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And with it came the first glimmer that maybe there was a way out of this. Maybe there was a way to prove to Max that he wasn’t a liar. And Dallas could do that.
It didn’t matter to him at all that it would be another lie. Max wouldn’t know it, and that was all that counted.
He downed the beer in his glass and ordered another.
Chapter Eighteen
Cloud wisps drifted across the blue of the afternoon sky. The sun was bright, but the air was winter cool, making the sleeves of the sweatshirt that Dallas wore a welcome cover for her arms. She waited next to the tractor, the punctured tire from its nose gear propped against her leg, while Empty backed the white pickup into position.
It braked to a stop a few feet from her. Dallas rolled the tire over to the back of the truck while Empty climbed out of the cab and came around to give her a hand loading it. His assistance wasn’t really required, but she didn’t object when he helped to hoist it into the truck bed.
Once it was settled into place, Empty lingered, his glance touching on her before skipping to the ranch lane. A believer in dressing for the season, he wore a hat and gloves and an insulated jacket zipped up to his neck.
“I figure Quint’ll be back before long.” Again his glance bounced back to her, probing with empathy. “If you want, I can take my time getting this tire patched. It might be easier if it’s just you and him.”
“There’s no need.” Dallas had already made up her mind that she would accept whatever decision Quint made, without argument, even if it went against her.
“Quint’s a fair man,” Empty said in an attempt at reassurances. “After all, no man alive can ever truly understand the crazy way a woman reasons. He might make allowances for that.”
Dallas wanted to smile at his slightly sexist statement, but there was too much heaviness within to leave any room for the lightness of amusement.
“Maybe.” She was careful not to hope too much. It would only hurt that much more if—but she couldn’t finish the thought; even the suggestion of it brought a great hollow ache in her chest that closed off her air.
Empty sighed, a long and forlorn sound. “I’ll tell you one thing, I’ll be glad when Quint gets back. All this waiting and wondering is working on my nerves.”
“True,” Dallas agreed, caught somewhere between a blessed numbness and an agonizing tension.
Pushing off, Empty headed back to the front of the truck and opened the door on the driver’s side. He paused with one booted foot on the running board and waved a hand in the direction of the opened barn door.
“You might want to close that. No need to advertise to the Rutledges that we got a delivery of hay,” he told her.
“I will.” But it was his use of the pronoun “we” that made Dallas realize just how much of a home this ranch had become for both of them. It was far from a showplace, but she knew how much she would hate to leave it—and Quint.
With a sharp, quick lift of her head, Dallas turned toward the barn, refusing to anticipate what the eventuality would be, good or bad. While the white pickup rattled out of the ranch yard, heading for town, Dallas crossed to the open barn door and the strong smell of hay that came from within.
Small, round bales stacked two high filled the alleyway. Putting a shoulder to the heavy door, she pushed it, rolling it across the entrance and stopping it within a foot of its jamb, leaving room for the chickens to scamper in and out.
When she stepped away from the barn, the white pickup had already disappeared from sight. Dallas was alone, completely at loose ends. Between putting away the groceries and the arrival of the truck with the hay delivery, she had managed to keep herself occupied. Suddenly she had nothing to do, and too much time on her hands.
Determined to find something that would keep her too busy to think, Dallas headed for the house. The secret was to keep moving, and that was easy with all the inner agitation that pushed her.
But the minute she walked into the house, its silence was almost more than she could stand. Immediately Dallas turned on the radio, leaving it tuned to the country station that always carried the noonday market reports.
With guitar and fiddle music filling the kitchen, she crossed to the sink and put away the lunch dishes drying in the drain rack. After tidying up the counter area, Dallas moved to the living room and straightened it up. It was all busywork—plumping pillows, arranging magazines into neat stacks, and returning the odd glass to the kitchen.
She was on her way to the bathroom to collect the dirty towels from this morning’s showers and set out clean ones when a light flashed against the living room, the kind that
came from sunlight bouncing off a windshield. Dallas halted in place, her heartbeat skittering like a mad thing.
Suddenly she was all jittery nerves. She pulled in a deep, steadying breath, aware that she would soon find out if knowing would turn out to be worse than the not knowing.
The music on the radio failed to completely drown out the metallic slam of a door and the hard striding footsteps crossing the porch. Bracing herself for that first glimpse of Quint’s face and the expression she might see in it, Dallas turned toward the door.
She froze in shock when Boone Rutledge barged into the house, a brutish kind of anger twisting through his features. His raking glance scoured the room and stopped when it reached her.
“I figured you might be here when I didn’t see you with the old man in town.” The glitter of satisfaction in his eyes had an ugliness to it.
“What are you doing here, Boone?” Every instinct said to run, but Dallas held her ground.
