Love Came Just In Time Part 36

Of course, the blame for that-though he was loath to admit it-was something he could lay only at his own feet. He could have been back in New York, hobn.o.bbing with the well-heeled and dabbling in his artistic pursuits. He could have been worrying about a date for the opera, struggling to decide who to take to a gallery opening, wracking his brains for a suitable miss to gaze adoringly at him while he listened to an obscure poet read even more obscure poetry.

He also could have been listening to his family ridicule his two pa.s.sions: writing and food. They couldn't fathom why a man with a perfectly good eight-figure trust fund seemed to find it necessary to ruin his manicure with manual labor.

He'd pointed out to them that somewhere back in their family tree there had been a MacLeod or two doing plenty of manual labor on Scottish soil-likely in the form of cattle raiding and sword wielding. His father had hastened to inform him that they were kin to a long, ill.u.s.trious line of Scottish lairds, and that stealing beef and waving swords around didn't count as manual labor.

Sam had tried to explain his driving need to put words on paper by reminding his kin that the first American transplant from their ancestral clan had made his living as a newspaperman. His older sister had ruined that excuse by pointing out that said newspaperman had actually been an "editor in chief and very wealthy newspaper owner."

Sam had given up trying to probe any further back into his well-doc.u.mented genealogy for examples to back up his arguments. He'd settled for informing his family that not only had he been writing, he'd also been studying with one of New York's most famous chefs. His mother's week-long attack of the vapors upon hearing that news was what had finally driven him to seek sanctuary as far away from New York as he could get and still remain on the same landma.s.s.

Sans his trust fund-and that by his own choice, no less.

"Alaska," he grunted.

He was an idiot.

He sighed and reminded himself why he was there. Alaska was the last vestige of untamed wilderness and he was a MacLeod. Sword wielding wasn't all that legal anymore, but he could do mighty things with a pen and the occasional spatula. He could do those things on his own terms and by the sweat of his own brow.

But there were times when he wondered if Southern California wouldn't have been wilderness enough. He suspected a ramshackle house on the beach would have been a great deal easier to manage than his rented cabin with its accompaniment of deer, bears, and other sundry and perilous wildlife.

He sighed deeply, then tromped across the mud and up the worn steps to the general store. Smith's Dry Goods and Sundries seemed to be the precise center of whatever hubbub was going on in Flaherty, Alaska, population three hundred. The store was the gathering place for anyone who was anyone to discuss everyone else. Sam suspected he'd had his share of s.p.a.ce on the gossip docket. He opened the door and stepped inside, avoiding the rotting floorboard near the door. No, sir, he wasn't going to put his foot through that twice in a lifetime. He wasn't a greenhorn anymore.

He ambled over to the counter and nodded to the usual locals holding court next to the woodstove, chewing the fat and their tobacco. Sam pulled out his neatly made supply list and handed it to Mr. Smith, the proprietor. It was a lean list, of course, because he was still living on the proceeds from a couple of articles he'd sold to a cooking magazine. He was beginning to wonder now if he would have been better off to have traded out for six months of groceries.

A throat near the stove cleared itself, coughed, then hacked into the bra.s.s spittoon. "Yer the writer fella?"

Sam identified the speaker as an old-timer he'd never met before, a grizzled man who probably hadn't had a haircut since World War II.

Sam nodded, smiling slightly. "That's right."

There was a bit of low grumbling. There was always low grumbling after he admitted to his vocation. Since he didn't like to hunt, fish, or chew, he had left the Clan very unimpressed. Sam would have liked to point out to them that his great-great-great-grandfather had come across the sea and cut a swath through Colonial America that even the Clan would have been impressed by, but then he might have been questioned about his own deeds and he didn't dare admit the kind of soft life he'd left behind in New York. He suspected that in Alaska lynching was still an acceptable means of population control.

"Heard yer up at the Kincaid place," another bearded octogenarian demanded. "That right?"

"That's right," Sam agreed.

The grumbling rose in volume until it reached outraged proportions. The spokesman rose and stomped to the door.

"Just ain't right," he growled. "It just ain't right."

The rest of the group departed after giving Sam disapproving looks. Sam looked at Mr. Smith, an older man with a merely rudimentary sense of humor.

