washing them.
He carried their dishes to the sink and saw that Sydney was staring at the pump, mystified. Good gravy, she didn’t know how to work a pump, either?
“If the bathroom has running water,” she asked, “why doesn’t the kitchen?”
“Because Bert did exactly what was needed to put in a bathroom. No more, no less. The pump worked fine, so why replace it?”
“So idiots like me can wash dishes?”
Russ put a large pot in the sink. She stood aside and let him pump away, and after thirty or so seconds, a stream of cold water started to fill the pot. “I’ll have to heat some water on the stove. You might want to take a seat.”
Sydney scraped their plates into the trash, then hopped back to the table and sat with her chin propped on one hand while Russ heated the water. He tried to think of something to say, some avenue of conversation that wouldn’t start them arguing. But he couldn’t think of anything.
When the water was warm enough, he dumped it into a dishpan with some dish soap and Sydney began washing the dishes without a word, handing them to him when they were clean. He rinsed in cold, then dried and stacked. The silence was anything but companionable.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I told you it was complicated.”
“You could do a lot of good things with that money,” she said, not sounding quite as tense as before. Maybe the act of washing dishes had soothed her-the warm water, the scent of the lemon dish soap. He’d never minded washing dishes for that reason.
“So instead of the rich guy, I’d be the idiot who gave away ten million dollars. The press would love that.” Not to mention his mother would never speak to him again.
“You could start a charitable foundation,” she tried again.
“That’s a nice thought, but there’s no way. Admit it. If I accepted that money, my life would be changed forever. I happen to like my life just as it is.”
“I think that’s selfish.”
“What? I’m selfish because I won’t accept ten million dollars?”
“How do you know being rich would change your life for the worse? Have you ever been rich before?”
“In a matter of speaking, yes. When my mother was Sammy Oberlin’s common-law wife, we had everything money could buy and it was the most miserable existence you can imagine. Throwing money at people doesn’t solve problems, it creates them.”
“Speak for yourself,” she said curtly. Then she sighed. “I told you we shouldn’t talk about this anymore. I’m tired and cranky and my ankle hurts, so I’m going to bed. By tomorrow I’m sure my ankle will feel better. I want to get up first thing in the morning and start back. I don’t care if I have to hop all the way or crawl. I’ll get there somehow.” With that she dumped the dirty dishwater down the sink, grabbed her walking stick and limped toward the bedroom.
She closed the door with a firm, decisive snick, which was a pretty good indication that she didn’t want his company, not that that was even a remote possibility.
It was way too early to go to bed. Russ added another log to the fire, noticing for the first time that the cabin was getting colder despite the fact the stove had been burning hot for several hours. He checked the thermometer that hung just outside one of the windows, shining a flashlight on it from inside.
Holy cow, it was already below freezing. He knew one thing, the bedroom would be the coldest room in the house. If Sydney insisted on keeping that door closed, she might be nothing more than a Sydney-cicle by morning.
Knowing the reception wouldn’t be too welcoming, he went to the bedroom and tapped on the door. When he got no answer, he tapped a little harder.
“Sydney? I know you don’t want to speak to me ever again and I don’t blame you, but you’re going to freeze if you don’t open the door to let some warm air in.”
No answer.
He opened the door a crack and peered in. Sydney was asleep in the exact middle of the old iron-framed double bed, rolled up in a little ball with the quilt wrapped around her. Only her nose and a bit of her hair were visible.
Poor thing, she was probably already blue from the cold. The wind outside was howling and the log cabin was designed for Texas summers, not frozen winters. He could actually feel cold air gusting through the single-pane windows.
He did the only charitable thing. He walked to the bed, scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the main room.
She stirred as he laid her on the couch. “What are you doing?” she asked muzzily, not quite awake.
“I’m putting you near the fire to warm you up.”
She surprised him by throwing her arms around his neck. “Mmm, I could think of better ways to warm me up.”
Whoa. She had to be asleep-probably thought he was some other guy, some lover she had back in New York. But that didn’t stop his body from responding. He was instantly hard, and the idea of sliding in beside her on the couch and bundling up with her under a mound of blankets got stuck in his mind and wouldn’t leave.
But he’d abused the poor woman enough. He wouldn’t add seducing her when she was asleep to his list of sins. He gently disentangled her arms from his neck.
“Not tonight, sleepyhead.”
She was already in dreamland, probably unaware of his words.
Unable to resist, he touched his lips to hers.
She might be sleeping, but she still responded and he allowed it for three glorious seconds before he made himself pull away.
The woman was a bundle of contradictions. She represented all the things he’d left behind in Las Vegas-a slick city woman with an unhealthy fascination with other people’s money. If anything, she was an even worse match for him than Deirdre or Melanie or the others. At least they’d lived within driving distance.
But she loved her father, that much was certain. She’d put her own career on hold to help him out after her mother’s death. And she’d been a pretty good sport about getting stuck out here in the boonies-well, until he’d gone and blurted out the whole story.
Damn him and his big mouth. Although, he had to say, he felt better now that the lie was off his chest.
He dragged the sofa closer to the stove. If Sydney was determined to start for town tomorrow morning-and he didn’t doubt for a minute that she was-he was at least going to ensure she got a good night’s sleep.
SYDNEY AWOKE, disoriented at first by her lumpy bed and the smell of wood smoke. But then she saw the glow of the dying fire and she realized the cold had awakened her.
How had she gotten to the sofa?
Russ, of course. He’d carried her out here to be closer to the fire. She didn’t know whether to be miffed that he’d violated her privacy or grateful he’d been worried about her comfort.
Gratitude won out.
Maybe she should put another log on the fire. Her walking stick was still in the bedroom, but she could hop that far.
She flung off her blankets, bracing herself for the cold air, glad she’d taken the time to change into a pair of sweatpants and another flannel shirt. They might not be flattering, but they were warm.
She pushed up on her good leg and steadied herself, took one hop and promptly tripped over something.
“What the hell!”
“Ow!”
Sydney caught herself and rolled to the side, preventing yet another calamitous injury. “Russ, is that you?”
“Who else would it be?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said automatically. “I never saw you there. Did I hurt you?”
He sat up. “No, you just scared the bejeezus out of me.” She knew he was lying, though, because he was rubbing his head.
“What are you doing sleeping on the floor?”
“Staying warm. What are you doing wandering around in a dark room?”
