Give Me A Texan

Chapter 1

Spring 1889, Texas Panhandle

Quinten Corbett plucked his watch from his apron pocket and studied the hour. Damnation, maybe time didn’t matter to some folks, but to Quin the world revolved around deadlines…professional and personal.

“Monk,” he barked across the cramped office filled with printing equipment and tables to his old ink-jockey friend. “Where in the blue blazes is the new apprentice? Did they ship him from Boston to Amarillo by wagon train?”

Receiving no response, Quin snapped his watch cover closed. Leaning forward, he returned an extra uppercase typeface to its slot in the tray. He shoved the top drawer into place, and proofread the headlines: Panhandle Herald, Killing at Amarillo Belle.

Pleased with the copy, he stood. Stretching to his full six-foot-plus height, he removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes.

The monotonous tap-tap-tap of news droned across the wires as James “Monk” Humphrey feverishly translated a Morse coded message. Oblivious to Quin’s existence, the ink-spiller stayed focused on his work. The stoop-shouldered old-timer’s arthritic fingers scrawled out the final words. Waving a page of script, he eased from the stool and hobbled toward the editor.

Quin glanced over the paper that Monk stuffed in his hand, and shook his head in defeat. “This the best news you can get?”

“I only translate the messages, son, I don’t compose ’um.”

Snatching up his spectacles, Quin paced the small office, reading aloud: “The juicy watermelon, the odoriferous muskmelon, and warty, git-up-and-dust cucumbers are expected to be in abundance this summer. Men and things change, but every returning season finds the cucumber possessing unalterably the same old characteristics.” He flung the paper on the worktable and scooted the wastebasket out of the way with the toe of his Justin cowboy boot. “This is the nonsense I’m expected to use to come up with enough news for two papers a week?”

“I don’t make up the stuff, I jest transcribe it.” Monk returned to his perch, hunkered down, and prepared to receive the next transmission. “Besides, if it’s what the owners back East want, I’m guessing it’s what’ll be done.”

“And they think we can’t do it alone, so they send us some wet-behind-the-ears apprentice fresh out of Boston College.” Quin consulted his pocket watch again. “And where in the hell is that Renaulde character? I heard the train pull out an hour and forty-two minutes ago. Surely, he had enough sense to get off.”

Quin crammed a visor on dark, unruly hair. He jerked open the top drawer of typeface. “Odoriferous! Huh, I’ve never thought of a muskmelon as odoriferous, but then we don’t write the news. Huh, Monk?”

Exasperation rumbled in Quin’s chest, but he methodically filled the line bar with one typeface after another.

Memories of how the Boston publishing vultures gobbled up the newspaper when Monk was forced to sell it to pay taxes on the ranch churned through his mind. Frustration wedged in his craw. As the editor, he must work long hours. He would restock his once bountiful spread that sat abandoned north of town.

His gut coiled as thoughts turned to Monk, the only family Quin had ever known. He could hardly handle what the new owners had done to his friend when, after years of running the newspaper, they demoted him to a lowly clerk. All because the old guy refused to print an editorial straight from the president’s desk.

But more than anything, Quin fought the demons raging within him. Why couldn’t he come to grips with the fact that due to his own reckless behavior he was no longer a freehearted, spurring rancher?

“Hope the snot-nosed tenderfoot knows the difference between odoriferous muskmelons and warty cucumbers.” He wiped his brow, tucking his musing back into the recesses of his mind. “Monk, there are a few things I plan to get straight with this shave-tail before he gets the notion he’s runnin’ the place.”

Receiving only a response from the clinking telegraph, Quinten vented on. “This cub’s not a reporter, but an apprentice. And there’s one thing for sure, he better not come with that whiny Bostonian attitude that his family seems to have. You know the one I’m talkin’ about, Monk? The old coot who makes sure I pronounce Peabody Pee-bid-ee. Completely ignoring the o. Hell, it might be Pee-bid-ee in Boston, but it’s dang sure Pea-bawdy in Texas.” He strung out each syllable to emphasize his point. “The new guy needs to learn that right off the bat or our townsfolk won’t cotton to him in the least.” He sighed in resignation. “You ol’ hard-of-hearing geezer, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Morse code clattered in response.

“It’s probably best that he’s late,” Quin grumbled. “As it is, I’ll have to work all night getting this rag ready for Amarillo by morning. Don’t need to have him underfoot right now, anyway.”

The telegraph chatter ceased.

“Mark my word, we’ll get two editions out a week, just like those Yankee squatters want. We’ll make this work, and get the money to buy a herd of longhorns. I’ll set the rules and he’ll abide by them or he can traipse his high-falutin’ butt back to Boston.”

“Hey, boss. Uh, I think you’d, uh, better, uh-”

“Spit it out, Monk.” Quin jerked off his visor, wiped his brow, and reset the hat. “You don’t agree?”

“Uh, Quinten, I think you’d better hold up a bit.”

“I’ve already said we’re on a tight deadline-”

“I, uh, think your new, uh, apprentice is here.”

“Renaulde, you’ll just have to wait, I don’t have time to waste…” Quin pulled to his full height, and turned toward the door, prepared to size up the Yankee wonder.

Quin sized up the new guy okay…all one hundred and twelve pounds of ivory skin, onyx tresses piled high on her head, and a scowl that could halt a gunslinger in mid-draw.

When the woman finally broke the silence, she had a voice like a butterfly’s kiss, astoundingly light and soft, yet as clear as a mountain stream. “Please go on, Mr. Corbett. I’m eager to hear your rules before I assure you that I do not plan to take neither my snotty nose nor my high-falutin’ butt back to Boston. So, please set me straight.”

Words escaped him, something that rarely happened. Shaking off the element of surprise, Quin recovered sufficiently to take note that the traveling suit she wore no doubt came straight from the fashion plates of Godey’s Lady’s Book. He’d know the look anywhere after being forced to review the magazine during his apprenticeship.

Dang, the black linen bolero hugged her every curve, emphasizing an exquisite figure. An ivory chemisette edged with tatted lace tucked into the low-necked bodice disguised a nice set of…attributes.

“I believe you are expecting me, Kaira Clarice Renaulde, and I’ll be glad to relay to my Aunt Pee-bid-ee that our ancestors have pronounced their name wrong for centuries.”

“I, uh.” As though seeking help finding an explanation, Quin turned to Monk, who had sidled up beside Miss Renaulde. “Uh, I’d like to introduce you to my assistant, James Humphrey.”

“Much obliged to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” The old gentleman tipped his visor, seemingly not unaware of her attributes. “Call me Monk.”

“Thank you, Mr. Monk. You’re clearly a gentleman.” She smiled sweetly, while casting a suspicious gaze at Quin as though to say, “And, I’ll reserve judgment on you, buster!”

“Uh, Miss. Uh, ma’am.” Blasted! Why was Quin stammering like a young buck signing his first dance card? He’d seen many a beautiful woman. Even courted his share, but never had he known one who just about had sugar and spice oozing from her mouth, while searing him with lavender eyes.

“Mr. Humphrey, don’t you have chores to tend to?” Quin snapped.

“Nope. None that I can think of.” Monk tore his attention away from the black-headed apprentice long enough to catch Quin’s glare. “Yep, for sure, got a bucket of typeface waitin’ on me in the back room.” He detached himself from the lady and meandered toward the storeroom, mumbling, “All this walkin’ sure can make a man poorly.” Over his shoulder, he stole another glimpse of their new associate before closing the door behind him.

“Miss Renaulde. I’m…” Quin stumbled over the words.

“Sorry, maybe? Wish to apologize?” She pulled one then another glove off. “Take your choice.” Slipping out a pin from the headpiece that sported a gigantic feather from some unfortunate bird, she removed her hat and placed it on the counter. Dusting a nearby stool with her hanky, she settled in, making herself comfortable and peering up at Quin.

“Apology?” He groaned, trying hard not to roll his eyes. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. Miss-”

“Kaira Clarice, but K.C. will do fine.” In one wide sweep she seemed to survey every crook and cranny of the tiny room.

“I think Miss Renaulde will be more appropriate.” His voice was harsher than he had intended. Regrouping, he scuffed the toe of his boot along the planked floor.

“Damnation, lady…” He flinched as his curse word caused her to knit her delicate eyebrows together in a shocked expression. “I mean, dern it, ma’am-if we’re going to work together, we need to start over again.” He studied her, waiting for a response.

Slowly, a lethal calmness overtook her features, and she leveled violet eyes at him. The corners of her mouth relaxed in a teasing smile. “Damn glad to meet you, uh, Quinten.”

Chapter 2

Sunset cast a shower of golden dust across Quinten’s bronzed face, as he stood only inches away from Kaira. So close that she could almost feel his breath against her cheeks.

Deep brown eyes, like chocolate left out on a hot, smoldering day, glared at her. Dark lashes beckoned to explore what lay behind them. A scowl tried unsuccessfully to cloak a tad of a smile.

Quinten rolled his broad shoulders, as though tired of carrying the woes of the world on them. Taking a deep breath, his chest expanded, pressing the buttons on the starched white shirt against the black apron.

Kaira tried to pry her gaze away, but his stance emphasized the force of his tough, lean build. Her pulse quickened, and she fought fireflies that suddenly swarmed in her stomach. She tried to swallow.

