by Janet Dailey
“Spoken like a true bean counter.” Quint grinned and passed her the ends of the sheet he held. “In this case, before any steps can be taken, other questions have to be answered first. And a hard look needs to be taken at the grazing land that’s left. From that we can make a determination of the number it can support. That number will tell us—”
“How many have to be sold,” Dallas inserted, quick to follow his line of thinking. “Which tells us how many have to be shipped to market, and the number of trucks to haul them.”
“Now you’ve got the idea.” Quint smiled in approval.
But Dallas found little pleasure to be taken from that. For the first time she wished she wasn’t intelligent enough to ask the right questions.
Boone Rutledge stared out the window of the granite-and-glass-skinned building, headquarters for the conglomerate known as Maresco, but his gaze failed to take in the view of Fort Worth that the executive office suite provided. His expression had a look of brooding impatience to it. It was echoed by the agitated and intermittent jangling of the keys in his right hand.
In a surge of restlessness Boone swung away from the window and threw an irritated glance at the connecting door to the meeting room. The impulse was there to walk over and fling it open. He dragged his gaze from it before he could succumb to the urge. Instead he crossed to the sleekly contemporary desk. Reaching across it, he punched the phone’s intercom button.
“Yes, Mr. Rutledge?” Despite its slight drawl, the female voice that answered projected a note of businesslike efficiency.
Boone had no trouble picturing the brunette on the other end. The onetime Miss Texas runner-up was little more than a glorified waitress/receptionist, hired to provide his father’s cronies something to ogle when they stopped by. Some months ago Boone had discovered that her sole ambition was to land herself a wealthy husband; young or old, she didn’t particularly care which. Failing to snare him, she had moved on to richer pastures.
“You did inform my father I needed to see him right away, didn’t you, Miss Bridges?” he demanded curtly.
Her voice turned cool. “I passed your message to Mr. Edwards,” she replied, referring to Max’s chief secretary and personal assistant. “He assured me that Mr. Rutledge would be informed that you were waiting in his office. But I did warn you that Mr. Rutledge doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s in a board meeting.”
“Disturb him anyway. I’ve cooled my heels long enough.” Boone broke off the connection and stalked back to the window, muttering, “Bitch.”
Behind him there was the snick of a latch releasing. Boone swung from the window as Max maneuvered his wheelchair through the doorway.
He fastened a stony look on Boone. “This better be important.”
“Yeah, like I’d drive all the way here just to find out how your day has been,” Boone jeered, then pulled in his anger. “No, Echohawk’s thrown us a curve.”
“You heard from the Garner woman,” Max surmised instantly.
Boone nodded. “An hour or more ago. She said Echohawk isn’t planning to buy more hay. He plans to sell off some of the cattle instead.”
“When? Where?”
“She doesn’t know. According to her, those decisions haven’t been made yet,” Boone replied. “Supposedly he isn’t even sure how he’s going to get rid of them.”
“Good. That gives us time,” Max murmured, his attention turning inward.
Boone had already considered that. “I can’t see how it would give us much more than three days. Four at the outside. And he could be ready to ship that soon. It depends on who he hires to haul them and whether they have trucks available right away. It’s unlikely he’ll run them through any of the local sale rings.” He paused and grinned. “She claims he’s leery of using them for fear we’ll catch wind of his plans. Imagine that.”
“I told you having a set of eyes and ears on that ranch would come in handy.” Max idly tossed out the reminder that the suggestion had come from him.
“But Dallas can find out more than any of our men ever could.” Boone was quick to claim credit for choosing her. “There’s nothing like a redhead to get a man to say more than he should.”
“I’m sure you know that from your own experience.” Max’s sidelong glance was riddled with disgust.
Boone bristled in ready denial. “Damn it, I never—”
Max cut across his words. “You wouldn’t admit it if you had, and we both know it. It’s irrelevant anyway. I don’t particularly care how the girl pumps the information from Echohawk, whether it’s in bed or out of it, just so long as she isn’t fool enough to start caring about him and double-cross us.”
“She knows what would happen if she did. Besides, I’ve already warned her about thinking she’d ever be any more to Echohawk than a piece of ass.”
“Let’s hope she remembers that,” Max replied absently.
“She will,” Boone asserted, then paused a beat. “So what do you want me to do? It would be a waste of time to call any local haulers or sale barns to put them on notice to get a hold of us if they hear from Echohawk. He’ll probably get someone from out of state like he did with the hay.”
“Don’t do anything. Just leave it to me.” There was a smug curve to Max’s smile. “I think I can guarantee Echohawk won’t be shipping cattle any time soon.”
“What have you got up your sleeve?” Boone knew his father had a plan, and it grated him that he wasn’t being informed of it.
“Publicity. With the Cee Bar at the center of it—just like you were so ready to do the other night. With a different story line, though.” On that enigmatic note, Max sent the wheelchair gliding to the meeting room’s connecting door.
Boone waited, certain that any second Max would swing his chair around and announce his intentions—like a word coming from on high. Instead Max hit the remote and the door opened, allowing his wheelchair to pass through without pause.
