Lone Calder Star (22 page)

"All he wants from me are my legs," Boone said in a vindictive mutter. "One of these days he's going to push me too far and, crippled or not, I'll haul him out of that wheelchair and throw him across the room." He paused and laughed to himself. It had a cold, ugly sound. "I can just see him crawling on the floor. Don't you know he'd hate that?"

Barnett smoothed the last bandage in place and straightened up. "There you are, sir. All finished."

"It's about time." Boone pushed out of the chair with the swiftness of an animal that had been
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too long restrained.

"I'll need to change those dressings tomorrow evening. As slight as your wounds are, we don't want to risk infection setting in," Barnett stated as he gathered together his assortment of instruments, bandages, and antiseptic bottles and returned them to his personal medical bag.

"Yeah, whatever," Boone murmured in absentminded agreement as he scooped the whiskey decanter off the drink tray on his dresser and splashed some in a glass. Too consumed by his own thoughts, he never noticed when Barnett exited the room.

"I get shot. But does he get mad and start ranting about getting even with the man who hurt his son? Hell no. Instead he chews me out for going there in the first place." Boone gulped down a swallow of straight whiskey,the searing fire of it fueling his own anger. "And not because he cared whether something happend to me. No, it was only because the trail would have led straight back to him."

Boone downed another swallow of whiskey, but the anger he felt wasn't the kind that could be washed away.

Smoke swirled among the line of firefighters like a thick fog, blurring shapes and making it impossible for Dallas to identify the men working only yards from her. Now and then a flame would leap high enough to reveal the blackened stretch of fire-scorched earth on the opposite side of the dry wash. But she searched only for the tiny tongues of fire that sprang up on her side.

Rivulets of sweat ran down her neck, partly from the physical exertion of fighting the blaze and partly from its blistering heat. Soot and ash mixed in with the perspiration to leave muddy streaks on her face. But Dallas was oblivious of them.

Not far from her, water from a fire hose arced across the wash and hit a section of flames on the other side. There was a whoosh and a sizzle, and an instant eruption of steam and smoke, littered with sparks.

Enveloped in a thick, hot cloud, Dallas automatically turned away and clamped a hand over her mouth and nose to avoid breathing in too much of the choking smoke while she retreated from the dense haze.

Speed was impossible over the newly plowed ground. She stumbled over a hard clod and would have fallen if a pair of hands hadn't steadied her.

"Careful." The quiet-voiced warning was muffled by a dingy white handkerchief tied across the lower half of her rescuer's face. But Dallas would have recognized Quint's voice and those gray eyes anywhere.

"Thanks," she murmured, not at all surprised to find Quint at her side.

Several times since the fire trucks arrived, she'd caught glimpses of him , moving up and down the fire line, pitching in to help where the flames threatened to jump the wash and run wild again.

"Are you all right?" A supporting hand remained on her.

Dallas tried to nod in answer and started coughing instead. His grip shifted to her waist. "Let's get you out of here," Quint said and proceeded to half carry and half guide her clear of the thick smoke.

He turned her to face him and pulled down the masking kerchief. "Can you breathe okay now?"

he asked, tipping his head toward her.

She smothered a last, low cough and nodded. "I'm fine."

The lines around his eyes crinkled in a smile. "Good." His glance immediately darted back to the fire line. "I think the worst is over. We've almost got it under control."

The words were barely out of his mouth when flames shot into the air, soaring twenty feet high or more some distance to the west. Dallas breathed in a sharp gasp of alarm at the size and suddenness of them.

"The hay bale Empty put out for the cattle," Quint said in explanation. "I figured it would be going up any second now. I was right. "

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Reassured by his lack of concern, Dallas felt her pulse settle hack into its normal rhythm and pulled her gaze away from the fiery yellow tower, bringing it back to Quint. His face was in prolile, the ridges and hollows of his lean features lit by the brilliant glow of the distant flames.