Never had she met a man who caught her so off guard and created thoughts that no well-bred Bostonian lady of the Pee-bid-ee sort would acknowledge. A man with the heart-throbbing ruggedness of a bronc-buster. A cross between the legendary gentleman-gunslinger, Bat Masterson, and a paramour that Emma Bovary would have taken as a lover, if she existed in the flesh, not in fiction.

And to think mere hours before, her only focus was on teaching her grandfather a lesson for forcing her to come to Texas. Just because she came from a third-generation publishing family didn’t mean that printer’s ink ran in her veins.

Now that she’d seen the hot, dry, unwelcome land of the dreamers and schemers for herself, she found it less alluring than on paper. Kaira wanted nothing of it. She needed to return to Boston and embark upon her dreams…none of which involved the newspaper business.

Kaira peered back at Quinten.

Although she had set out believing she wouldn’t enjoy her assignment, it might be more intriguing than she first thought. She did love a worthy opponent. And Mr. Corbett certainly appeared more than worthy.

What are you thinking, Miss Kaira Clarice Renaulde?

Weariness, exacerbated by the long hours on the train, had to be the blame for her turncoat thoughts. Whiling away the day reading dime novels and daydreaming about the shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later cowboys of Texas probably hadn’t helped either.

Her mind felt as fuzzy as a sun-dried dandelion. She tried to pull herself together but faltered. Why did thoughts not fit for a properly reared lady make her feel so warm inside?

Only one problem…He still wore that God-awful scowl.

“I must apologize, Mr. Corbett. My cursing was most intolerable and rude.”

“I was the one who behaved badly. Maybe we should start over.” A gentleman, he waited for her to make the first move.

“Most assuredly.” Without considering the unladylike impulse, she offered her naked hand. “Yes, it does call for a new start.”

Quinten’s fingers touched her with such fire that she inhaled deeply.

“I agree,” he said. As if realizing he was a little too accommodating, Quinten stiffened and stepped back. “It’s late. I’ve got a newspaper to put to press, so I’d suggest that you get a good night’s sleep and report back to me after breakfast in the morning.”

Lost for words, Kaira looked intently at him. Was he not going to at least show her the way to her living quarters? A knot clinched her stomach tightly. He seemed unprepared for her arrival.

Disconcerted, she pointedly looked out the window.

In the west the sun bled onto the prairie, making her painfully aware that little daylight remained, and she had no place to sleep. She gnawed on her lower lip.

“Is there something wrong?” Not waiting for a response, he continued. “You have made arrangements for a room at the hotel or the boardinghouse, haven’t you?”

“No.” She jerked her attention back to Quinten, taking pleasure in the flicker of surprise that made his dark eyebrows slant into a frown.

“We seem to have a misunderstanding,” she stated in her newly acquired unruffled voice. “I have a contract and it expressly states that you will provide accommodations for me.”

“Miss Renaulde, I live in the small room above the shop, and when I agreed to those terms, I didn’t realize, uh-”

“That I am a woman?”

“Yes, clearly.”

“I don’t see that it makes any difference. As you so quickly pointed out…I am here in the capacity of an apprentice, not as a woman. I don’t mind sharing your accommodations.” She lightly fingered a tendril of hair that touched her cheek.

“It’s nothing but a bedroom and barely big enough for one person. I’d made arrangements for the new hire to bunk with Monk at his place.” As though Quin felt uncomfortable discussing her sleeping arrangements, he hesitated before continuing, “And your reputation. A gentleman can’t-”

“Precisely my point. You are a gentleman so my reputation will remain intact.” She motioned toward the door, where three Saratoga trunks and at least a half a dozen hat boxes sat. “Please lead the way. There’s no reason that we cannot be under the same roof and maintain a proper decorum.”

“Ma’am, I can assure you that we cannot function in those cramped quarters.” Quin removed his heavy apron, exposing a mass of chestnut hair peeking out from the neck of his shirt. His muscles rippled under the snug fabric.

Her pulse quickened. “A contract is a contract.” She whipped an envelope from her caba. Opening it, she unfolded a page and handed it to Quinten. “Is this not your signature?”

“Yes. But things are complicated now.”

“Because I’m a woman? Please escort me to my room.” She closed the French handbag, giving the problem another thought. “Never mind, as you’ve pointed out, you have more pressing things that require your attention.”

Having earlier scouted the office, she observed that the room was big enough to get the newspaper out, yet small enough to feel welcome.

She fetched her hat, and with a springy bounce, she crossed the room. At the foot of the stairs, she retorted over her shoulder, adding a deliberate softness to her voice, “In the event you were wondering why I was so late, Mrs. Diggs at the mercantile has a very impressive selection of bonnets, plus she was most interested in the newest fashions being shown in Paris.”

Ascending the staircase leading to his bedroom, she continued, “And the nice waitress at the hotel dining was so very pleasant. Also, Hank Harris said to thank you for helping him out yesterday.” She stopped and turned back to him. “They spoke most favorably of you.”

Damn, she might as well have added, “And, I have no idea why.” Thunder, he expected the owners had sent him an apprentice instead of Miss Dawdle-Butt!

Quin yanked his visor from his head and ran his fingers through his thick crop of hair. Hellfire, it was hard to remain coherent with her around. A sudden twinge of something he hadn’t felt in a long time clutched at his gut. No time to explore his feelings. An edition of the paper was due out by morning and his so-called assistant, apprentice, pain in the rear, or a number of other names he could think of, had dawdled away daylight making social calls.

“Monk!” He hung the apron on a wooden peg on the wall. Plucking his watch from his vest, he said, “You ol’ print hound, get out here. We’ve got luggage to carry upstairs.”

Chapter 3

Kaira Renaulde had been in Amarillo for a week and still at least one Saratoga, sometimes two, arrived on every train coming through town.

Quin eyed the latest arrivals. “Monk, we need to get those damnable trunks out of our way. Got time?”

“Jest as soon as I finish this transmission.”

“How many more of those things do you think that lady has coming?”

“Don’t know.” Monk didn’t look. “But I know one thing for sure, no woman should own trunks that take two men to cart around. And all that climbin’s apt to make a man poorly.”

Quin glanced out the window, checked the hour, and stuffed the watch fob back in his vest pocket. He tried to pay no heed to Monk’s continual mulley-grubbing, but it didn’t work.

Monk’s grousing interrupted Quin’s thoughts.

“Whatcha think she has in those Saratogas?” asked Monk.

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn. All I care about is getting this blasted newspaper out.” Quin rolled his shoulders to relieve some of the soreness that always seemed to creep up around sunset.

“Do you think that calico’s totin’ a sidearm, son?”

“Doubt it. But if she is, it’s probably a pearl-handled, double-barreled derringer.” He snatched up his apron. “Why do you think she has to have so many trunks?”

“Maybe to cart around more of those frilly trappin’s, you think?”

“Don’t know. But I do know that we’ve got a hundred pounds of trouble and she’s upstairs in my bed.” Quin pulled the leather protector over his head. “Did you notice how interested she was last night when we were talking about Bat Masterson coming to town?”

“Yep, sure did. She perked those pretty little ears right up like a turkey listenin’ for buckshot on Thanksgiving morning.”

“Doubt if she even knows who Masterson is.”

“Yep, she sure did perk up.”

“You know, ol’ man, the bonus that gal’s grandfather promised me for an interview with the gambler will give us the money we need to restock the ranch and start over, don’t you?”

“Sure do. Yep, it’ll jest about get that ol’ ranch back amongst the living.” Monk pulled a bowie knife from the desk drawer and whittled on his pencil. “Son, since you don’t need me anymore and I’ve got a hankering for some of Miss Maggie’s corn dodgers and dumplin’s with all the doings, I’m fixin’ to head that way.” Satisfied that his pencil was sharpened enough, he returned the knife to the drawer. “Sure you don’t want me to stick around?”

“Nope. Got things under control. That is if she keeps her prissy-butt out of my hair. She’s been here a week and all she’s done is socialize and cause me to waste time having to deal with her.”

The old-timer grabbed his weathered Stetson. Shuffling out the front door, he grumbled, “Yep, she sure has. Got us a heap of trouble in that one.”

Hours later, a herb moss moon cascaded through the shop’s windowpanes, creating cattywampus shadows across the wooden floor.

Quin stacked the last bundle of newspapers near the exit.

Gunfire from somewhere near the Amarillo Belle pierced the air. Another rough night at the popular saloon. Probably a bunch of cowpokes celebrating payday. Or maybe a gambler letting off steam after losing the shirt off his back. Could have been a fight over a soiled dove. One thing was for certain. If there was a serious squabble, there’d be a new digging before dawn.

Gunplay always made for great headlines, but Quin hoped the visiting gentleman, gunslinger, and gambler he needed so desperately to interview wouldn’t be the one pushing up daisies. Quin shuddered at what would happen if he missed his opportunity. No sit-down with Masterson. No bonus. No cattle.

Quin checked the time. Three-twenty in the morning. If he caught a few winks, he’d be raring to go by daybreak.

Pulling off his spectacles, he took two steps toward the stairwell before halting. Blasted! A sleeping bundle of pure dee ol’ womanhood occupied his bed.

He spun on his heels, trudged out onto the porch, and took a deep breath. The balmy night promised to give way to another breezy spring day. As if turning up a lantern, the brilliant moon bleached the buildings white.

