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“There’s nothing to it,” Dallas assured him. “Just make sure you don’t jam the popcorn too closely together and accidentally push it off the end of the string.”
“I know folks mostly use store-bought garlands these days, but I thought everybody had strung popcorn when they were kids,” Empty declared.
“Not me. Although I remember one year cutting strips of colored construction paper and gluing them into a chain for the tree.” Quint reeled off a length of thread. “How much do I need?”
With the lights arranged to her satisfaction, Dallas hopped off the step stool and crossed to the sofa to show him. As she bent to unroll more thread, her ponytail swung forward, brushing past his face. She automatically flipped it to the other side, but not before Quint caught a whiff of the strawberry-scented shampoo she used.
This was the first time Dallas had gotten this close to him since the day she arrived at the Cee Bar. And her nearness stimulated his senses, doubling his awareness of her and making it difficult for him to respond naturally.
“That should do it,” she said after she had unrolled another foot of thread. Taking the scissors, she snipped it off the spool. “You shouldn’t have any trouble threading it, big as the eye is on that needle.”
When she remained close to observe the process, Quint had to check the urge to catch hold of her hand and draw her down to the sofa cushion beside him. Instead he concentrated on slipping the thread through the needle’s eye, and succeeded on the first attempt.
“Very good.” Her expression was a mixture of approval and surprise.
“I’m no stranger to a needle and thread,” Quint informed her with a mild and jesting smugness. “My mother told me a long time ago that I had two choices—either find a reliable laundry that would faithfully restitch hems, sew on buttons, and mend torn pockets, or learn how to do it myself. I quickly discovered it was a handy skill for a bachelor to have, almost as necessary as cooking.”
Her smile was quick and warm, and equally teasing. “A man who listens. That’s even more amazing.”
“I thought you’d be impressed.” As he tossed her a teasing smile, Quint unwittingly let his glance slide down to her lips.
It lingered on their soft, full shape a few seconds too long. Immediately he sensed the cooling in her attitude toward him, and that easy camaraderie that had so briefly existed was gone.
Just like that, Dallas turned away. “I think I’ll start hanging ornaments while you two work on the popcorn.” Lending action to her statement, she picked up the nearest box and carried it to the tree.
Much of Quint’s enjoyment of the moment left with her. But Empty was oblivious of all of it as his age-gnarled fingers continued to lengthen the amount of popcorn on his string.
“I seem to recollect that our kids made paper chains when they were small,” Empty recalled. “Course back then, we made our own paste out of flour and water and glued them together with that. Paper chains and popcorn. Call me old-fashioned if you want, but that’s the way a tree ought to be decorated. Nowadays they go to swooping wide ribbons all over the tree, and it ends up looking like a maypole.”
“Now you sound like my dad,” Quint said with a slight smile, recalling his father’s aversion to the Victorian style of Christmas decorations.
“He doesn’t like it either, huh?” Empty surmised.
“No.” But Quint didn’t correct his use of the present tense.
“Does your father work at the Triple C, too?” Dallas hooked an ornament on one of the higher branches.
“No, he was the local sheriff.”
She swung around to face him, her eyes wide with question. “Was?”
Quint responded with a slow nod, then felt the need to speak bluntly. “He was killed this past summer when he stopped to get gas and walked into a robbery in progress.”
“I’m sorry.” Those two, softly murmured words carried a depth of feeling that seemed to reach across the room to offer comfort.
“You couldn’t know,” he said gently.
“Just the same…” Dallas let her voice trail off.
“It’s a hard thing,” Empty declared with a sad shake of his head. “Goes with the badge, I guess.”
“It does,” Quint agreed. “The irony is he planned to retire next year when his term was up, and start ranching full-time. We had a small spread, smaller than the Cee Bar,” he explained. “But my dad never wanted anything bigger. He wanted to keep it a one-man operation, something he could handle by himself. There wasn’t a tractor on the place. Everything was done with draft horses, from mowing hay to hauling it out to the cattle.”
“You had to sell the place after he died, did you?” Empty guessed.
“No, my mom still has it, but she’s got the Triple C running it for her.”
The old man frowned. “How come she never turned it over to you?”
