I phoned Sophie and asked her to come help. Hope would need coddling, and I'd be too busy putting out fires to tend her. I circled the outside of the house checking to see if anything had been damaged.

An ugly black stain darkened the white siding beneath the kitchen window, as if someone tried to torch the place but couldn't get it to ignite, so they moved on to destroy the next thing. Or had they moved inside?

Why hadn't I heard anything? What had happened to my finely honed powers of observation?

Right. I'd dulled them in the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

Frustration built. I couldn't help my sister. I couldn't stop the buildings from burning down. I couldn't do anything but stand there helplessly as my life careened out of control.

Do something.

Like what? Get my ap.r.o.n wet in the well and help beat the flames back like the pioneer women had done?

An ambulance ripped up the driveway, ending my mental breakdown. Two pumper trucks; two sheriff's cars, sirens wailing; six pickups and a.s.sorted SUVs followed. Not gawkers, volunteer firemen. Vehicles were abandoned, shouts exchanged as the fireproof suits went on.

I flagged down the ambulance crew. "She's over here."

The male EMT was Geneva's brother, Rome. "Is it Sophie?"

"No. It's Hope. I don't know when, or how, but someone hit her in the neck and I know I shouldn't have moved her in case it's a head injury, but I couldn't tell if the house was on fire, too, and I couldn't just leave her-"

"You did fine, Mercy. We'll take it from here."

I put my lips to his ear. "She's pregnant."

"Good to know." When I didn't budge, Rome peered in my eyes. "Take a deep breath. Do I need to treat you for shock?"

Was it that obvious? "No."

"Good. See if the firefighters need anything. I'll find you as soon as I'm done with Hope. See? She's already stirring."

I squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

As I skirted the concrete birdbath, I heard boards collapsing and a whoosh of air. I saw a shower of red and orange sparks soaring into the dark sky. Guess I wouldn't have to worry about painting the chicken coop.

A few firefighters were in the pasture attempting to keep the gra.s.s fire from spreading. One guy stood sentinel by the propane tank. Others were hosing down the flames licking up the side of the barn.

d.a.m.n. There was a gas tank on the far side of the other smaller barn. Jake and the ranch hands used it to fill ATVs, chainsaws, and yard equipment. Jake had been dealing with the horses; he probably hadn't talked to the firemen.

I glanced at the wooden structure. Yellow flames shot into the air, then sparks fell to the ground like gigantic lemon drops. One tiny flare and the blast radius might be enough to ignite the dry gra.s.s on this side of the barn. Then the haystacks, the cars, the farm and fire equipment, and the house were in danger of catching fire.

Run.

Instead of running away, I sprinted across the yard, yelling for the chief. Pebbles tore my feet. A chunk of logging chain embedded in the dirt by the old hand water pump tripped me, and I took the brunt of the fall on my knees, rather than twist my ankle again.

I looked up.

Fire danced across the shake shingles. An ember broke free and landed directly on top of the rusted metal gas container. Followed by two more. And two more after that.

Too late.

My heart stopped. I didn't stick around to watch it explode. I scrambled to my feet and ran like h.e.l.l, screaming my fool head off.

The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. I heard whump whump whump BOOM. Bright light flashed behind me; a blast of heat followed. Something solid hit me, slamming my body into the earth.

I couldn't see, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move.

Shouts, footsteps, the whine of mechanical equipment drifted around me. Couldn't anyone see I was dying?

An eternity pa.s.sed before I realized the unnamed ent.i.ty shielding me was warm and panting like a dog. The object shifted. Rough hands frantically pushed at my tangled hair. Warm, moist lips grazed my ear.

"Come on, Mercy. Talk to me. Yell at me. Do something."

I opened my eyes and stared into Dawson's soot-covered face, inches from mine.

"You okay?"

I sort of nodded.

"Ah h.e.l.l, I knocked the wind out of you, didn't I?"

I nodded again.

"I shouldn't have hit you that hard. But I heard you yelling and saw how close you were to the tank and I just-"

"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 d.a.m.n 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 d.a.m.ned 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.s. 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 d.a.m.n 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?"

"h.e.l.l no."

"Is this an official interview, Sheriff?"

"Smart-a.s.s," 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?"