Sleeping under the stars hadn’t killed him so far. In his drover days, Quin had slept through gully-washers, Blue Norther’s that could freeze the hide right off a steer, and winds strong enough to carry the sucker off to parts unknown.

A little reflection didn’t hurt either. After all, spending too much time cooped up in a bed could cause a fellow to get all claustrophobic and make him forget his roots.

That beauty upstairs was already proving to be trouble, and spring hadn’t even seen its first thunderstorm.

Kaira’s heart jumped to her throat as a loud, steely sound rang out in the distance and echoed off the hallowed business-fronts. Gunshots! Just like the ones she’d read about. Oh, she had heard gunshots before but none like these! Real, honest-to-goodness gunfire from the rough and rowdy West. Maybe the sheriff was chasing a bank robber? A murderer?

Yes, a fearless lawman was surely hot on the trail of a fierce, self-willed ruffian who had done some dastardly dark deed. And, all of it happening right below her bedroom window.

Prepared to see her first authentic outlaw barely clinging to life, blood gushing from a wound and him hanging from his stirrups by only the rowel of his spur, Kaira sprang out of bed and rushed to the window.

A midnight black horse carried a rider wrapped in a long ebony cloak. His face hid beneath a wide-rimmed hat, hanging so low that it met his chin, all giving the stranger a sinister appearance. The mischief-maker recklessly fired his weapon into the air as he flew down the middle of town, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

On his heels, racing to catch up, two more riders carelessly waved pistols, shooting at the moon and yelling at the top of their lungs, “Oooh my dar-lin’…Oooh my dar-lin’…Oooh my dar-lin’ Cle-men-tine!”

Kaira flinched, wanting to cover her ears to drown out the wailing. Who in the heck is Clementine?

“You are looost and gooone fooorever, dreadful sooory Clementine!”

That gal wouldn’t be lost long with all that ruckus. And where was the sheriff? The good guy?

Could the lead rider, who quickly melded with the darkness, be the infamous gambler, Bat Masterson? The man Quinten and Mr. Monk had been discussing?

A shadow moved on the porch. Kaira squinted to make out the figure.

Quinten stirred and the moonlight gave his dark hair a silvery sheen. His broad shoulders remained squared, as he leaned against the post, gold fob glittering. Turning slightly, he exposed a strong, well-defined profile that any woman wouldn’t mind waking up to.

Entranced by the unspoken sadness of his face, she stood silently. An air of isolation punctuated the man’s loneliness.

As though sensing her presence, his gaze shifted toward the window.

A vaguely sensuous light passed between them. Hastily she retreated. Hopefully out of his view, she clutched the lacy neck of her embroidered satin gown.

Her curiosity had been aroused; she stepped closer and peeped through the glass.

He was gone.

What was wrong with her? Quinten Corbett radiated a vitality that seemed to rock the ground beneath her, disturbing her in ways she didn’t think possible.

Moments later, Kaira eased between the sheets and pulled the still-warm bedding up to her chin. Visions of the good-looking editor played before her eyes as she fought sleep. Sleep that would surely evolve into dreams worthy of the pages of a best-selling dime novel.

This man, the subject of her very wicked thoughts, had to be more complex than he first appeared. Tough, lean, and powerful, an almost stereotypical dime novel hero, and she had to impress him. But how?

She thought back over the days she’d been in Amarillo. Quinten obviously lived and breathed the newspaper, but was more cattleman than editor. If only she had paid more attention to her family’s companies. In reality, she had no desire to be a part of their world. Kaira had little talent in publishing that would impress the likes of Mr. Corbett.

Kaira needed to get on his good side-surely he had one-and what better way than to scoop an interview with one of the most famous guns of the West.

Now, where would a lady find a gambler?

Chapter 4

A sleepless night under the stars didn’t improve Quin’s humor in the least. Feeling like Monk generally acted, about as pleasant to be around as a hide hunter on a hot day, Quin meandered to the potbelly stove and poured himself another cup of coffee thick enough to float an anvil.

The clink of the day’s first Morse-coded message drowned out most of Monk’s words, as he systematically translated into text the sounds of dots, dashes, and spaces.

Quin paced the floor and tried to ignore the old-timer’s mumbling.

In spite of Quin’s busy schedule, thoughts of Miss Renaulde intruded into his morning. Eager to get the apprentice busy cleaning a heaping bucket of typeface, the woman’s tardiness annoyed him more than he wanted to admit.

Ten o’clock and there still wasn’t any movement in the apartment above. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t heard a peep since he got back from breakfast around six-fifteen.

What should he do? Check on her? He mulled over the question as he topped off his coffee.

A gentleman would never enter a woman’s bedroom without permission. Maybe he should send Monk to see about her? Probably the best idea was to leave the lady alone. At this rate, if he depended on his new associate, the news would be history before he got it in print.

Resisting the urge to check the time again, Quin glanced toward the stairwell and let his mind drift along like a tumbleweed on a windy day.

What would he find if he actually ventured upstairs? The vision of Miss Renaulde standing at the window still crouched in the corner of his mind, waiting for the most inappropriate times to appear. Not able to shuck off the images of the woman bathed in soft light caused a surge of emotion to lash through him.

A rope knotted around his heart and squeezed tightly.

She was certainly a vision of loveliness. Maybe it was her luscious lips beckoning to be kissed that made him feel a wanting. Or ivory skin crying to be caressed; not to mention attributes begging to be touched.

Reality reared its ugly head. She was about as soft and cuddly as a barnyard kitten. She put on a facade of being tame and playful, but no doubt if a man got close enough to touch her, she’d hiss him to death.

Yep, that gal was as hot as butter on a biscuit, yet as tough as hardtack. Maybe a generous serving of boysenberry jam would sweeten her up enough for a man to enjoy.

But Miss Renaulde-guess he could call her Kaira considering the intimate thoughts he’d had about her-was definitely worthy of a second look.

All of his musing about her qualities didn’t solve the issue at hand. If she didn’t come down soon, he’d have no choice but to leave her in the hands of Monk. It’d put the old geezer in an awkward position to tell her that, as the feared ink-spiller, she was responsible for the muck work.

“Monk,” Quin hollered, pulling on his coat. “Masterson got into town yesterday. I’ve got to go over to the hotel and find him before he begins gambling. I’ve heard he takes his poker seriously, so I’m not going to be the one to disturb him.” He grabbed his Stetson and absentmindedly adjusted the band of woven wire. “If that gal doesn’t come down by noon, I guess you’d better go see about her.”

“That gal?” Monk repeated, as if he had no idea who Quin referred to. “Oh, she’s come and gone. I saw her over at Miss Maggie’s having breakfast about sunup.”

“What do you mean?” Quin turned away from the door to face the older man.

“Well, if I remember right, I said, ‘That gal has come and gone-’”

“I heard that much!”

“Then why’d you ask me to clarify it?” Not waiting on Quin’s response, he continued, “I heard her talking to Miss Maggie about Bat Masterson-”

“You don’t think she was-”

“Raring to interview the dandy?” Monk quipped. “Yep, that gal sure was.” Momentarily drawn back to the telegraph, he glanced its way then back to Quin. “If you’d been listening to me the first time I told you, instead of rambling around the room like a fella finding fault with Paradise, you’d have already known it.”

“Damnation and every cuss word I’ve ever used, I hope I can catch up with her before she fouls up the whole blasted deal.” Quin crammed the Stetson on his head and hurried to the door. Over his shoulder he said, “Masterson might be more man than that blue blood is used to handling.”

“Don’t bet the ranch on that, son,” Monk muttered.

“Yeah, Monk…that’s exactly what I’m doing!”

Quin let the screen door at the Amarillo Hotel slam behind him as he stalked out and crossed the planked sidewalk.

He’d been searching for Kaira for fifty-five minutes, with no luck.

At the mercantile, Mary Carol Diggs hadn’t seen her, but didn’t miss the opportunity to lecture Quin on the virtues of his new employee. What did the shop owner think? That he had never known a woman besides his mother and didn’t recognize his new hire as a classy lady through and through? Aggravation hammered at his heart. Just because he was past his prime at a ripe old thirty-two, and his womanizing days were only memories, didn’t mean he had forgotten how to treat a woman.

Worrying about things he had no control over wasn’t getting him anywhere. He needed to find Masterson, who had already left the hotel for a day of pleasure at the saloon. But which one?

The Amarillo Belle was the closest, so Quin tramped off in its direction. Eleven o’clock and the sun bore fire on the back of his neck, much like the churning in his stomach.

Quin could put his last buck on Masterson being at the Belle. Enough mounts to stock a respectful remuda were tied to the hitching posts.

He approached the batwing doors. Instead of the expected bustle and noise of the saloon, an eerie quietness fell from within.

His gut clinched tighter…This wasn’t good, not good at all.

Chapter 5

Not being able to resist the urge to keep time with the music, Kaira patted her foot to the rhythm of the banging piano.

A fun-loving mixture of cowboys willing to spend a little of their hard-earned cash, and flirty dancehall girls more than eager to help them out, crowded the smoke-filled room of the Amarillo Belle.

Using her best persuasion, Kaira smiled sweetly at the bartender. Delicately running her fingers around the lip of her tea cup, she awarded him with a second smile. “Thank you. I presume you don’t get many requests for tea?”

