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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 foot on the porch planks, Dallas moved away from the window 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 that 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.”
“If they found something like that, then that would be proof, wouldn’t 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 and 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 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 her into his arms. An inner voice warned Dallas to step away—now—while she still could, but she didn’t listen to it.
