by Janet Dailey
“No.” It was a simple statement, made without boast or hesitation.
Empty chuckled to himself. “It could get interesting around here for a fact.”
“Can we please talk about something other than the Rutledges?” Dallas protested in frustration. “It’s a subject that doesn’t exactly go with decorating a tree for Christmas.”
“Dallas is right,” Quint agreed.
Empty promptly lifted his hands in an exaggerated gesture of dismay. “Now why’d you have to go and say a thing like that? Now she’ll start believing she’s right about a whole bunch of other things, and there’ll be no living with her. She already thinks she knows it all as it is.”
“That’s because I take after you,” Dallas countered in sly mockery.
“See what I mean?” Empty declared. “There she goes mouthing off to me. Sometimes she just has no respect for her elders.”
“Pooh,” she scoffed. “Just because I don’t agree with you all the time, that doesn’t mean I don’t respect you.”
But the good-natured bickering succeeded in shifting the focus off the Rutledges, just as Dallas had wanted. Quint suspected he wasn’t the only one aware of it.
But the lighter tone took root. Soon it wasn’t something forced but came naturally—along with the smiles and the laughter.
By sundown, the tree was all decorated with a multitude of shiny ornaments, a white rope of popcorn, and brightly colored lights, all crowned by a silver star at the top. Leaving Dallas and her grandfather to stow the empty boxes in a bedroom closet, Quint headed outside to do the evening chores while there was still enough light to see. On his return, all three of them pitched in to fix a light supper.
After the dishes were done and they had drifted into the living room, the mood of friendly ease remained. As always Empty settled into his recliner and switched on the television. Quint stretched out on the couch. Dallas dug a magazine out of the wooden rack and curled up in the platform rocker.
Quint’s glance strayed from the Christmas tree to the fireplace’s dark maw. “A night like this seems to call for a crackling fire.”
“It’d look pretty,” Empty agreed. “But it’s too warm tonight.”
“If my cousin Laura were here, she’d turn on the air conditioner and then build a fire.” Quint smiled at the thought, knowing it was exactly what she would do.
Empty reared back his head and stared at Quint in disbelief. “That’s a blame fool thing to do.”
“Laura wouldn’t think so,” Quint replied.
“Why, it’s a plumb waste of money and fuel,” Empty stated.
“That’s the way you and I would look at it,” Quint agreed and clasped his hands behind his neck, letting his attention wander back to the television and the truck commercial being aired.
A harrumph came from the direction of the recliner. “It’s the only way to look at it.”
The platform rocker creaked noisily as Dallas laid the magazine aside and pushed herself out of it. Quint’s glance followed her as she crossed the room and disappeared into the back hall.
“That girl.” Empty sighed in mild annoyance. “She never has been any good at sitting and doing nothing. That’s not a bad thing, mind you, but sometimes I wish she’d park herself in one place and stay there.”
Scuffling sounds came from the vicinity of the hallway, but with the television on, it was impossible for Quint to discern the cause for them. A few minutes later, Dallas reappeared, her arms wrapped around a large cardboard box.
Empty frowned when he saw it. “What are you doing lugging that back out here? We just put all those boxes away.”
“I decided Quint was right. The fireplace needs something.” She set the box on the floor in front of it and pulled loose its overlapping top flaps.
“Need some help?” Quint started to sit up.
“You look too comfortable. Don’t get up. I can manage easily,” she assured him and dragged a section of artificial pine garland out of the box, laying it aside.
When she began lifting out snowy white pillar candles, Quint understood her plan. Soon a half dozen candles of varying height filled the fireplace opening, some sitting on the hearth itself and the rest on a flat board lying on the andirons.
Off to the kitchen she went and came back with a box of kitchen matches. One by one, Dallas lit the wicks until there were a half dozen individual flames burning high and bright.
“How does it look?” She stepped back to survey the result.
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect,” Quint announced.
“If you ask me, it’s a waste of good candles,” Empty countered.
Dallas threw him a chiding look, full of amusement and affection. “And a ‘bah, humbug’ to you, too.” Again she turned to the fireplace and studied it with a critical eye. “It still needs something,” she murmured and picked up the pine garland.
With practiced skill, Dallas arranged the garland across the mantelpiece, anchored it at each end with two more pillar candles, and added a few sprigs of fake berries.
“How’s it look?” Dallas stepped back to survey the result with a critical eye.
“Looks good,” Quint said.
“I think so too,” she said and picked up the nearly empty box.
Again she disappeared into the hallway with it and returned a short time later empty-handed. Empty eyed her narrowly. “Are you done with this decorating business?”
“You started it by insisting we get a tree,” Dallas reminded him. “But, yes, I am done—at least for the time being. Why?”
“’Cause it would be nice to watch television instead of you walking back and forth in front of it,” he retorted.
“You don’t have to worry. I’m going out to the kitchen and fix some cocoa. Anyone interested in a cup?”
“It sounds good, but only if you sit down and drink yours,” Empty replied with pseudo gruffness. When she left the room, he slid a glance at Quint. “See what I mean? She’s never still for two minutes.”