"What did I say?

Mr. Smith shrugged. "Reckon you'll find out soon enough."

Sam wondered if that could possibly be anything he would want to investigate further. Then again, forewarned was forearmed. He took a deep breath.

"Care to translate?" he asked.

Mr. Smith shook his head. "Better to let you find out for yourself."

Sam leaned against the counter and tried not to let the ambiguity of that statement unnerve him. With the way things were going, finding out for himself could be downright dangerous.

The door behind him opened and shut with a bang.

"Joe, when are you going to get this d.a.m.ned floorboard fixed?"

Well, now the sound of that voice was almost enough to make all the misery of the past three months worth it. Sam leaned heavily on the counter while his knees recovered. It was a voice straight from his most favorite lazy Sat.u.r.day-morning dreams, the voice that belonged to his warm and cuddly football-watching partner. He was tempted to whip around immediately and make sure, but he resisted. Surely the sight that awaited him was even more luscious than the sound of her voice. Better to let the antic.i.p.ation build for a bit. Sam closed his eyes and gave free rein to his imagination.

Maybe she would be a Nordic type, with legs up to her ears and pale hair streaming down her back. Or perhaps she was a brunette, pet.i.te and lovely with a mouth just made for kissing. A redhead? Sam considered that for a moment or two, wondering just what kind of fire a redhead could really produce when put to the test. One thing was for sure: Whatever awaited him had to be a ball of sultry femininity, no doubt bundled up in a nicely done fake-fur coat and boots. He straightened, unable to wait any longer. He would look. Then he would investigate. Then he would likely invite her out to dinner. He put his shoulders back, then turned around, afire with antic.i.p.ation.

He looked.

Then he felt his jaw slide down on its own.

The creature before him was covered with something, but it wasn't a fake fur. It looked more like mud.

The dirt was flaking off her coat in layers while clinging to her hat and scarf with admirable tenacity. And not only was she filthy, she smelled. The fact that he could ascertain that from twenty paces was truly frightening. It wasn't anything a gallon of Chanel No. 5 couldn't cure. Sam stared at the apparition, unable to believe it was a woman.

"Good to see ya, kid," Mr. Smith said with an indulgent chuckle. "Roll in this mornin?"

"And not a moment too soon," the swamp monster grumbled. "You should see what's been done to my-"

"Boy, here's your things," Mr. Smith interrupted, shoving Sam's box of supplies at him. "You'd best be headin' home. I have the feeling there's going to be a storm brewing right quick."

Sam didn't need to hear that twice. The last storm that had brewed had left him stranded in twelve inches of mud in the middle of the road to his rented cabin. If the Tenderfoot Patrol hadn't come to rescue him, he would have starved to death. He grabbed his box and made a beeline for the door, slipping twice on the mud the creature had dragged in with her, but skillfully avoiding the rotting floorboard by the front door.

'"Bye, Mr. Smith."

"See ya around, boy. Better batten down those hatches."

Sam didn't bother to say anything to the woman as he pa.s.sed her. He was far too busy holding his breath so he didn't have to inhale her fragrant Pig Pen-like aura.

He pulled the door shut behind him and let out the breath he'd been holding. He paused to clear his head, giving it a shake for good measure. Nothing like a little fresh air to bring a man back to his senses. He carefully negotiated a path to his car, threw the supplies in the back, and mucked his way around to the driver's side. Twenty minutes and he'd be home. Maybe he'd go back to the old standby of writing on a legal pad with a smooth, round number two pencil instead of playing power-surge roulette with his computer. That would certainly save him some aggravation. Then he'd make a filet for supper. He'd hole up in his nice warm cabin and weather whatever storm Alaska saw fit to throw at him.

Chapter Two.

Sydney Kincaid stood in Smith's Dry Goods and Sundries and praised the wonders of civilization. She pulled off her filthy knit hat and dragged her fingers through her hair. She'd never felt so dirty in all her life, and it had been her boarder's fault. d.a.m.n the woman if she hadn't left the garage door open. The remains of a critter invasion were readily obvious to even the most plugged of noses. A broken window and no hot water had been the last straw. Well, that and the fact that the place was clean. It had taken her almost a half an hour to make it feel like home again.