“No, ma’am. But I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leaned across the bar and lowered his voice. “We keep it for our girls. They don’t drink, but those cowpokes don’t know it.”

“That’s interesting, Mr.-”

“Wallbrook, but you can call me Wally.”

“Thanks, Mr. Wally.”

“Sure, ma’am.” The bartender turned his attention to a cowboy who’d sidled up to the bar.

Kaira shifted on the stool to get a better view of the table where four men played cards.

Which gambler was Masterson? She’d heard that he was enormously handsome. She took stock of the four players.

She discounted the one facing the bar. He didn’t qualify as good-looking. The truth, he was so plug-ugly that his mother would have trouble claiming him as her offspring.

The man to his right reminded her of something she’d read-he definitely had been rode hard and put up wet. He grinned a toothy and used-up smile.

That left two men. Both dark headed, with neatly groomed mustaches. Each looked the part of a professional gambler. Fancy brocade vests, gold watch fobs, and waistcoats sewn from the finest fabrics added to their debonair appearance. From where she sat, she couldn’t judge their height, but one man was noticeably shorter than the other.

Kaira tried to spy Masterson’s cane or infamous derby hat, but neither was present. Now what could she do? Simply approach the table and ask for him by name? That would put her at a disadvantage. If she had learned anything from her grandfather, it was to retain control of an interview. Never show her inexperience. Proceed professionally and confidently. Never waver and whatever you do, don’t ask, “Which one of you guys is Bat Masterson?” Couldn’t happen. So, she’d have to figure out another way to get the interview.

Suddenly luck blessed her.

Mr. Plug-Ugly tossed his cards face down on the table, and spouted, “Masterson, you lucky dog.”

The man he called Masterson lazily discarded his cards and drew the pot toward him, not bothering to count the money. “Thanks, Ira. I’ll take your donation any day.”

Fun-loving laughter filled the air.

A sensual smile crossed Bat’s lips as he caught sight of Kaira and fixed bold, slate blue eyes on her. Leisurely, he tossed back a shot of whiskey, not breaking their gaze. Suddenly, as though uncomfortable with her brazen stare, he turned his attention back to his game. “Well, you gonna deal those cards today or tomorrow, Shorty?”

Was his perusal interest? An invitation? It certainly justified her approaching him, normally unacceptable behavior for a young lady.

She sipped her tea and continued to pat her slipper against the bar foot railing.

Quinten had made his intentions very clear. The newspaper was his top priority. The quicker she talked with Masterson, the sooner she’d get an interview, prove her inadequacies in business to Grandfather, and return to Boston. But was she doing this to make a point to her grandfather or to garner approval from Quinten?

She’d already been waiting for more than an hour for the players to tire of the game. How long do gamblers gamble anyway? Don’t they take a break?

Time had come for her to take control. Seeking courage, she inhaled deeply. Pushing her cup aside, she slipped from the stool.

Realizing all eyes were on her, she adjusted her hat, making sure it sat perfect. After all, she’d taken care in selecting suitable clothing for her first trip to a saloon. Compared to the barmaids, no doubt she was overdressed for the occasion.

Straightening her bolero, she threw back her shoulders to give emphasis to her bosom. After fetching her caba, she strolled toward the table of gamblers, careful not to stir up too much sawdust as she walked.

Silence spread in epidemic proportions over the room as she closed the distance between her and the gamblers.

The piano player stopped midnote.

Are they expecting me to challenge him to a duel?

A wooly cowpoke with a low-slung six-shooter backed out of the door.

Wally dropped a bottle of liquor and let out a profanity she’d only read about.

The noise, or rather the lack thereof, didn’t deter the players.

“A wagon wheel to you, Masterson,” Shorty quipped.

Bat tossed in a twenty-dollar gold piece.

Beginning to his left, Shorty dealt one card face down to each man, before continuing until each player had five cards in his hand.

Mr. Plug-Ugly barely glanced at his cards before chucking three on the table. Expertly, Shorty slipped him replacements.

“Sonofabitch.” Ira threw his hand in the middle of the table, folding.

Masterson covertly peeped at his cards and laid them face down. Slowly, he shook his head from side to side.

Kaira continued toward the players.

Even the quiet got quieter.

Shorty laid an ace of spades face up. “Dealer takes four,” he said before replenishing his cards.

“Another wagon wheel to you, Masterson,” the dealer said.

It was now or never! Surely the game was coming to an end, since the gamblers were throwing away their cards. Right?

She steeled herself to make her voice casual. “Mr. Masterson, may I have a moment of your time?”

Now that she’d taken the first step, she felt better. Much better.

“Well, uh, Miss…” he stammered.

“Renaulde, K. C. Renaulde from Boston-Boston, Massachusetts.”

Slowly the man picked up his cards and tilted them up for her to see. “Well, Miss Renaulde, uh, ma’am, not to be rude, but with this hand do you think a wise player would give you a moment right now?” His voice held depth and authority.

“Sir, I honestly don’t know. I’ve not partaken of the game you’re playing, but I do enjoy a wicked game of crokinole.” With an air of pleasure, she beamed at him. She wasn’t sure if the look on his face was the beginning or the end of a smile. “I realize crokinole isn’t all that exciting, but one requires grace to position the wooden disks as close to the center as possible. I’m an excellent player.”

Though Masterson said nothing, his face spoke for him.

“Okay, so I presume you aren’t familiar with the game.”

“Well, no, ma’am, I’m not. It’s nice to meet you, uh, Miss Renaulde. Now, if I may get back to my game.”

“It’s urgent that I speak with you. I have a proposition.”

The comment seemed to pique his curiosity. His brow shot up. “Darlin’, I never shy away from a pretty lady with a proposition, but you’ll have to wait until I’m through playing, then I’ll be glad to hear you out. Very glad.” He spoke smoothly but insistently.

Kaira thanked him and returned to the bar. “I do believe that went well, Mr. Wally. Don’t you?” she stated with satisfaction.

The bartender nodded in agreement, and refilled her cup. “Anything else, ma’am?”

“No, thank you.” She sipped the tea, trying not to lose focus on her mission.

Kaira fidgeted with the cup. She had come to Texas intending to prove to her grandfather that she didn’t have what it took to be in the rag business, but now she suddenly found herself wanting to succeed rather than fail.

Her first step was to get the interview with William Barclay Masterson.

She stole one more glance at the table of players. Another approach might work. With renewed confidence, she stepped from the stool and headed toward the gamblers.

“Mr. Masterson, will it make a difference that I am a member of the Boston Peabodys and my grandfather is running for senator?”

He turned in her direction. Laying down his cards, he pulled to an impressive height. “Gentleman, please excuse me.”

Gingerly, yet firmly, he took her elbow and escorted her back to the bar. He pulled out the chair for her. After she took her seat, he leaned down and in the voice only for her hearing, he said, “Miss Renaulde, I don’t care if you’re a member of the Peediddles of Pittsburg. When a man is gambling, it’s impolite to interrupt. So, if you can sit here and busy yourself with some refreshment, when I’m finished I’ll spend some time with you. Think you can manage that?” Not waiting for her response, he gave her a friendly wink and strolled back to the game.

Kaira watched him walk away before she took a deep breath. This newspaper scooping was a bit harder than she anticipated. Not letting him get the best of her, she stalked across the room. “I can do that, but may I ask you one itty-bitty question?”

“If it’ll make you happy and get you back to your tea quicker, ma’am, I’ll be pleased to answer your question.”

The look on his face told her he wasn’t interested in discussing business.

Her composure was under attack, but she’d come too far to turn back. While not wanting to aggravate the man she had to ask some trivial question. Something that wouldn’t upset him. “Fine. Thank you.” She shifted the caba on her wrist. “It may seem silly to you, but I’ve already said that I’m not familiar with the game you are playing, so…”

Masterson looked at his cards again, as though checking to make sure the faces hadn’t faded away. “Well, ma’am.” He put down the cards. “You’ve got my full attention.”

“What is so special about the four queens in your hand?”

Chapter 6

If silence had a voice, the Amarillo Belle was screaming at the top of its rafters. Quin’s fingers froze on the batwing doors as he watched bedlam inside the saloon dance to its own tune.

The piano player, dressed in a red shirt with a black garter decorating his right arm, suddenly attacked the ivories as through punishing an evil hombre. He broke into his own rendition of the popular minstrel. “Nobody knows the trouble I see. Nobody knows…”

In one wide sweep, the bartender strung out a dozen or more shot glasses along the bar and filled them in one continual stream with nary a drop of whiskey hitting the counter.

Scarlet satin and licorice lace swirled, as dancehall girls scattered like kitties confronted by a vicious hound.

Surely, Quin was going deaf. Had Kaira revealed Masterson’s winning hand? From what Quin had heard, the gambler would make short work of sweeping the floor with anyone interfering with his wagering.

Bat Masterson placed his cards face up, scooted his winnings to him, and placed his hands on the table, prepared to stand. A sudden chill veiled the movement.

Quin recognized a bobcat stalking a canary when he saw one. Feathers were about to fly, and he must protect Kaira. She needed a public flogging, but not by the famed gunslinger.