There was no weariness or worry in his expression. The impression he gave was one of alertness and determination. But Dallas recalled it had been that way from the moment the fire was first discovered, showing haste but never panic or indecision.

"Empty should be coming along with the tractor any minute now," Quint said, once more bringing his attention back to her. "When he does, have him take you back to the ranch house."

Before Dallas could insist again that she was fine, Quint added, "Make sure he goes with you. He looked like he was about to collapse when I last saw him. But you know Empty. He's too proud to admit that."

"But even if he takes me back, he'll never stay." Concern for her grandfather had Dallas searching for an excuse he might believe.

Quint was quick to provide one. "He can help you throw together some sandwiches and coffee for the firefighters. It'll be his job to bring them back here as soon as they're all made and packed up. But take your time and keep him out of this smoke for as long as you can."

"I'll find a way," she promised.

His gray eyes crinkled at the corners again. The chug of the tractor reached them, and Quint turned in the direction of the sound. "Here he comes now," he said as the tractor's headlights became visible in the smoky darkness. "Good luck."

When he headed for the fire line, Dallas called after him, "Be careful."

She couldn't tell whether Quint had heard her. At the same time, she knew her words of caution were unnecessary. She had the feeling Quint could handle anything that came his way.

Except Rutledge, of course.

A shining star,

A rainy night,

A Calder loves,

But something's not right.

Shortly after dawn the fire was out, and the exodus of the firefighting units began as the focus shifted to searching out hotspots and hosing down the still-smoldering hay bales next to the ranch yard, a task that required the services of only a single fire truck and its crew.

Standing at a kitchen window, Dallas had a clear view of the barred landscape to the south.

Where the hay bales had been, there was a long, black heap of ash and cinder with only an occasional golden scrap of unburned hay glinting in the morning sunlight.

With no more wisps of smoke coming from the hay pile, one of the firemen was busy stowing the hose in the truck. A second man had already shed his protective gear and stood talking to Quint.

But it was the tired slouch of Quint's shoulders that claimed her attention. There were smudges of soot and ash on his jeans and denim jacket. Dallas suspected that a closer inspection of his clothes would reveal a collection of burn marks where sparks had landed.

After an exchange of parting words, Quint backed a step, then turned and headed toward the house in a slow, leg-weary walk.

When she heard the clump of a booted out on the porch Dallas moved away from the window
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and crossed to the kitchen cupboards.

The back door opened and Quint walked in, bringing with him the smell of smoke and wet ash.

His glance traveled around the kitchen and came to a stop on her.

"I hope you still have some coffee left." Half turning, he closed the door, shutting out the rumble of the fire truck's motor as it started up.

"Just made a fresh pot." Dallas reached into the upper cabinet for a clean cup. "The fire truck's leaving, is it?"

"Yeah." Some of his fatigue crept into Quint's voice. "There's still a couple of guys on the fire line, making sure there's nothing smoldering. They'll hang around most of the morning, just to play it safe."

Quint shrugged out of his jean jacket and gave it a halfhearted toss onto one of the kitchen chairs. He was shirtless beneath it. Just for an instant Dallas was unnerved by the unobstructed view she had of his lean-muscled torso as he walked over to the sink. But one glimpse of the contrast between the bare flesh across his back and the grimy color of his face, neck, forearms, and a long swath down the front of his chest, and Dallas understood the practicality of his actions.

"I guess the fire marshal will be out either this afternoon or tomorrow," Quint said as he turned on the faucets and adjusted the water temperature.

"I suppose that's standard procedure." She filled his cup with coffee and tried to ignore the distraction of all that hard, bare skin. It was impossible. "You did tell them about the man you saw running away."

"I told the fire chief." Quint soaped his hands and forearms all the way up to his elbows until a gray lather covered them, then rinsed it off under the faucet. "You and I both know it was arson.

Proving it might be something else, though. More than likely it will simply be labeled

`suspicious.' "

Dallas stared at him in surprise, " why only 'suspicious'?"

