Kara Lennox
One Stubborn Texan
© 2007
Chapter One
“Stranger’s coming,” Bert Klausen announced from his perch by the front window of the Linhart General Store. Bert, former owner of the store and now firmly retired, spent most of his winter days in a rocking chair warming himself by the wood-burning stove, staring out the window and munching on dill pickles. No one came or went in Linhart, Texas, without Bert’s knowing.
Russ Klein added an extra scoop of coffee grounds to the pot he was making. Maybe it was a customer.
“It’s a female, and quite a looker, too. She drives a beemer,” Bert announced between crunches on his pickle. “A white one.”
“BMW, huh?” Russ ambled to the front of the store, pretending to straighten the camping gear as he went. He stepped over Nero, the bloodhound asleep on the floor, and opened the stove to poke at the burning logs with a stick. That time waster complete, he closed the grate and peered out the window; a cold drizzle made everything outside look gray and depressing. He couldn’t miss the snazzy white car parked across the street, but the driver was nowhere to be seen.
“Went inside the post office,” Bert said, answering Russ’s unasked question.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Maybe she’ll come in here when she gets done there,” Bert mused hopefully. The wilderness outfitting business wasn’t exactly brisk this time of year, not like spring and summer, when tourists and college kids streamed in by the dozens to stock up on food, beer and camping supplies. Breaks in the winter monotony were scarce.
“Maybe,” Russ agreed with practiced indifference, though his gaze never left the white car. He wondered what other excuse he could find to linger at the front of the store. A stranger in town on a cold, gray weekday was cause for curiosity. A female stranger in an expensive sports car was hard to resist. Russ was a sucker for flashy city women and he knew it. He never learned, not even after Deirdre.
The door to the post office swung open and she emerged, looking like a bird of paradise hatching in a sparrow’s nest. Sonny Fouts, coming out of the hardware store, paused to stare at her, but she didn’t seem to notice as she strode up the sidewalk, her briefcase swinging at her side, a cell phone glued to her face as she carried on an animated conversation.
Russ sucked in his breath as he surveyed her from the ground up, starting with the pair of dark green high-heeled boots with a row of fringe that swung to and fro with each bouncy step. Her snug black skirt skimmed over trim hips and stopped well above the knees, revealing sleek, slender legs. Above the skirt she wore a short suede jacket bearing an abundance of snaps and more streamers of fringe. Her hair tumbled in luxuriant black waves from beneath a beret.
Most people in Linhart wore hats-straw cowboy hats in the summer, felt in the winter, and gimme caps from the feed store. But not berets. Way too French for a town founded by German immigrants. Way too citified.
“Oo-ey, she’s somethin’ else, eh?” Bert said with his usual candor. “Kinda on the skinny side, maybe. Uh-oh, look out, she’s headin’ this way.”
Bert quickly picked up a three-day-old newspaper and pretended absorption in it. Russ walked casually to the back of the store to check on the coffee, facing away from the door as if the lady didn’t interest him much. It was a lie, of course. Her type always interested him.
Russ resisted the urge to turn around when the jingling doorbell announced the arrival of a customer. He heard the rustling of Bert’s newspaper and the halfhearted thumping of Nero’s tail against the wooden plank flooring.
“Help you, missy?” Bert asked politely. “Bert Klausen, at your service.”
The woman dropped her cell phone into her purse. “Hello, Bert.” The voice was honey-smooth, confident. “Yes, I’m sure you can help me. I was told I could find Russ Klein here.”
Something inside Russ jumped at the realization that this bird of paradise was looking for him. He turned around, schooling his features. “I’m Russ Klein.”
She smiled a hello, and he forgot any rational greeting he might have summoned. Lord, what a smile. What a face. She made him think of an impish angel in dress-up clothes as she came toward him with her arm extended. Her hand was cool and delicate when he shook it, the long nails painted a pumpkin color. He didn’t squeeze too hard for fear he’d break something.
“What can I do for you?” he asked when he’d recovered enough of his wits to speak. Bert watched from the corner of his eye, pretending renewed interest in the newspaper.
“My name is Sydney Baines,” she answered in an accent just shy of exotic.
Oh, hell. The woman had left several messages over the past few days, identifying herself as a private eye and claiming she had an “urgent matter” she wanted to discuss. Russ had ignored the calls, thinking it was a scam. What legitimate business could a P.I. have with him? He lived an uncomplicated life.
She extracted a black wallet from her green suede purse and snapped it open so that he could examine her credentials.
Russ studied the ID: Sydney Baines, Licensed Private Investigator, New York City. Now her accent and her mode of dress made more sense. And the fancy car.
“You came all the way from New York to find me?”
“I tried calling, but my messages went unreturned,” she said, not a hint of censure in her voice. “It’s very important that I talk to you.”
“Want some coffee?” he asked, putting off whatever business she had with him. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like what she’d come to say. Was some long-lost acquaintance of his mother’s hoping to get a handout? They’d be mighty disappointed. The quarter-million dollars-his mother’s divorce settlement from twenty years ago-was long gone.
Sydney smiled reassuringly. “I’d love some coffee.” Then she lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “Is there someplace private we can talk?” She gave a tiny nod toward Bert, who continued to scrutinize the old paper as if it contained the world’s secrets.
“I can take a hint,” Bert said. “I’ll just unpack those new camp stoves that came in earlier.” With that Bert shrugged into a threadbare jacket and ambled toward the back of the store, disappearing into the storage room.
“Have a seat by the stove.” Russ nodded toward the cozy sitting area Bert had just vacated, figuring he might as well get this conversation over with. “I’ll bring the coffee. Cream? Sugar?”
“Cream, please.” Sydney made her way toward the two wooden chairs by the potbellied stove.
Russ kept a wary eye on her as he rummaged around for two clean cups. She was on her phone again, talking and nodding as she slipped her arms out of her jacket, revealing a silky green blouse that draped over lush, round breasts. She gazed at the wide array of camping gear. Because the store was small, Russ utilized every nook and cranny to display backpacks, sleeping bags, tents and all manner of gadgets. He hung kayaks, canoes and bicycles from the ceiling.
Finally she concluded her call, sliding the phone into a jacket pocket. “This is quite a place you have,” she commented. “You could buy just about anything-” Her voice broke off. “Oh, a dog.”
“He’s not for sale,” Russ said. But when he turned back toward Sydney with the coffee in hand, she wasn’t smiling. In fact, the supremely confident expression she’d worn earlier had fled and she was sitting stiff as a pine plank in her chair as Nero sniffed enthusiastically at her boots.
Russ brought the coffee over. “Nero, go lie down.”
The old dog looked at Russ with a surprised expression, then ambled over to his customary place by the stove and settled down with a huff. But he continued to watch Sydney with almost as much interest as Russ felt.
“Are you afraid of dogs?” Russ asked, handing Sydney a cup of coffee with cream. “’Cause old Nero here is about as vicious as a butterfly.”