Like a bogged steer hip deep in mud, Quin stood rooted in place. On the third attempt, his legs moved forward. Picking up speed, he rushed the door, slamming the center with his chest. Both batwings parted and he crossed the sawdust floor before Masterson reached his full height.

In slow motion, Kaira turned in Quin’s direction, probably wondering why she hadn’t been told a tornado hit town. She blinked in bewilderment.

“Miss Renaulde!” Quin’s voice sounded unnatural even to him. “I need to see you outside, now.” His words echoed in the silence.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Corbett, but-” A crimson flush raced like a fever across her cheeks.

“But nothing. Outside. NOW!”

“Excuse me?” She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders in defiance, which emphasized her set of attributes to their fullest.

“I didn’t stutter.” Quin resisted the urge to throw her over his shoulder and exit the saloon. But he had never deliberately embarrassed a woman and didn’t plan to begin now. He gulped air. He could almost hear the hemp committee forming for Kaira’s public hanging.

Securing her arm with a firm grip, he drew her near. Close enough that the sweet smell of lily of the valley masked the stale scent of smoke, whiskey, and lust.

She shot him a look that could surely send him direct to his grave, and dug in her heels.

“Mr. Corbett, please.” She leaned lightly into him, tilting her face toward his.

Bat Masterson took a step forward. “It’s in your best interest to get your hands off Miss Renaulde…at once.”

Quin released her, realizing he could no more move the lady than he could a century-old cottonwood. Yet the thought of touching her in places hidden by crinoline and lace both unsettled and excited him. Where this woman was concerned, he seemed to have nothing but mush for a brain.

Kaira resituated her hat slightly and fiddled with a strand of loose hair that had escaped, but kept her stare glued on Quin, serving to unnerve him more.

While not taking her eyes off her confronter, she addressed the gambler in what was surely her best boarding-school English. “I’m fine, kind sir. Mr. Corbett meant no disrespect. Did you, Quinten?” She smiled sweetly, obviously detecting Quin’s uneasiness.

Quin groaned. What’s wrong with this gal anyway? He didn’t disrespect her as a woman, only her complete disregard for her duties to the newspaper. “Of course not, she’s my-”

“His new reporter.” She finished the sentence for him. “And we were about to have tea. Are you ready to join me, Quinten?”

Masterson retreated back to the gaming table.

The tar and feather option began to sound better to Quin, as pure dee ol’ furor replaced aggravation and rushed through him like a herd of spooked steers. “Do you know when hell is gonna freeze over, Miss Renaulde?”

“I honestly don’t know, but I’ll ask.” She slipped past him and stalked toward the table of gamblers so quick that Quin couldn’t catch her. “Mr. Masterson, do you have any idea when hell will freeze over?”

Under a snicker, he answered, “No.” He lifted questioning eyes to the card players. “Gentlemen?”

One by one they shrugged their shoulders.

Obviously perplexed with the lack of response, she raised a delicately arched eyebrow to Quin. “Why do you ask?”

“Because that’s when I’ll start drinking tea.”

“Then may I interest you in some spirits while I explain-”

“The only thing that I’m interested in is getting the newspaper out! And on time!”

“I propose to-”

“Drink tea in a saloon in the middle of the afternoon? Surely you jest-”

Masterson broke into one wave of laughter after another, interrupting Quin, until everyone at the table joined in…Everyone except for Quin, who was completely buffaloed by the sudden change in Masterson’s attitude. Quin studied one person then another.

Kaira cocked her head, as though to say she thoroughly understood the joke. Maybe even knew the punchline.

“This is the best gag that you guys have pulled on me in years.” Masterson slapped his hand on his thigh. “A real gut-splitter. And this sweet young thang was so convincing that she didn’t understand poker.” He gave a loud hey-haw. “Only a pro would know when it was safe to tell what I had in my hand.” He winked at Kaira. “And I’d like to hear your proposition.”

“She doesn’t have one,” said Quin, placing his hands protectively on her arm. “Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”

“I’m leaving Amarillo tomorrow, so if you’re still interested in discussing your proposition, miss, meet me at the hotel at eight o’clock tonight.” With a quirk of a grin he returned to the game, tossing a gold coin in the middle of the table. “Shorty, deal before some tinhorn comes along and wants in the game.”

The piano player changed tunes and customized the lyrics to fit the occasion. “Ooooh when a saint-goes marching out. Ooooh when a saint-”

“Saint, my ass!” Quinten groaned.

Kaira squared her shoulders and allowed him to escort her out of the room. Take control of the situation, Kaira, she thought. Don’t lose your temper. The man isn’t worth it. Or was he?

Once outside, she indignantly pulled out of his grasp, which seemed to have gotten progressively stronger as they crossed the room and exited the saloon. “Mr. Corbett, I respectfully request that you stop manhandling me immediately.”

“Damn it, woman, I’m not manhandling you.”

“I don’t know what they call it in Texas, but in Boston it is definitely unacceptable behavior.” She removed a tatted linen handkerchief from her handbag and fanned her face like a little old lady exposed to risqué humor. “Plus, I had Mr. Masterson exactly where I wanted him.”

“Madder than a short-hobbled horse?” He stood there tall, dark, and angry.

“He was laughing.”

“Oh sure. Because he was thinking how happy he’d be watching you sitting on a very skittish horse with a tight noose around your neck.” He cringed at his sarcasm. “But then, he wasn’t really mad at all, only interested in your proposition.”

“That is correct. My proposition is the only thing he was interested in.”

“And your proposal is?”

“To show you that I can be a reporter and obtain an interview for the newspaper.”

“Where did you come up with that hare-brained idea?” A chill ran up his spine. Not sure he wanted to know the answer, his jaw set.

“You and Mr. Monk discussed it last evening. I was-”

“Scooping my interview? Come on.” He hooked one arm to his hip. “Either come along gracefully or I’ll hog-tie you and carry you back to the office.”

Not in the mood to find out what her other options might be, Kaira slipped her left arm through his and secured the brim of her hat with her hand.

As though taking a pleasant stroll after a church social, the pair proceeded along the planked walk. His long stride increased their gait, forcing her to double-time it to keep up with him.

No doubt she was in trouble…serious trouble.

Chapter 7

Dozens of pairs of eyes watched the couple walk, rather gallop, toward the newspaper office. Kaira gripped her hat for dear life, afraid if she let go either their fast pace or a sudden gust of wind would carry it away, feather and all. After all, it’d take her months to get a replacement from Paris.

“I need to explain,” she huffed.

“There is nothing to explain. You’re a royal pain in the butt. You’ve already gotten into more hot water than one man could get you out of if he began dippin’ the day you were born.”

“Pain in the butt…I am most assuredly not. The way I see it, you’re the one who ruined my chances of getting an interview with Mr. Masterson.”

Quin partially guided her, practically pulled her into the office.

“Also, don’t forget how that nice Bat Masterson almost hit you defending me.”

He booted the door closed without comment.

Monk lifted his head. Detecting Quin’s testy mood, the old-timer slipped out of his chair and hobbled to the back room, shutting the door behind him.

“Have a seat, Miss Renaulde. It’s time we straighten out a few things.” The muscles in Quin’s neck visually tightened as he stepped to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. Obviously reconsidering his tactics, he inhaled deeply and asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Tea, please.” Then she became the one to reconsider. “Silly me.” She tried on her best “oops” smile and remained standing simply to make a statement. Although his mannerisms had softened, his stare had not. This was no time to try his patience, so she sat down. “It’s much too warm for hell to have frozen over. Right?”

A tiny smile appeared over Quin’s cup. “Much too warm.”

She wasn’t sure but she may have seen a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Kaira gathered enough nerve, and with as reasonable a voice as she could manage, said, “Quinten, I honestly meant no harm. I thought-”

“You thought! What’s wrong with the old-fashioned philosophy that an employee learns their job responsibilities before they go off half-cocked?”

“Half-cocked?”

“Forget it. It’s a Texas thing.”

She bit her lower lip. “I owe you an apology.”

“It seems that’s all we do…apologize.” He set down a cold mug of coffee before her. “Here. Need sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

Quin pounced upon Monk’s perch like a bullfrog on a toadstool. Pulling out a page of newsprint, he wrote in bold block letters: DEADLINE. AMARILLO BY MORNING!

Holding up the paper, he said, “That’s a deadline. That’s our deadline. That’s your deadline.” He got up, stepped past her, and tacked the newsprint on the wall. “This is all I’m interested in. Not excuses. Not apologies. Not explanations.” He turned back toward her. “I need news, not a gossip column. Understand?”

Kaira nodded, looking up through a fringe of eyelashes like a grammar school girl being raked over the coals for misbehaving. “Perfectly.”

“You are an apprentice. That means you do the muck work. Clean typeface. Do what the editor asks you to do. Assist Monk and me.” He wagged a long, forceful finger at her. “You’re a printer’s devil-not a reporter!”

Hasn’t anybody ever told Quinten not to point? Deciding that some things are better left unsaid, she let disappointment seep in and muddy her thoughts. Quin’s words cut to the core. Not a reporter! Do dirty work? No lady she knew would perform such unsavory tasks unless they were the gardener or a stable hand. Rightfully, she should give him a piece of her mind. He had no right. Oh, but he did. Quin had every right but still she refused to be referred to as a devil-even a printer’s devil.