Noises came from the kitchen as cupboard drawers and doors were opened and closed, water was run in the sink, and items were set atop the counter. Mixed in with all of it was the beeping of the microwave.
A few minutes later, Dallas entered the living room, carrying a tray with three mugs of steaming cocoa, each topped with a marshmallow. Quint sat up to take his from the tray she placed on the coffee table.
When Dallas picked up hers, Empty pointed to the platform rocker. “Now sit down and drink it.”
“I planned to.” Again she curled up in the rocker, both hands holding the cup.
Yet for all her relaxed pose, Quint sensed her restlessness. “Are you having a hard time adjusting to the idea that you don’t have books to crack?”
Her quick smile was an admission in itself. “No books to crack, no racing off to wait tables at the café, no rushing to get to the feed store, then hurrying home to throw a meal together before dashing off to class. And all of it stopped. Yet I still have the feeling that there’s some place I have to be, something I have to do. It makes it hard to sit and do nothing.”
Empty’s solution was a simple one. “Just sit there and stop thinking about it.”
“I wish it was that easy,” she said and took a sip of her cocoa, then picked up the magazine again and began flipping through its pages.
Even after the last of the cocoa was consumed, Dallas was still in her chair. Empty was the first to stir, reaching up to stifle a big yawn.
“Mmmm.” He shook his head as if to clear away its grogginess and released the catch to lower the recliner’s footrest. “That dang cocoa always makes me sleepy. Guess I’d better call it a night.”
He stood up, passed the remote to Quint, and ambled toward the bedroom with a parting admonition to Dallas. “Don’t forget to unplug the tree and blow out them candles before you come to bed.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
Empty’s departure marked the end of her idleness. The instant the bed
room door closed behind her grandfather, Dallas sat forward and reached for his empty cocoa mug. Quint picked it up before she could, and slid it onto the serving tray with his own.
Tray in hand, he stood up as she came to her feet as well. “Want to set yours on the tray and I’ll take it out to the kitchen?”
Instead she reached for the tray. “That’s all right. I can manage it.”
“So can I,” Quint replied with a smile, recalling the time at the feed store when she had answered him with the same phrase.
“I know that.” For once there was no trace of self-consciousness or unease in the glance she sent him. “But it always feels awkward to let someone else do something that’s usually your job.”
“In that case you bring yours, and I’ll take these.” Before she could remind him the task didn’t require two people to accomplish, Quint headed for the kitchen.
But Dallas was too amused by his solution to do more than smile and fall in behind him. She studied the breadth of his shoulders, finding it difficult as always not to be conscious of his leanly muscled physique.
In truth, she knew of few men more handsome than Quint, and none who weren’t totally aware of it. Yet Quint didn’t seem to be one of them. Or if he was, he attached very little, if any, importance to his looks. Yet “modest” wasn’t an adjective she would ascribe to him, especially when there were so many that suited him better like steady, strong, competent, solid, and caring.
Even as she ran through the list of his attributes, Dallas wondered if they were the reason she felt safe when Quint was around despite the fact that she was far from it. But safe didn’t describe the high sense of ease she experienced in his presence, a feeling that ran strong and deep, so deep it left her a little breathless at times.
It was the first time Dallas had allowed herself to explore her reaction to him, and the result was a bit disturbing.
Ahead of her, Quint slipped the tray onto the counter. “Just set the cups in the sink,” Dallas told him. “I’ll wash them with the breakfast dishes in the morning.”
“You know,” Quint began, filling both mugs with tap water before placing them in the sink, “putting up the tree reminded me that I haven’t done any Christmas shopping yet. Any suggestions on what I can get my mom?”
“If she’s like most mothers,” Dallas replied as she placed her cup in the sink, “she’ll like anything you buy her.”
Quint cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled. “That’s no help.”
“I suppose not.” She grinned and allowed herself to become captivated by the unusual smoke-gray color of his eyes.
“You should do that more often. You have a beautiful smile,” he murmured.
His gaze darkened on her, the starkness of want in it. It stirred up all her closely held feelings for him.
Dallas knew she should say something—do something to break the moment.
Instead it was Quint who turned away. “I think I’ll follow Empty’s lead and call it a night.”
Alone in the kitchen, Dallas gripped the edge of the sink counter with a fierceness that turned her knuckles white, stunned to discover how very much she had wanted to feel the warmth of his kiss and experience the hunger she had seen his eyes. She called herself every kind of fool, but it didn’t change the truth.
Chapter Eleven
Sleep was elusive. The old house was far from soundproof. Yet tonight, more than any other night, Quint was aware of every sound Dallas made, even to the squeaking of bedsprings when she finally slipped between the covers. He rolled onto his side and tried to block out the image of her lying in bed, but he couldn’t shut off so easily the wish that she were there with him.
For a long time Quint drifted between wakefulness and slumber. Sleep, when it came, wasn’t the deep and restful kind, which made it easy for a sudden, hard thud to pierce its shallow layers.
Stirring, Quint raised his head and listened. A second later, he became aware of a faint drumming sound. As he struggled to identify its source, Quint heard the distinctive whinny of alarm from one of the horses in the corral. A chicken squawked an echo of it.