But now home was comfortably strewn with clutter, and her stomach was about to be filled with something besides trail mix. Life was improving all the time.

"So, Syd," Joe said, pulling out another box and beginning to fill it with Sydney's standing order of just-add-water suppers. "How'd it go?"

"How does it ever go?" Sydney grumbled as she crossed the store to toss her hat on Joe's counter. "I've spent the last four months pulling one city boy after another out of places they never should have been looking at in magazines. Don't people realize this is wilderness up here?"

"Reckon they don't," Joe said, rearranging a few cans of stew.

"If that wasn't bad enough," Sydney continued, irritated, "I go home to find my house clean. Just what kind of neat freak did you rent my extra room to, anyway? I thought you said she was a writer. I expected lots of crumpled-up b.a.l.l.s of typing paper hiding under the coffee table."

"You could have done worse," Joe offered. "Tidy isn't bad."

"I don't like it," Sydney groused, reaching into Joe's candy jar and helping herself to a piece of licorice. "I didn't see any curlers in the bathroom, but I'll bet she's just as lily white and frilly as they come. She's a baker, too, can you believe it?"

Joe pushed Sydney's box at her. "Hurry on home, girl. There's a storm brewing, and I wouldn't want you to miss out on it."

"You mean be out in it, don't you, Joe?"

"Reckon so."

Sydney pulled out another piece of licorice. "Who was that man?" she asked casually. He might have been a potential tour-guiding customer, and she wasn't one to miss out on a business opportunity.

"What man?" Joe asked, blinking innocently.

Sydney chewed even more casually. "You know, that city guy. Old man Anderson was grumbling about him being a writer or something."

Joe reached under the counter and pulled out a magazine. "There's a piece in here of his. Read it myself. It wasn't bad, if you like that sort of thing."

Sydney looked at the cooking magazine and dismissed it as something she'd be interested in only if h.e.l.l froze over. She turned her attentions back to the matter at hand. "Is he planning on staying?" Or course, she wasn't truly interested, but she could appreciate a fine-looking man as well as the next girl.

"I wouldn't know what his plans are. I suppose you could ask him the next time you see him."

Sydney shook her head. "We're attracting these writer types like flies up here. The next thing you know, we're going to need a stoplight or two."

"We just might," Joe agreed.

Sydney shoved the magazine in her box and made her way out to her mud-encrusted Jeep, trying to put the man out of her mind. She'd probably never see him again, so there wasn't much use in worrying about it. Especially since she wasn't a girl on the lookout for romance. She had her father's trail-guide business to keep running, and her own reputation to maintain. City boys with eyes as green as spring leaves and hair the color of sable just didn't fit into her plans. The man probably couldn't put a match to a handful of dry kindling and get anything but smoke.

She drove home slowly, tired to the bone. Four months of being out in the wild, going into Anchorage only to wash her clothes and pick up another group of greenhorns, had left her aching for home and hot showers. Of course, her shower today might not be hot, thanks to whatever damage Samantha had done, but that could be fixed in time. First a shower, then maybe she'd come out and find a hot meal waiting for her. The cake sitting on the counter had been delicious. Sydney hadn't meant to eat all but one slice, but she hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. Sam was good for something, even if just for cooking. Joe had been annoyingly closemouthed in his letters, not dropping a single hint about what Sam wrote.

Sydney braked suddenly, sending the Jeep into a skid. It settled to a stop, and she looked off into the distance, feeling dread settle into the pit of her stomach. Sam was a Samantha, wasn't she? It really was possible that two writers had moved into Flaherty over the summer, wasn't it?

She knew all she had to do was pull out the magazine Joe had given her and check.

She shook her head. Joe wouldn't have rented out her house to a man. He was a terrible matchmaker, but even he had to draw the line somewhere. Besides, it was a food magazine. What kind of guy would write for a food magazine?

Sydney put the car back into gear and eased the clutch out until the tires caught. Sam was no doubt pleasingly plump and terribly maternal-just the kind of roommate Sydney had been looking for. If she could be convinced not to try to fix anything else electrical, that was.