Although she’d like the opportunity to soft-soap the rugged, temperamental editor just a bit, no doubt he would not only be amenable to her catching the next train back to Boston, but would cart her trunks on his back to the station to make sure she didn’t miss her ride.

Time was ripe to make her move.

“I can see, Quinten, that there is no reason for us to continue our business relationship. I shall return to Boston on the next train.” She snatched up her caba, stood, and moved less than a foot toward the stairwell before he stepped in front of her.

“Oh but you aren’t, Miss Renaulde. This is exactly what your grandfather warned would happen. And I will not give him the satisfaction of thinking that I can’t handle a greenhorn petticoat.”

“You know nothing about my petticoats, and you can’t stop me.”

“Don’t think I can’t.” He moved toward the door, where he filled the frame with his rock-hard body. “Your grandfather ordered me to teach you the newspaper business. And, damn it, lady, that’s exactly what I intend to do. So sit back down.”

His words assaulted her ears. He meant business and she didn’t much like the look in those bold, chocolate eyes that seemed to dare her to challenge him. Screwing up her face, she plopped down.

“Since you dilly-dallied away enough time to make Monk have to clean the typeface for the next run, here is what I expect.” Quin folded thick arms across his chest. “First off, you do as I say, and willingly.” He relaxed his stance slightly and eased his mouth into a lazy smile.

She felt ambushed by his amusement. A smile that seemed to soften his features, even make the dark stubble on his jaw appealing. Too bad it didn’t improve his poor attitude.

Damn, now that her grandfather had intervened, she would be forced to stay in the land of drifters, dreamers, and dancehall girls. Kaira would much rather perfect the skills she had learned at finishing school, attend cotillions, and use the philosophies acquired at Boston College. Her game of crokinole needed some work, and she had become lax in her enunciation. Back East she could cultivate the ways of the wealthy and privileged and not be concerned with the mundane, day-to-day operation of a newspaper in some unsophisticated, dirty Texas town.

Quin’s voice startled her, sending a shiver up her spine. “Are you listening? I’ll say it again to make my position perfectly clear. Leave Mr. Masterson alone.” His gaze bore into her. “And since you’ve wasted most of the day and Monk and I still have to get typesetting done, I have no choice but to send you out again to find some news-”

“And where do you suggest I gather such information?”

“I’d think you would instinctively know the answer.”

“I’ve lived a very sheltered life.”

“Jeeze!” Obviously his patience had thinned, but he continued, “Look over the wires that came from the Dodge City Times.” He deposited a notebook on the table. “Surely there’s something more interesting than odoriferous muskmelons and the warty cucumbers.”

“Writing instrument, please,” she said with smug delight.

Quin selected a pencil from the cup on Monk’s desk, and placed it in front of her with a thud. “Here. Next go to the undertaker and see who passed. After that, check out the register at the Amarillo Hotel. See if anyone of importance-other than Masterson-is in town. I want something of substance, not who was seen chit-chatting with whom.” He placed both hands flat on the table. Leaning into her, the line of his mouth tightened a fraction more and his brown eyes seemed to magnetize her gaze to his. “And, one cardinal rule…no gossip.”

“But last week at Miss Maggie’s I overheard a conversation about two ranch owners meeting at the hotel-”

“No gossip.” He warned.

Kaira flipped open the notebook and wrote: No gossip. No odoriferous musk…” Excuse me. Are they mushmelons or muskmelons?”

Obviously exasperated, Quinten forced on his spectacles, opened the top draw of the cabinet, and began selecting uppercase typeface, avoiding eye contact. “That’s a reporter’s job to find out. It’s called research.”

“Then I’m a reporter?”

“You’re an apprentice.” He jerked his head up and sighed in disbelief.

Annoyed, Kaira rose to her feet, grabbed her handbag, scooped up the notebook, and returned the pencil to Monk’s holder. “I prefer my own, thank you.” She sashayed out the door, not able to resist throwing yet another barb into the mix, “Sounds like I’m a reporter to me.”

“Apprentice! Apprentice! Apprentice!” Quin’s words rattled the window panes.

Monk appeared from the storeroom. “Yep, sure did set that calico straight, son. Sure did.” Mumbling, he shook his head and limped to his workstation.

“If I wanted your opinion, old man, I’d ask for it.” Quin couldn’t help but laugh, knowing Monk paid as much heed to his sarcasm as he did to the old-timer’s grumbling. The duo was like a good ol’ pair of work gloves. A perfect fit. One would be useless without the other.

“You only have to put up with her for three months, son.”

“That’s ninety days-a fourth of the year…” Trailing off, Quin slipped on his cowhide apron and glasses and went to work.

“Less a week,” said Monk.

The chit-chat of the telegraph began in earnest. For more than an hour both men worked without muttering a word.

Suddenly, Monk broke the silence. “Yep, that’s one thousand nine hundred ninety-two hours.” He adjusted his sleeve-protectors and turned to Quin. “It’s either keep her here and get the newspaper out like her grandfather said, or kiss that bonus good-bye. Then you can forget restocking the ranch. Choice is yours, Quin.”

“I’m at wits end.” Quin pulled the visor from his head. “She’s so damn frustrating. I’ve tried to be patient, but it’s as if she is bound and determined to make me dislike her and send her packing. Come hell or high water, I’m not breaking the contract. That woman’s like a nest of hornets that keep buzzing around me and I can’t get them settled down. The worst part, I can’t seem to get her off my mind.” He absentmindedly rubbed his aching collarbone. “If she’s here she gets me all rattled, and if she’s gone I worry about her.”

“Yep, for sure. Been noticing that.”

“She’s gotten under my skin and I can’t shuck her.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t try. Jest play the cards you’ve been dealt.” Monk shifted his weight and massaged his thigh. “But you’ve got to be powerfully patient with her. She’s like a bad rash that sure does hurt to scratch but feels mighty good when you’re through. You gotta make a newswoman out of her.”

“How do you profess I accomplish that?”

“Lengthen the lariat you have around her neck. Give her space. Gotta teach her come here from sic ’um. She’s no nitwit, jest wants to see how long she can beat you around the stump before you send her home. Then it’ll be all your fault she failed. No sir, for sure. That gal is no dummy.”

“Patience and a loose lariat will do it, you think?”

“Yep, sure do.”

Although it would be a stretch, Quin could try to be more patient, but wasn’t all that keen on the giving her space idea.

Quin had tried to allow Kaira to find the news on her own, but all she’d managed to come up with was that a ranch hand on the Frying Pan had bought a new Stetson, and a lady sheep rancher had come to town for supplies. Mrs. Diggs at the mercantile had ordered a new array of bonnets from Fort Worth, and ol’ Ira was complaining about Amarillo needing a good gunsmith.

Flipping his watch open, Quin checked the time. She’d been gone for nearly two hours and he couldn’t help but wonder what pickle the sassy-butt had gotten herself into. Damn, he hadn’t known her long enough to worry about her, but he did.

The thought barely had enough time to wane before Kaira burst through the front door, as though chased by a rattler in the outhouse.

“You’ll never believe what I just heard!”

Chapter 8

Astonishment painted their faces as Quin’s and Monk’s gazes followed a blur of feathers, crinoline, and ivory lace rushing in one door and out the other.

On her way through, Kaira halted, unpinned her hat, and dropped it, along with her handbag and notepad, on the deacon’s bench.

Quin held back a smirk and studied the bonnet. Dubiously, he shook his head. “Damn, that hideous thing looks like a confused bird made a nosedive for Miss Renaulde’s head and got all tangled up in that netty stuff,” he said to no one in particular.

The back screen slammed, echoing throughout the room.

A sinking feeling hit Quin as he drew his attention away from her bonnet and back to her words: You’ll never believe what I just heard.

“Lordy, Lordy, did she ever have a bee in her bloomers,” Monk snipped and turned back to his desk. “Someone needs to tell her we don’t have the only privy in town.”

Quin leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully tapped his index fingers together. “You do it. I don’t have time to figure her out.” He stared at the note on the wall…DEADLINE!

Interrupting his thoughts, Kaira rushed from the back room, fetched her belongings and headed toward the stairwell, before turning back to the two men. “I have a few things to take care of before I tell you the-”

“Gossip?” Quin finished her statement. “I’ve already cautioned you-”

“Oh, fiddle-faddle.” Kaira seemed unaffected by the warning as she continued, “Mr. Monk, may I bother you for a hammer and a few nails?”

The ol’ codger scrambled to a small workbench that clung to the south wall and selected a claw hammer and half a dozen Wagon Box nails. He smiled at her like she was a hot apple pie. “Anything else I can get you, ma’am?”

“No, and thank you. You’re such a precious man.” She accepted the items. Proceeding to the stairs, she flung over her shoulder, “This will not take long. I’ll be down shortly and tell you the, uh, news.”

And she was gone.

“What do you think she wanted the hammer for?” Monk nonchalantly asked, as though giving a lady a hammer and a handful of nails wasn’t out of the ordinary.

“Don’t know. You seem to be the expert on the lady’s needs, not me.”

What could Kaira, who on one hand seemed to be helpless, yet on the other requested a hammer and nails as though she were a carpenter, be up to? The thought barely had time to formulate when thunderous pounding rocked the walls from the ceiling to the planked floors.

