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“Thanks.” Quint was aware of the way her gaze clung to him for an instant, then skittered self-consciously to her grandfather before sliding away altogether.
She bypassed the empty chair next to him and headed straight for the coffeepot. “Are you ready for another cup, Empty?”
“Sure.” He pulled one hand away from his cup and sat back to give her room to fill it. “So, what are your plans?” Empty directed the question to Quint. “Do you want to drive out and look around after you finish breakfast or are you going to call the Triple C first and give them a heads-up on the fire?”
Quint shook his head and used his fork to cut off a bite of egg. “I’ll let them know about the fire after I’ve determined the full scope of the damage.”
“It’ll save you making two phone calls,” Empty said in approval. “There’s not much they can do clear up in Montana anyway. I guess you already figured that out.”
“Where do you want the hay stacked?” Dallas asked, returning to the table with the coffeepot.
“In one of the barn stalls. It doesn’t matter which one,” Quint answered between bites.
The sun’s morning rays streamed through the barn’s wide opening, bringing light to its cavernous alleyway and darkening its shadowy corners. A few yards inside the barn, Dallas stood next to one of the stalls, fingertips tucked in the hip pockets of her jeans.
It was a casual pose that disguised the high tension she felt as she watched another Slash R ranch hand walk past her, holding a square bale in front of him by its twine. A fresh swirl of dust motes danced in his wake.
Her gaze followed him to the open stall where the hay was being stored. There, it switched to John Earl Tandy as he emerged to retrace his steps to the stock trailer parked outside the barn doors.
The two men passed each other without speaking. The only sounds to be heard were the rustle of hay, booted footsteps on the barn’s cement floor, and the occasional grunted breath of exertion.
Dallas knew both men, but neither had addressed a single word to her, and merely acknowledged her presence with a slight nod on their arrival. She suspected they held their silence for the same reason she did—the presence of the man beside her, Boone Rutledge.
In her side vision, she could make out the long shape of him, leaning against the stall gate, one leg cocked, a near smirk on his lips. Dallas knew every time his dark glance drifted over her, making a man’s slow, raking study of her. The touch of it was enough to make her skin crawl.
John Earl poked his head inside the stock trailer, then swung back around and looked directly at Boone.
“That was the last of them,” he announced.
Boone made a languid show of straightening himself away from the stall. “I’ll see you and Rivers back at the ranch then.” His dark glance encompassed both men in its dismissal of them.
“Right.” John Earl pulled the trailer gate closed, double-checked to make sure it was securely latched, then sent a glance at his partner to verify he was on his way.
Using their departure as an excuse to move, Dallas crossed the alleyway and paused outside the stall with the hay as if inspecting it. Boone followed while, outside, there was the twin thud of pickup doors being pulled shut, followed by the revving of its engine.
When the pickup pulled away from the barn, the empty stock trailer rattling behind it, Boone rested a hand on the top of her shoulder. “What do you think Echohawk’s going to say when he finds out the hay came this morning instead of this afternoon?” he wondered, sounding almost smug.
“Probably nothing.” She made an abrupt right-angle turn to shrug off the loose weight of his hand.
Boone simply transferred it to the opposite shoulder. But this time he shifted it forward, fingertips sliding under the neckline of her blouse. Dallas immediately seized his hand and attempted to push it away. But she was no match for his strength.
“Keep your hands off me.” Her voice trembled with the depth of her loathing.
“Take it easy.” His grin was wide and taunting. “I’m just making sure there aren’t any bugs on you,” he said, putting a light stress on the word bug.
Dallas knew at once that Boone was referring to a recording device. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not wearing any,” she said curtly.
“Just to be safe, I’d better check—whether you like it or not.” The smiling glitter in his eyes showed a desire that seemed to welcome any attempt to resist a search.
Dallas had no difficulty imagining the pleasure he would get out of a forcible search. Fighting it would prolong the inevitable.
Steeling herself to endure the touch of his hands, she swung to face him. “Then let’s get it over with.”
“That’s a sensible attitude to take.” Boone stepped closer. “But you are a sensible woman, aren’t you?”
Any thought of responding to his comment fled the instant he cupped his hands over her breasts, fingers feeling around as if searching for the telltale ridge of a wire or small microphone, and taking their own sweet time about it.
“Satisfied?” Dallas challenged, fighting the bitter gall in her throat.