Certain it was another coon raiding the barn, Quint threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, automatically reaching for his jeans. He stepped into them one leg at a time, fastened them around the middle, pulled up the zipper, and tugged on his boots.
Leaving the bedroom, he walked straight to the gun cabinet in the living room. He took out the shotgun and fed a couple of shells into it.
The instant he turned toward the door, Quint noticed the unnatural glow beyond the front windows. The sight of it jolted through him like a bolt of electricity.
“Fire!” he shouted and ran out the door, disregarding the shotgun he still carried.
But the wavering glow hadn’t prepared him for the sight of flames running along the entire length of the row of round bales, greedily licking over the dried hay. It halted him long enough for his side vision to register another glow near the barn.
He swung his attention to it and saw a quick rush of flames curling over the bale in the corral as well. Beyond its light were the shadowy outlines of the horses milling about in panic.
Getting the horses away from the fire became the top priority as Quint took off toward the corral. He was halfway across the yard when he glimpsed a hatted figure silhouetted against the tan earth of the driveway. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that this was the culprit who had started the fires.
A cold and raging anger had Quint skidding to a stop, snapping the shotgun to his shoulder, and squeezing both triggers, even though he knew his target was out of range. But he had the satisfaction of seeing the figure crouch low before the night’s darkness swallowed him.
Quint was half tempted to pursue the man, but the shotgun blast had ignited a fresh panic among the trapped horses. He had no choice but to rescue them before they injured themselves.
By the time he got the pasture gate open and succeeded in driving the crazed and wild-eyed horses through it to safety, Empty was using a hose to pour water on the corral’s round bale and Dallas was stabbing a pitchfork into the burning edges of the tightly rolled hay in an attempt to separate it from the unburned portions.
All Quint saw in the roll of smoke and hiss of stubborn flames was the loose swing of her coppery hair when she turned her face away from the fire’s heat. He jerked the pitchfork out of her hands and shoved her aside.
“Get out of here and get that hair under a hat,” he ordered and attacked the bale, resuming her efforts without any illusion that it might be successful. To her credit, Dallas hesitated only an instant before she sprinted for the house. Quint spared a glance at Empty. “Did you get the fire department called?”
Empty responded with a curt nod and aimed the hose at the top of the bale. “They’re supposed to be on their way. Not that it’s going to do much good,” he added with a short glance at the bales along the fence line that were now a solid wall of flames. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you got the bastard that started this.”
“He was too far away.”
“I was afraid of that,” Empty muttered, then added bitterly, “Wanna bet the fire trucks will take their time getting here?”
“No, thanks.”
When Dallas came running back to join them, Quint was quick to note the feed store cap on her head and the absence of hair falling loose about her shoulders. Half out of breath, she pointed to burning bales along the fence row.
“The grass caught fire.” The alarm in her voice lent its own urgency to her words.
Quint threw a quick look in that direction, his gaze scouring the area beyond the billowing smoke and fire, and located the yellow line of fast-creeping flames. He didn’t need to be reminded that the winter grass was tinder dry.
“Forget this,” he told Empty and tossed the pitchfork aside. “Give me a hand getting the plow hitched to the tractor.” As he turned for the barn, he pushed Dallas toward the house. “Get any blankets you can f
ind, throw them in the truck along with some shovels and all the buckets of water you can haul.”
No time was wasted acknowledging his instructions. All knew time was the fire’s ally, not theirs. While Dallas ran to get the blankets, Quint vaulted the corral fence and shoved open the double doors to the barn where the tractor was housed. Empty hauled himself onto the tractor seat and cranked up the engine. Quint climbed on behind him, holding tight to the seat as the tractor lurched out of the barn and roared over to the plow that sat next to the building. With an expert swing of the wheel, Empty backed the tractor up to the plow and Quint hopped down to secure the ball hitch. The instant he was back on board, Empty took off.
The entire process took only scant minutes. And in that same period of time, the flames had advanced another fifty yards across the tinder-dry grass. Fanned by its own powerful draft, the fire was picking up speed.
It was like a living thing, leaping to devour anything in its path, its appetite never satisfied. Smoke rolled ahead of it, lit by flying embers that looked like so many devil-red eyes in the darkness.
As the tractor chugged out of the ranch yard at full throttle, the plow rattling behind it, Quint caught a glimpse of Dallas sprinting from the house, bundled cloth clasped in her arms. Then the tractor was shooting onto the ranch lane, taking advantage of the natural firebreak it provided on the east side to skirt the racing flames and charge ahead of them into the obscuring wall of smoke.
Empty kept his foot to the pedal, never slackening the tractor’s headlong pace through the smoke. At last the sting of it was no longer in their eyes.
Holding on tightly, Quint leaned close and shouted in the old man’s ear, “The dry wash up here on the right—we’ll try to stop it there.”
Empty’s answer was a short nod that signaled he had heard and understood.
The shallow wash was one that nature had carved near the base of a hill to handle the runoff from heavy rains. At its widest point it was no more than three feet across, its bed a mix of bare soil and stones of varying sizes. The wash itself didn’t reach all the way to the ranch lane, but rather started at a point some one hundred feet from it.