Thud. From the reverberation, no doubt Kaira had dropped the hammer. Rapid-fire raps ensued, quickly followed by one abrupt bang.

As sudden as the noise began, an eerie quietness cloaked the building. Nothing could be heard except Monk’s labored breathing and Quin gulping air. Even the telegraph stopped to listen.

“For Pete’s sake, what did she do, find a mouse and beat the confounded creature to death?” Quin wondered out loud.

“Musta got him with that final splat.” Monk never looked up from his task.

Time passed in silence until lithe footsteps sounded on the stairs, drawing both men’s gazes upward. Dressed in a no-nonsense taupe skirt, topped by a plain ivory blouse accented with rows and rows of ruffles that hugged her…uh, attributes tightly, Kaira descended.

“Wearing sensible shoes, I see,” Quin muttered beneath his breath, figuring Monk couldn’t hear him anyway.

“Yep, for sure. She looks like she’s ready to get down to work,” the old man quipped.

“And it could even be newspaper business.” Quin resisted asking Monk why he seemed deaf to some things and turned all ears when it came to Miss Renaulde.

Coming within hearing distance, Kaira met Monk’s smile, passed over the hammer, and thanked him for his kindness.

Damn, if she didn’t make the ol’ hip-shot broncbuster blush.

“Miss Renaulde, if I’m not interrupting your day, I’d appreciate knowing about the news you gathered.” Quin nodded toward an oaken library table. “That is your work area, remember.”

Kaira carefully opened her notebook, flipped over several pages, and poised her pen as though prepared to take notes. “And what precisely do you wish to know?”

“What you found out!” Quin inhaled deeply and exhaled, trying desperately to corral his annoyance.

“Well, Payton McClain-”

“McCord not McClain. From the Frying Pan-”

“Payton McCord,” she repeated, as though she had used the right name in the first place, “and a lady named Harper came out of the Amarillo Hotel, and Payton’s intended, Amanda, uh…” She flipped through her notepad.

“Lemmons.” Quin provided the last name. “She inherited a little spread up near the Canadian River and raises sheep-”

“Oh yes, Amanda Lemmons, I ran into her at the mercantile shortly after I arrived when you assigned me the task of finding a story. A lovely woman. Evidently, the sheepherder wasn’t too happy finding McClain-”

“McCord-”

“With another woman and she kicked him in his, uh-I’ve heard it’s called his…well, his delicates.” She referred to her notes, as if she’d find the answer on the pages.

Monk suddenly reinvested himself in the conversation. “You mean Amanda kicked him in his-” Meeting Quin’s frown, the old ink-jerker hushed, clearly realizing his support wasn’t appreciated.

“Yes, Mr. Monk, his shins. Miss Lemmons proceeded to give a rather vicious kick he won’t forget for a while. I’m not sure what they said, but Miss Harper turned on him and booted him in his other shin. The ladies were somewhat brutal, and left him jumping around like a boarding school mistress at a cotillion. Talk has it that-”

“Miss Renaulde-”

“It’s not gossip.”

He folded his arms across his chest and leaned farther back in his chair. “So, tell me what you know as fact.”

“Payton McCord was wearing a new Stetson. Looks a lot like yours…” Apparently his look of disapproval made Kaira realize this wasn’t the kind of fact he needed.

“I saw, uh.” She hesitated. “Well, the altercation involving McCord, wasn’t that his name?” Seemingly proud that she remembered his name correctly, she looked directly into Quin’s face, who nodded. “And Miss Lemmons and Miss Harper, whatever her first name is-”

As if compelled to respond, Monk added, “I hear that Mavis Harper gal with them cow-patty eyes and swingin’ hips is as flighty as a strumpet on nickel night, but then I’ve only heard that-”

“Gossip! Give me news!” Quin was more angry at allowing Kaira to trap him into asking questions about the incident than Monk’s intervention.

“That being said”-she flipped over another page-“as I recall, one of my assignments was to learn the difference between muskmelons and mushmelons.” Her eyes brightened with pleasure. “I do believe the correct term is muskmelon. Although Samuel Clements, you know, Mark Twain…” She hesitated, as though waiting on Quin to challenge her. “Anyway, he referred to them as mushmelons in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

“That melon story, as stupid as it was, is already in those stacks of newspapers you nearly stumbled over coming in.” He tipped his head toward the door.

“To be more exact, it was Huck using the word mushmelon in chapter twelve-”

“I don’t care about mushmelons or muskmelons, Samuel Clements or Mark Twain, I need news. What about that paint that went loco, got himself unhitched, and went to find his owner in the Amarillo Belle last night? Did anyone get hurt?”

“I didn’t ask. They probably-”

“No probably. I want facts!” He darted from his chair and towered over her.

The shocked look on her face confirmed his speculation that she had used up the afternoon most likely rereading Mark Twain. “Here’s the deal, Kaira-”

“You called me Kaira-”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Damn, his glib response slipped from his mouth like marbles played on shale. He had intended to keep their relationship professional, and referring to her as Miss Renaulde was more appropriate than using her more intimate given name. “Uh, yeah. Yes, I did. If we’re going to work together-anyway, back to the issue at hand. You will sit here until hell freezes over, or until you write me three articles for the newspaper. I don’t give a rusty rat’s ass which one you do. I want something printable, factual, and newsworthy.”

Quin placed both hands on the table and leaned into her. “I got my interview with Masterson. Where is yours?” He tried to shut out the faint smell of sweet lily of the valley and ignore her softness, but all he could think about was the sense of excitement growing within him, penetrating the stone center of his heart.

Kaira watched him intently, not giving an inch. A single thread of respect and understanding began to form between them.

Damn, he didn’t need a woman in his life. Any woman, much less some beautiful, spitfire Easterner who made his temper flair and his blood boil.

Where was Monk when he needed him? Now would be a perfect time for the ol’ codger to dispense some sage advice, but it seemed that he had disappeared, probably to find Mavis Harper and see if she needed consoling.

“Uh, Miss Renaulde.” Quin straightened and looked down on the most generously curved parted lips he’d ever seen. The sudden need for air strangled him. “I’m going out.” He grabbed his Stetson. “When I get back, I’ll expect those stories written, ready for me to typeset.”

A drink suddenly sounded good. A stiff drink…one stiff enough to make Ol’ Glory stand at attention!

Hooking up with Ira, Shorty, and Monk, Quin played five card stud and chased whiskey with beer until the pain in his shoulder subsided. Winning enough to order Monk a comfortable chair helped his mood, but the liquor didn’t begin to chase away thoughts of Miss Dawdle-Butt.

Images of her lavender eyes following him out the door waltzed across his mind. They were closer to violet, like a field of primrose on a misty morning. Her eyes brimmed with passion and half-filled promise.

Such an attraction could be dangerous. He mustn’t forget the purpose of her employment. If he failed to teach her the newspaper business, he’d lose the bonus. In turn, he’d break a pledge to himself and Monk. His ranch was at stake, yet the memories of her presence stoked a rampart fire in his gut. Illogical sensations couldn’t define the source, but the feelings continued to erupt.

Quin had a growing need to check on Kaira. He’d been pretty tough on her earlier. Maybe he should apologize.

Hell no.

If there were any apologies heaped out, she’d do the spooning. What did he have to apologize for-because she riled him up so much with her beauty and sharp tongue? Humbug! He ordered a final shot of whiskey and tossed it back, hoping to get rid of the nagging question marks.

Quin slid his glass toward Wally and pitched some extra coins on the bar. As an afterthought, he turned back to the bartender. “You got any of that tea left over?”

After some good-hearted ribbing from Monk, and with thoughts of Kaira still thickening in his head, Quin tucked the crock of warm tea in his arms and headed toward the shop.

Off to the west, soundless lightning flickered against the night sky. He pushed the print shop door open, and the quietness that welcomed him was as noticeable as the lack of thunder. Dying lamplight caused gray shadows to dance against the walls.

Sitting down the crock, Quin noticed Kaira slumped forward, resting her head on her folded arms, as though protecting a secret. She had removed the ornaments holding her ebony hair high on her head, making her locks cascade around her shoulders. She snored softly.

He drew closer, halting behind her.

Quin tried to look away. He wanted desperately to keep his arms to his side, but as though a magnet drew his fingers to her, he stopped short of caressing the patch of soft, ivory skin exposed at the nape of her neck. An utterly enticing and very kissable part of her body. No Texas-born male could resist touching her. Gingerly he laid one finger, then three, on velvety skin. The feel of naked flesh against his calloused fingertips reached across the years to rouse emotions he had kept buried…until today.

Kaira stirred only slightly, as though enjoying a tender moment. A tender moment! He wasn’t being tender…he was being selfish and manhandling a defenseless woman.

Jerking his hand away, he caught sight of three papers neatly penned with a woman’s flourish. Each had separate headings.

He shook off the unexpected sensations and picked up the articles. Taking the pages to his desk, he turned up the lamp, put on his glasses, and began to read.

“Poor Chicken: The Pan Handle has a curiosity in the shape of a chicken which has only one leg. It was hatched that way, is about a year old, and seems as happy and contented as though it had two legs.”

Doesn’t she even know, Panhandle is one word? Tossing the story aside, he continued to the next headline:

“Apples Quickly Taken: An itinerant-looking man with very small mules was selling apples here Wednesday. They came from Wichita Falls. They retailed at four bits a dozen, and were quickly taken.”