" Without any evidence of cause or some type of accelerant, arson becomes difficult to prove."

Bending, Quint splashed water on his face and neck, then reached again for the soap bar. "As dry as the hay was, a cigarette lighter is all it would have taken. We can only hope the arsonist was stupid enough to leave it behind....assuming that's what he used. Although it could just as easily have been one of those small portable torches they make nowadays."

"II they found something like that, then that would be proof, wouldn'r it?" But Dallas didn't have much hope that it would

occur.

" It would be proof, and evidence that a crime lab could trace." eyes closed against the stinging lather, Quint scrubbed at his face and neck.

" I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you." Dallas removed a clean hand towel from one of the lower drawers. "Rutledge would never allow any of his men to make such a foolish mistake."

Quint nodded an agreement and ducked his whole head under the faucet to rinse off the soap, not caring that he got his hair wet. When he straightened up and started to grope for a towel, Dallas placed the fresh one in his hand.

"Thanks," he said and pressed it first to his face, then down over his neck, and lastly wiped his hands and arms. The sooty grime was gone from his face, exposing the fatigue that pulled at him. He dragged in a deep breath, then sighed it out. "That's better. At least now I feel halfway human."

"You look it too," Dallas retorted in light jest, although there was nothing remotely amusing about her response to the sight of him standing there, his skin gleaming with a lingering dampness, moisture making black spikes of his eyelashes and emphasizing the gray of his eyes.

Quint made a last swipe at the wetness along one side of his neck and glanced curiously around the kitchen. "Where's Empty?"

"He fell asleep in his chair about two hours ago. He went to have a relaxing cup of coffee before
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heading out to do the morning chores and fell asleep almost the minute he tipped his head back."

"I forgot all about the chores," Quint muttered in irritation.

"Don't worry. They're already done." Dallas found it difficult to keep her glance from sliding down to his tanned chest and the crown of dark hair in its center.

"Thanks." His eyes warmed on her. A slow smile curved his mouth as he turned at right angles to her and leaned a hip against the sink counter, the towel still clasped between his hands.

"Speaking of thanks, the chief asked me to pass along his. The men really appreciated the sandwiches and coffee you carted out to them last night."

"I can hardly take credit for that. It wasn't even my idea." There really wasn't any reason for her to continue standing there, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor. "While we're on the subject of coffee, though, I already poured you some." She gestured to the cup on the counter.

"Thanks." Quint twisted the towel over his hands in a final wipe and started to set it aside, then hesitated and lifted it close to his face before laying it aside. "It smells of smoke now."

"Everything does," Dallas countered.

"You don't." His gaze returned to her, something darkening his eyes, something that had her pulse skipping. "You smell of strawberries." He reached over and lifted the lock of hair that rested on the front of her shoulder, fingering it lightly. "It seems right-a strawberry scent for a strawberry blonde."

"Does it?" Her voice was suddenly husky, and it wasn't from the effects of the smoke.

"Yes." His response was little more than a low murmur. He swayed closer to her, then paused, a wistful smile edging the curve of his mouth. "You don't know how tempting you look, Dallas.

Or how tempted I am to-"

He never finished the sentence. Instead, his head made a slow dip toward hers, his hands staying at his side, making no move to gather into his arms.An inner voice warned Dallas to step away...now...while she still could, but she didn't listen to it. Her lashes fluttered shut as his mouth moved over her lips, warm and exquisitely tender, yet full of aching need.

Thrilling to it, Dallas melted against him, a desire of her own clamouring within.

Her hands slid over the tapered firmness of the back she had longed to touch, exploring the complex roping of muscle and sinew.Then, and only then, did she feel the circling of his arms draw her more fully against him.

The kiss deepened seemingly of its own accord into something hot and wet and greedy.

Everything swirled together, arching and straining, striving for something more. When his mouth rolled off hers to travel hungrily over her cheeks, eyes, and brow, Dallas pulled in a trembling breath that seemed to lodge somewhere in her throat.