The door to the garage was closed, and Sydney took it for granted that Sam had parked her car inside. A lecture about keeping the door closed could wait until after dinner. No sense in upsetting the cook. Sydney'd had enough trail rations over the past few months that she was willing to keep her mouth shut in exchange for some real food.

She left her Jeep in the gravel pit that served as a driveway, then walked into the house, dropping her muddy coat on the floor and discarding her hat, gloves, and scarf along the way to the bas.e.m.e.nt. She went down and made a few minor adjustments to the water heater. Someone had been trying to turn it up and turned it down instead. Sydney shook her head in disbelief. She'd have to put her foot down about Sam loitering anywhere but the kitchen. It could be hazardous to their health.

She discarded the rest of her clothes on the way to the bathroom. Sponge baths in the privacy of her tent just hadn't cut it for her. Already she could feel the hard spray washing away the layers of grime, taking the tension with it. Baby-sitting helpless executives was hard on a woman. Maybe Sam would hear her washing up, take the hint, and start dinner. Maybe she would even warm up the last piece of that chocolate cake and top it off with some ice cream.

The guest room door opened, and Sydney hastily reached for a towel to cover her otherwise naked self. She'd say a quick h.e.l.lo, then duck into the,bathroom for her well-deserved shower. After all, she wasn't exactly dressed for a long conversation.

Sydney looked at her housemate.

Then she blinked again, just to make sure she wasn't imagining things.

Yes, she recognized that hair the color of sable, those spring green eyes, and the rugged, handsome face. Worn jeans hugged slim hips and long, muscular legs. A long-sleeved rugby shirt revealed muscular arms and a broad chest-and probably hid a nice, flat belly. It was a hard body, one she had only glimpsed in the general store, one she had actually thought might serve as tasty dream fodder later in front of the fire.

And then full realization hit.

Sam was anything but a Samantha.

"You!" she squeaked.

"You!"

Sydney fled into the bathroom. "What in the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" she shouted.

"Me?" the man yelled back. "What in the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

Sydney locked the door. Then she put the clothes hamper in front of it for good measure.

"This is my house!"

"Your house?" her unwelcome greenhorn responded, sounding more annoyed than he should have, given the circ.u.mstances. "Lady, you're losing it. You might be Sydney's girlfriend, but you can still haul your b.u.t.t right out of that bathroom and get moving because he's not here right now to clean you up!"

Sydney couldn't believe her ears. "You idiot, I'm Sydney Kincaid and this is my house."

"You're Sydney Kincaid? But Joe told me-"

Sydney wanted to scream in frustration. It was pure frustration, not fear. No, she wasn't afraid. She was never afraid. She'd faced down three grizzly bears, four groups of chauvinistic city boys, and an army of wilderness inconveniences and come out on top. A tenderfoot writer from New York was nothing compared to what she'd been up against. She pulled the rifle down from its hook over the commode, loaded it with the sh.e.l.ls hiding in the empty can of Noxzema, and pointed it at the door.

"Joe's an old fool and I'll give him a piece of my mind just as soon as you get out of my house so I can get dressed," she said, putting her no-nonsense-now-boys edge in her voice. "Beat it."

"Look, lady, I've got rent paid up through December-"

"I'll give it back." She didn't want to say it, because she certainly couldn't afford to be without a boarder over the winter. And d.a.m.n Joe if he hadn't given Sam a cut rate that guaranteed Sydney would have to keep him on or starve. Her guide services were pricey, but not pricey enough to feed her much past February. She took a deep breath. "Just get your stuff and go."

"I'm not going anywhere," came the annoyed growl. "And since I'm going to be staying, I suggest you start wearing a few more clothes on your way to the bathroom."

Sydney clamped her teeth together and swore silently. She cursed some more as she propped the rifle against the side of the tub and started the shower. She cursed her father for having put only one bathroom in the cabin. She cursed whatever quirk of fate had brought Samuel, not Samantha, MacLeod to Alaska to move his annoying self into her house. She cursed her situation, because she would most definitely have to make Sam go and that would leave her wallowing in very dire straits indeed.

And she finally, and most thoroughly, cursed Joe for allowing Sam into her house.

Because, despite his convenient cover as owner and operator of Smith's Dry Goods and Sundries, Joe was first and foremost a matchmaker. And she knew she was number one on his. .h.i.t list.