“There’s a two-gallon can in the back. It was all I could find.”
“It’ll have to do.” He handed her the flashlight that he kept stowed under the front seat and directed her to wait there for the fire trucks.
He pulled the door shut, effectively cutting off any objections before Dallas could make them, and drove off into the pasture. She stood alone on the darkened ranch lane, conscious of the steadily advancing smoke cloud.
Soon the black pickup blended into the night shapes, its form no longer distinguishable. She had only its red taillights and the outward sweep of its headlight beams to track its passage. Her grandfather was out there somewhere. She could hear the growl of the tractor, but she couldn’t see it.
Turning, Dallas threw a searching glance down the lane, her attention drawn to the full-throated cry of sirens. But the fire trucks had yet to roll into view.
Stars dotted the sky to the south. Their glitter was a contrast to the smoke-darkened sky above and behind her. But it was the low ominous sound the approaching fire made, a sound that reminded Dallas of a howling wind, that had her anxiety level rising.
The metallic slam of the pickup door had Dallas swinging back around to face the pasture. She quickly located the lights from the pickup, noticing they were no longer moving. Seconds later, Quint passed in front of the their beams, toting the red gasoline can, before the shadows swallowed him.
As she scanned the darkness in search of him, she became aware of a dim glow in her side vision. It was from the fire, backlighting the hill. Dallas threw another anxious glance down the lane, focusing on the undulating sirens in an effort to judge how close they were.
In the next second, she was startled by the sudden whoosh of flames leaping to life very close to her. A long, yellow line of them ran along the entire base of the hill, stretching to a point well beyond it. The moment she saw them, Dallas realized that Quint had used the gasoline to start a backfire and slow the red flames that now crowned the hill. But it was traveling fast, so very fast.
The sirens’ loud wail almost drowned out the screech of brakes that came from the state road, but Dallas caught it and hastily turned on the flashlight as she ran forward to meet the arriving fire engines.
The wind was in the wrong direction to carry the smell of smoke to the Slash R Ranch, yet lights blazed from a half dozen windows in the main house. All shone from the private quarters of its occupants.
Clad in a burgundy silk robe, Max Rutledge shoved open the door to his son’s bedroom and maneuvered his wheelchair through the opening as the heirloom clock on the room’s fireplace mantel struck the two o’clock hour. His black gaze skipped over his terry-robed manservant and personal nurse, Harold Barnett, and fastened on Boone, seated on a chair, his back to the door and the male nurse.
“Just what in hell is going on here?” Max glowered at Boone as he rolled his chair closer.
Boone tossed him a backward glance. “Exactly what it looks like,” he retorted in a hard, tight voice. “Barnett’s digging buckshot out of my back.”
“It’s nothing serious,” Barnett said with calm assurance. “Only one is lodged very deeply. The rest barely penetrated the skin.” Using surgical tweezers, he plucked one out, drawing a wince from Boone, and added it to the three lead pellets already nestled on a saucer.
Max was close enough to see for himself the blood that lightly seeped from a dozen or so holes across the right side of Boone’s muscled back. “Who did it?”
“I didn’t hang around to see who was holding the shotgun,” Boone answered with sarcasm and grimaced when Barnett probed another hole. “Probably old man Garner. A shotgun’s always been his weapon of choice.”
Max leaned forward, nearly choking on the rage that reddened his face. “Good God, are you telling me that you went to the Cee Bar tonight?”
Boone nodded, unable to explain why he had chosen to go himself rather than send one of the ranch hands. At the time it had seemed a wise decision, eliminating any chance of loose talk. But that reasoning was now colored by the thrill of the almost overwhelming sense of power he’d experienced slipping through the night, setting the fire.
And when that shotgun had gone off and he’d felt the sting of the blast, there had been a rush unlike anything he’d ever known. But it wasn’t something Boone could put into words, not the kind his father would understand. So he didn’t try.
“That hay made the biggest bonfire you’ve ever seen,” Boone said, still seeing it in his mind’s eye. “It was the slickest thing. I just walked along that row of big bales, touching the flame from the portable butane torch to each one until they were all on fire. I probably should have left it at that,” he added. “But I saw a round bale over in the horse corral. So I went over and torched it, too. The fire spooked the horses, though. Old man Garner must have heard the fuss they raised and come out to see what was going on. Another couple of minutes and I would have been long gone.”
“My God, what an utter fool you are,” Max muttered thickly. “Don’t you have enough brains to realize you could have been caught?”
Boone bristled at the anger and derision in his father’s voice. “I could have been killed, too, but I wasn’t. So quit your bitching and consider that you’re getting off easy. You can bet if it was one of the ranch hands sitting here, he’d be squawking big time about getting peppered by a shotgun. And you’d end up paying him a fistful of money to keep his mouth shut. Just look how much I saved you.”
“Don’t talk to me about the money you saved!” Max exploded in temper. “Not when you could have cost us everything!”
“And just how could I have done that?” Boone taunted as another shotgun pellet plinked into the saucer.
Max stared at him for a long second, his expression a mixture of incredulity and rage. “My God, you really don’t have the brains to figure it out, do you?” There was a trace of loathing in the curl of his lip. “It turns my stomach that I have to explain something so obvious to my own son.”
“Then don’t bother,” Boone jeered in retaliation, then grunted sharply in pain and jerked away from Barnett.
“Sorry, sir,” Barnett offered in bland apology. “That one’s embedded a bit deeper than I thought. It’ll t
ake some probing to reach it.”
“Then do it,” Boone ordered curtly. “But next time give a man some warning.”