“Overreacted,” I choked out.
He didn’t crack a smile. “Better safe than sorry.”
“I guess.” I wiggled. His jeans scratched the front of my bare legs, gravel dug into the back of my thighs. “You’re crushing me.”
“Sorry.” Dawson scrambled off and held a hand out to help me up.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” He frowned and tipped my chin up, his eyes searched my face. “Have the EMTs check you out.”
“Why?” I didn’t give a damn how bad I looked.
“To make sure you didn’t scorch your lungs. Or I didn’t break your ribs.”
“Oh.”
The tip of his shaking finger gently traced my cheek. “There’s a bloody scratch here, too. If it gets infected, it’ll scar.” He plucked debris from my unbound hair, letting it fall between us like confetti. His other wrist rested on my collarbone and his palm circled my neck as his thumb caressed my jawline.
“Mercy?” Rome’s voice broke the moment. “Can I see you for a second?”
“Umm. Ah. Sure. I’ll be right there.”
Dawson gave me an unreadable look before he stepped back and rejoined the firefighters.
Something had just happened. But I’ll be damned if I knew what.
SIXTEEN
Hope had sustained a concussion. The blow hadn’t broken the skin, which puzzled me. When I questioned Rome, he told me the sticky stuff I’d felt on the back of her neck was some kind of hair product.
Sophie volunteered to spend the night while I handled the details in the aftermath of the fire. At Rome’s request, Doc Canaday swung by. After examining Hope, he’d assured me she and the baby were fine and prescribed a few days’ bed rest.
I returned outside to watch the commotion wind down. The remaining firefighters loaded up the hoses on the last pumper truck. A couple of hours had passed since the gas tank had blown, yet the acrid, sour smell of smoke still hung in the air.
We’d lost the chicken coop. Both barns were charred on the outside but otherwise unscathed. No stray embers ignited the haystacks, just the pasture directly behind the barn. Luckily, wind hadn’t been a factor, but the firefighters cut a square fire line a hundred yards back just to be safe.
From a purely investigative angle, nothing made sense. The two most important structures were left standing. It bugged me that so many people were on the scene so quickly. Why? We weren’t exactly on the main drag. And yet the sheriff, the fire department, and most of our neighbors all showed up in record time. Almost as if they’d been waiting for something like this to happen.
Or planning it.
I shivered.
Sheriff Dawson stuck by the firemen as they made one last sweep of the smoldering pile for additional flare-ups. In the stillness, the low baritone murmurs were comforting somehow.
Thin tendrils of smoke rose from the rubble. I wandered to the porch. At three in the morning the thermometer read 77 degrees. I couldn’t make myself go inside to clean up, despite the fact I stank like smoke and sweat and fear. First time all night I realized I’d been putting out fires in what I’d worn to bed. Good thing I slept in ratty old shorts and a tank top and not naked.
I grabbed the hose and cranked the spigot. Holding my lips to the stream of water, I greedily welcomed the cool wetness in my throat, wishing it’d quench the burning in my lungs.
Washing my arms and legs proved difficult with one hand. I held the hose above my head and doused myself, closing my eyes as the icy cold water flowed over my body. Mainly I wanted the smell gone. It brought back memories of war. Of death. Of the first time I’d run for my life through smoke-clogged streets while everything and everyone around me burned.
I’d felt as sick and helpless and confused then as I did now. Filling my cupped hand with water, I inhaled the liquid through my nostrils. I coughed until my lungs were clear.
Once I could breathe again, I noticed Jake standing at the end of the sidewalk. “Is everything okay?”
“For now, the horses are in the west pasture. Unci kicked me out, so I’ll head home, unless you want me to stay.”
“I’ll keep an eye on things. Doubt I’ll be able to sleep anyway.”
“Then I’ll see you in the morning.” He vanished.
A sliver of moonlight gave the quart of Wild Turkey on the wicker table a halolike glow. I palmed the bottle and sat on the porch steps, fighting the urge to take a big swig.
After the last pumper truck pulled away, Sheriff Dawson crossed the yard in that loose-hipped, confident stride exclusive to cowboys, bull riders, and law enforcement officers. Since the poor man could lay claim to all three, he came by that swagger honestly.
I couldn’t help but watch him.
Dawson was an imposing man out of uniform. I still didn’t trust him, but my body didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. My mind kept flashing to what an impressive sight Mad Dog must’ve been in a pair of leather-fringed batwing chaps. After a long hard ride with a 1,500-pound bull between his legs.
When a spark flared inside me, I realized I hadn’t hosed myself down nearly enough to deal with him.
Dawson plopped next to me. Without comment, he plucked the bottle from my hands, placed it against his chapped lips, and drank steadily.
“That’s what I needed.” He gulped another mouthful and handed it back.
I let the bottle dangle in my right hand between my dirty knees.
He frowned. “How did you get all wet?”
It should’ve bothered me, the way he stared at the clothes clinging to my body, especially since he didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t looking closely. Very closely.
“An accident with the hose.”
He grunted.
“What’d Klapperich say?”
“Arson.”
“No. Really? How long did it take him to come up with that brilliant theory?”
Dawson’s muscled forearm abraded the inside of my thigh as he snatched the bottle. “Is that a character flaw, thinking everyone around here is incompetent?”
“If the cowboy boot fits-hey! Quit drinking all my whiskey, Dawson. Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?”
“Do I look like I’m on duty?”
I gave him a once-over. Scuffed boots. New blue Wranglers. Championship belt buckle. Gray T-shirt smeared with black soot. Hooded eyes. “No, you look like you were on a date.”
“I wasn’t on a damn date.”
“You got here pretty fast after the call went out.”
His gaze returned to my face. “What were you doing when you noticed the chicken coop was on fire?”
“You asking me if I torched my own buildings?”
“Hell no.”
“Is this an official interview, Sheriff?”
“Smart-ass,” he muttered. “Would it kill you to cooperate with me just once?”
“Fine. I was sleeping. Hope didn’t want to go home, so she crashed in my bedroom while I was tossing and turning on the floor in the guest bedroom.”
“Hope was staying with you?”
“Just for tonight.”
“Does it happen often?”
“No. It was kind of a last-minute thing.”
“Who knew she was here?”
“No one. Why?”
His eyes narrowed. “She was attacked in your bedroom. I don’t need to spell out what it means, especially to a smart cookie like you.”
Instead of stinging him with a rude comment, I closed my eyes. I heard the steady swell of crickets. No other animal noises caught my attention. Damn. Something was wrong besides the absence of wind. I couldn’t place my finger on it. It was like someone was watching me.
Tingles raced up my spine.
Dawson’s big hand closed over mine. His ragged thumb swept a continual arc over my knuckles, and his breath tickled my ear. “Talk to me.”
I shook off the lure of his touch. “Ssh. I’m listening. Do you hear that?”