Читать книгу One Stubborn Texan - Kara Lennox - Страница 7

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.”