For a stunned instant Boone was too furious at being kept in the dark to do more than glare at the closed door. Then he spun on his heel and strode from the office, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Fourteen
Thunder rumbled in the distance, an accompaniment to the soft patter of rain on the roof. Quint sat at the old desk in the kitchen, his feet propped on a corner of it, the telephone to his ear, and his body angled toward the window that looked onto the front porch. In the living room, a sitcom’s laugh track competed with the loud, sawing breaths of a snoozing Empty.
Quint paid little attention to any of it, not even the sound of his mother’s voice in his ear, catching him up on all the current happenings at the Triple C. He was too distracted by the vague shape of Dallas, standing outside by the porch rail.
Occasional lightning flashes would show her silhouette, sometimes with both hands braced against the railing, or one resting on an upright post. A heavy sweatshirt gave the illusion of bulk to her slim figure, yet it seemed to emphasize the downward slope of her shoulders, a posture that gave the impression she was in a pensive, almost melancholy mood. It was a sight that aroused all of his protective male instincts, filling him with a need to make the world right for her.
“Quint, are you listening to me?” The rather strong hint of reproach in his mother’s voice commanded his attention.
“Sorry, Mom. I’m afraid my mind wandered,” Quint admitted. “It’s been a long day, and I’ve had a bunch of them in a row.”
And it had been rare that he’d spent more than a few minutes alone with Dallas. It seemed that whenever he wasn’t occupied with something, she was.
“Tell me again, what did you say?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cat replied. “It wasn’t important anyway. You probably have a dozen things you need to do tonight, so I won’t keep you from them. Try to get some rest, though. You need your sleep, too.”
“I will.” Quint swung his feet off the desk and sat forward, the chair squeaking at the shifting of his weight.
“Love you back, Mom.” With those parting words, Quint slipped the receiver back on its cradle and rose to his feet.
In the living room a car salesman bragged about the savings available at his lot, but his voice marked the only change of sound coming from the room. After an idle glance in its direction, Quint crossed to the back door, lifted his windbreaker off the wall hook, and slipped it on as he opened the door and stepped onto the porch.
Light from the kitchen penetrated the shadows, brushing over the smoothness of her cheek when Dallas glanced over her shoulder. Her hair was pulled back from her face, the dim light glinting on the gold clasp at her nape. His glimpse of her face was a brief one as she turned to gaze again into the night and the soft falling rain.
Quint eased the screen door closed and crossed to the railing to stand next to her. He pushed his hands into the side pockets of his windbreaker and surveyed the view that seemed to absorb her interest.
A faraway flash of lightning briefly lit the undersides of the low clouds and reflected off the surface of the gathering puddles of water scattered around the ranch yard. Then all was still again, marked by the whisper of the falling rain and the trickling of water in the downsprouts.
“Nice night,” Quint remarked, finding the moisture-laden air not as cool as he had expected it to be. But the only response from Dallas was a nod of agreement. “A steady, soaking rain like this makes me wish that we already had seeded that burned ground.”
“I like gentle rains like this,” Dallas remarked in a musing voice. “There’s something soothing about them.”
“Are you in particular need of soothing tonight?” Quint made a sideways study of her profile—the smooth sweep of her forehead, the straight line of her nose, and the strong jut of her chin.
“Doesn’t everybody need to unwind at the end of a busy day?” Dallas challenged lightly in return, but Quint detected something self-conscious in the glance she darted at him.
“I suppose.” The desire was there to curve an arm around her, establish contact, yet there was something in her manner that made Quint hesitate.
“Was that your mom on the phone just now?” The question had all the earmarks of an idle one, but there was an interested lilt to her voice that seemed to genuinely seek verification of the assumption.
“It was,” he confirmed, wondering why it mattered to Dallas.
“I thought so.”
“I noticed you out here on the porch. You looked a little blue.”
“Really?” She turned at right angles to the railing and leaned her back against a wooden post, a smile curving her lips. “Is that why you came out? To cheer me up?”
The movement created more space between them, which was the last thing Quint wanted. Unhurried, he swung toward her, simultaneously shortening the distance between them and reaching up to brace a hand against the post a few inches above her head.
“Does that mean you think I can?” he asked with a slight grin.
“I suppose it would depend on how you went about it.” Again there was a trace of uncertainty, a kind of drawing back that seemed to push him away, but her gaze slid almost unwillingly to his mouth and that pushed him closer.
“I was always taught that a kiss makes everything better.” He followed his words with a downward dip of his head and claimed her lips.
The night air had chilled their surface, making his first taste of them cool. He warmed every inch of them with a nuzzling heat that soon coaxed the responsive pressure he sought. The quickening ardor of her lips burned through the restraint he had placed on himself. And the kiss became something that was no longer warm and persuasive, but one that was hot with need, demanding contact with her body.
But the minute his hand gripped her waist to draw her against him, Dallas ripped herself away from his lips and turned into the railing, all in one twisting motion.
“Is that how you usually go about cheering someone up?” The disturbed breathiness in her voice took much of its stiff demand away from it, and offered its own kind of reassurance to Quint.
