Standing at a kitchen window, Dallas had a clear view of the barred landscape to the south. Where the hay bales had been, there was a long, black heap of ash and cinder with only an occasional golden scrap of unburned hay glinting in the morning sunlight. With no more wisps of smoke coming from the hay pile, one of the firemen was busy stowing the hose in the truck. A second man had already shed his protective gear and stood talking to Quint. But it was the tired slouch of Quint's shoulders that claimed her attention. There were smudges of soot and ash on his jeans and denim jacket. Dallas suspected that a closer inspection of his clothes would reveal a collection of burn marks where sparks had landed. After an exchange of parting words, Quint backed a step, then turned and headed toward the house in a slow, leg-weary walk. When she heard the clump of a booted out on the porch Dallas moved away from the window Page 80 and crossed to the kitchen cupboards. The back door opened and Quint walked in, bringing with him the smell of smoke and wet ash.
