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.