“I saved it for you.” Standing behind her, he wound his arms around her, drawing her back against him and bending his head to nuzzle the side of her neck. “I admit I got a bit carried away,” he murmured against her skin. “It’s been a little too long since I held you in my arms, and the desire just builds up.”
“I could tell.”
“Obvious, wasn’t it?” He smiled, but he could feel the tension in her body that kept her from relaxing against him.
“Quint,” she began, a wealth of hesitation and reluctance in her voice. “I think we should slow it down.”
Quint sensed again this figurative pulling away from him, and it was totally at odds with the passion that had been in her kiss a moment ago. Puzzled by her conflicting signals, Quint turned her around, needing to see her face.
“Are you saying I’ve been rushing things?” he asked.
Her glance bounced off his face and centered on his shirt collar. “We both have,” she replied somewhat stiffly.
“And that’s bad,” he guessed; yet he was oddly reassured by her comment.
“Not necessarily. I just think it would be too easy to let ourselves get carried by the heat of the moment and find ourselves in a situation that we might have cause to regret.”
Quint smiled at her tactful choice of phrases. “I might as well be honest, Dallas. An affair isn’t what I want at all.”
“Good. I don’t think it would be wise either,” she agreed quickly.
“You misunderstand.” He tucked a finger under her chin, lifting it to force her to look at him. “I’m hoping for something more permanent.”
Something else was mixed in with the shock and disbelief in her, but the dim light made it impossible for Quint to identify it.
“We hardly know each other,” Dallas said in confused protest.
He smoothed the hair back from her face. “I wouldn’t be surprised that, even after a lifetime together, there would still be things we don’t know about each other.”
There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in his mind that it was a lifetime he wanted to spend with her. The certainty of it filled him. But it was the expressions chasing across her face—surprise, joy, doubt, and something akin to panic—that made Quint laugh softly. “There goes that mind of yours again, processing all the data and searching out potential problem areas.”
“How can you ignore them?” Dallas countered, her gaze clinging to him in uncertainty. “You don’t know me at all.”
Unconcerned, Quint smiled. “You’d be surprised at what I know about you.”
She stiffened instantly, her hands flattening across his chest, ready to push. “I suppose you hired a private investigator to check me out.”
“Not hardly.” His smile widened. “He could only supply me with a lot of useless facts and little about you as a person.”
“Which, of course, you know.” There was something defensive about the hint of scorn in her voice, but her hands had eased their pressure against his chest.
But it was the lingering doubt in her eyes that made Quint patient. “Do you need to be told how warm and caring you are? Not to mention intelligent and proud, not afraid of hard work. Or the deep sense of family loyalty you have.” Again Dallas avoided his eyes, and again he tipped up her chin to force the contact. “And it goes without saying that you’re beautiful and have the most kissable lips.”
To prove it, he covered them with a warm and fiercely tender kiss. Victory came when she leaned into it, a wanting and needing in her response that echoed his own feelings.
Quint knew then he could take her beyond where she wanted to go. Yet there was a risk of later regret, and it wasn’t one he wanted to run. He eased the pressure and shifted his interest to the curve of her cheek and along the side of her temple.
She sagged against him, her head dipping to rest again on his chest, a hand balling int
o a fist near her chin. “You don’t know me, Quint,” she murmured. “You only think you do. I’m not—”
“Perfect, I suppose,” he guessed. “I’ve never met anyone who was.” His arms circled her in a loose, undemanding embrace. “At first I had a hard time dealing with your pessimism until I realized that your thinking wasn’t really negative. It’s just your nature to analyze every aspect of a situation and identify its weaknesses. It’s your method of problem solving. Your biggest fault isn’t that you think too much. Most of the time, you do what your head tells you, not your heart.”
“That isn’t wrong,” Dallas insisted.
He idly rubbed his chin over the silken strands of her hair. “Not always,” Quint agreed. “But a good many years ago my dad gave me some advice. He said if you ever find yourself in a situation where everything seems fine, yet your gut tells you differently, listen to your instincts and forget what your head is saying. That’s what you need to do, Dallas, trust your feelings.”
He felt the negative, denying movement of her head. In a rare loss of patience, Quint dug his fingers into her shoulders and held her away from him. The roughness of his action showed in her look of shocked surprise.
“Right now, Dallas. Be honest with me and with yourself.” The rawness of need was in his demand. “Tell me what your heart is saying. Not your head, but your heart.”
Wordless, she looked at him, a thousand uncertainties in her gaze. The gnawing ache in his chest grew with the lengthening silence
“Good God, Dallas.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Nobody knows what will happen tomorrow. My father’s death taught me that. Right now—tonight—may be all we ever have. Are you going to deny us that and wait instead until you can get your head to line up with your heart?”
She closed her eyes, making a tight line of her lashes. He dug his fingers into her flesh, but the truth was inescapable: an answer unwillingly given was no answer at all.
Exerting iron control, Quint uncurled his fingers, spreading them wide, and took a step back from her. But there was a certain hardness in his voice when he said, “Let me know when you’ve made up your mind.”
