Love Came Just in Time (38 page)

Sam reached behind her and jerked a cake knife out of the pottery utensil holder sitting on the counter. He didn't spare her a glance.

“I didn't realize . . .” she began.

Sam was pulling ingredients out of her cupboards, strange things she didn't usually keep, like flour and sugar. He didn't respond as he got out a bowl and started mixing these foreign substances together.

“Look,” she began, his silence starting to make her uncomfortable, “can't you just fix it? Patch it together? It would probably take a lot of time to rebake it.”

Sam stopped and turned his head slowly to look at her. “Too bad you couldn't have thought about that before you ruined it.”

“I didn't mean to!”

“That hardly matters now, does it?”

“I didn't ask you to come live here,” she said, sticking out her chin stubbornly, struggling to find some way to defend herself.

“That really isn't the point, is it, Sydney?”

Sydney felt lower than the lowest grubworm. So she bristled even harder.

“You should have told me not to touch it.”

“You've been asleep for twenty-four hours. I didn't want to wake you and find myself without my family jewels.” He turned and reached into the refrigerator for a plate encased in Saran Wrap. He handed it to her. “Roast beef sandwich. Here's a can of pop. Go eat it somewhere I don't have to look at you.”

“This is
my
house,” Sydney said in a last bid to save her pride.

“Yeah, well, this is
my
kitchen at the moment and I don't want you in it.”

Sydney clutched the cold can in her hand and walked out of the kitchen with her head held high. No, she wasn't upset. Sam's kindness in making her dinner didn't hurt her. His anger didn't bother her. His assurance earlier that he'd rather dance with an angry bear than touch her didn't trouble her either. After all, she was Sydney Kincaid, wilderness woman. She was every inch her father's daughter, bless his crusty old soul. She'd survived on her own since her seventeenth birthday, since Sydney the elder had died on his way back in from the woodpile. She didn't need anyone. She'd made it all by herself, and damn anyone who tried to imply differently. The very last thing she needed in her life was a man, especially a man who would probably starve to death five yards from the house unless someone showed him the direction back to the kitchen.

She shut and locked her door, put the supper Sam had fixed for her on her nightstand, then threw herself onto her bed and tried to burst into tears.

It didn't work. So she rolled over on her back and looked up at the ceiling. She hadn't cried in thirteen years, not since before her father's funeral. If she hadn't cried then, a simple snubbing by her housemate certainly wasn't going to bring tears to her eyes now.

She ignored her supper and crawled back under the covers. Tomorrow was Eunice and Jeremy's wedding. If she didn't go, the town would think her a chicken and the Clan down at the store would grumble about her cowardice. If she went, the women would shake their heads sadly and pity her that she couldn't find a husband.

Not that she wanted one; no, sir.

No, she reminded herself again as she drifted off to sleep. The very last thing she needed was a man.

Especially one as handsome and useless as Sam.

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 succumbed 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 pass. 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 assets 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 ingénue 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, brandishing swords and making him listen to Wagnerian opera for hours at a time. Not that having a handywoman 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 shirts—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 muffled 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 assimilate 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 noble 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.

Assuming 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 damn knight in shining 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.”