet. Yes, that was the ticket. Sam needed boots. Maybe Joe had an extra pair lying around. If not, he could order a pair. Sam wouldn't survive the winter without them.

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