The apples or the mules? Maybe both! Groaning while cutting his eyes toward the sleeping woman, he went on to the next story:

“Christening Scheduled: Briar Ebenezer Duncan, infant son of Milford Duncan and his wife, Opal, will be christened on Sunday.”

Damn it! Quin slapped down the page with purpose and jerked off his spectacles, frustrated for almost forgetting the upcoming event, and all because of Miss Peabody-of-Boston!

He made a mental note to swing by the mercantile tomorrow to check on the silver rattler he had ordered. Maybe he should have selected a more practical gift than what Monk had suggested. Being a godfather to a little tyke was a momentous obligation. There were dozens of well-respected men more qualified than a washed-up cowboy. Joe Long, the foreman of the Frying Pan, and his wife, Lucinda, would be better godparents, particularly since she couldn’t bear a child. Quin had helped birth a heap of calves, so why would the thought of being a godfather to little Briar Duncan make his chest fill with pride?

Quin leaned back in his chair. Making steeples with his fingers, he watched Kaira sleep, obviously unaffected by the light or shuffling of papers.

“Miss Renaulde,” he little more than whispered.

She didn’t stir.

“Kaira,” Quin said louder. Pulling out of his chair, he walked toward her. “Hey, wake up. You need to go to bed.”

She moved her head slightly, but remained still.

Tarnation, he had two choices; let her sleep or rescue her from a crick in her neck. She was an investment, and if she couldn’t walk tomorrow because of sleeping sitting up, she couldn’t find any news at all, worthless or not.

Quin owed her. After all, she had probably saved him from a public tar and feathering by reminding him of little Briar’s christening.

Gently, he lifted her into the cradle of his arms. He could feel her soft breath against his neck as she snuggled into his shoulder. The sweet scent of lily of the valley once again shrouded him. “Kaira, I’m taking you to bed,” he whispered so close to her ear that he could feel his own breath.

“Good.” Kaira’s voice was barely audible.

Quin felt the words more than heard them, her lips feather-touched his neck, arousing his passion once again.

She nuzzled closer, like a newborn kitten-needy and hungry.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly reached the landing without waking his charge, and pushed his bedroom door open with the toe of his boot.

Outside, the night sky blazed with angry blue-white lightning, setting the room aglow. Fat raindrops splattered against the windowpanes as cannon-blasts of thunder echoed in the distance.

Protectively, Quin tightened his hold on Kaira.

His breath caught in his throat and his heart missed a beat, not from the electrical storm, but from what he saw in his bedroom.

“What in the hell?” He almost dropped Kaira on the wooden floor. “What in Sam Hill did you do?”

Chapter 9

Shocked beyond belief, Kaira steadied herself and watched Quinten Corbett stalk down the stairs. Never had she been treated in such an undignified fashion. He hadn’t quite dropped her, but had unceremoniously plopped her on her feet. Quinten shot her a glare that would melt a horseshoe before he walked-rather, stomped-out, leaving her staring at the south end of the northbound pigheaded editor.

Kaira flounced to the window, pulled back the lace curtain, and watched lightning arc from cloud to cloud.

Why the sudden change with Quinten? And, just when she had come to enjoy the feel of his forceful hands as they cupped her posterior. A rock-solid chest that held a heart that sounded like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest cavity. Muscles of iron protecting her against the raging storm, and his tenderness…was a trait she hadn’t expected in the big man.

A rambunctious clap of thunder caused her to jump.

Could it be that Quinten recognized that she only pretended to be asleep? Or that she played an innocent shenanigan on him by copying some old articles that she knew would catch in his craw? After all, isn’t April Fools’ Day a time of trickery? But then, he probably hadn’t noticed and she hadn’t had a chance to remind him. Kaira enjoyed a good prank every now and again, especially one that held promise. But this one had failed miserably. She ended up the fool.

Oh, Kaira had no intentions of allowing Quinten to touch her inappropriately, or do anything unacceptable to a lady. Nothing she didn’t want him to do.

A flash of light lit up the room again.

She would not be treated so shabbily. She had done nothing wrong. He had suddenly turned coat and stomped away. He couldn’t touch her the way he did, setting off sensations that no well-bred Bostonian lady should feel, and get away with it. By daybreak, she might be on the next train back to New England, but she deserved an answer from Mr. Corbett. He might be a handsome, rugged cowboy with a fiery, white-hot touch, but he would not trample on her emotions.

After taking a moment to pile her hair on top of her head and reinsert hairpins, she straightened her blouse and tinted her lips. Throwing her shoulders back, she headed downstairs to locate the jackass.

Quinten was nowhere in sight and the office was dark, except for soft light slithering from beneath the door of the back room, which served as storeroom, a place for the type to be cleaned, and a small corner kitchen.

Cautiously, she touched the closed door. Detecting the rush of water hitting a basin, she tested the knob. Unlocked.

Uncertainty knotted in her soul. Quinten was no doubt still angry for reasons she couldn’t phantom. Kaira swallowed her misgivings, knowing she mustn’t allow an innocent joke to turn into something it was never meant to be.

She wanted to help Quin succeed, while learning journalism herself. Kaira realized that the whole thought of being taken sincere was foreign to her. She had never thought of herself as a journalist or anything except a product of an affluent family who gave her the best. From a French nanny to an education at the elite Boston College, she was given everything her heart desired and more. So why the sudden need to have Quinten’s approval?

Easing the door open, she made less noise than a scampering mouse in a cotton field. She caught sight of Quinten’s magnificent near-naked body with nothing on but his unmentionables. Her heart leaped to her throat, and she felt sparks burst into flames and shoot directly to a place where such sensations were alien to her.

Never had she seen anything as shocking, or riveting. Kaira tried to quell the awareness flittering in her body.

Quinten leaned over the washbasin and splashed water on his face. Picking up the pitcher, he doused himself with cold water, leaving his hair shimmering in the soft lamplight.

Kaira wondered if he was trying to wash away his anger. Her gaze froze on his tall, beautifully proportioned body.

He shivered as the cold stream hit, making his muscles ripple like skipping stones on water.

From powerful thighs made for a pair of tight jeans to the slimness of his hips, she studied every muscle, every inch of the man that exuded masculinity in every breath. He shifted his weight, exhibiting a forceful body better fit for a saddle than a desk.

Her gaze stopped below his right shoulder. Numerous pitted pockmarks were lodged around a deep, purplish, and jagged scar plowed into his back. Suppressing an outcry, Kaira covered her mouth and closed her eyes. Not from repulsiveness, but from being unable to bear thoughts about a man carrying such a horrid disfigurement. What horrible accident had caused the scar?

Composure held a fragile shell around her. Kaira opened her eyes but continued to stay fixed on the painful-looking, long-ago-healed wound. Her stomach knotted. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she grabbed the doorframe for balance.

Quinten whirled.

Kaira stood frozen. His physique was even more impressive face on. Since he had already seen her, she might as well make the most of the opportunity. After all, she’d never seen a man in his unmentionables before. In boarding school a floozy described a naked male body to her, but it paled in comparison to this magnificently built man.

She took the liberty to study his features. From his chiseled jaw covered with a smidgen of dark stubble, past angry lips and stormy eyes raging with furor, to that God-awful scowl he seemed to reserve just for her.

“What in the hell?” A muscle clenched along his jaw. He grabbed his shirt. Pulling it over his shoulders, he left the front open, and took a decisive step toward her.

But not before she got a good look at his memorable front side. As she had suspected, beneath his shirt he had a broad chest with a massive triangle of dark hair that disappeared somewhere beneath his flat stomach, short of his unwhisperables. His nipples formed perfect peaks on the swells of muscle. He looked magnificent, as though created from some novelist’s imagination.

Bewildered at his outburst, and not sure whether it was a question or profanity, Kaira refused to respond and stood rooted in place, unable to pry her stare off the man.

What she was doing was simply unacceptable, yet she couldn’t help herself. Unsuccessfully, she attempted to transfer her gaze to his feet, but that didn’t help once she got midway down his exquisite, scantly dressed body.

Hypnotized, she boldly held a fortuitous stare on Quinten, shocked to think that as a well-bred lady she had such an overwhelming desire to reach out and boldly touch him. To see if his skin was as warm and strong as his fingers, if his muscles would harden beneath her touch, if the heat that filled her body like a prairie fire would flame hotter yet.

“What in the hell are you staring at?” He furiously snatched his pants from a nail. “I can’t even have any privacy in my own place! Get the hell out of here.”

“Well, I’m not leaving, so go ahead and put on your trousers-”

“Jeans-” His angry retort hardened his features.

“Jeans, trousers…you still put the same, uh, necessaries in them as any man, don’t you?”

Not expecting a response, she inventoried the room as Quin turned his back, tucked in his shirt, and buttoned his fly.

A massive worktable anchored the room, allowing for little furniture. A stove, washstand, and cupboard in the corner made for a makeshift kitchen.

“You just don’t seem to be able to follow instructions. I said get out.” He ground the words between his teeth.

“Not until you terminate me or we get things straight between us.” She spoke boldly, matching his ire.

“Don’t tempt me. You have no idea, sweetheart, just how close you are to being thrown to the wolves…” Quin pushed past her and headed for his desk. “And they love fresh meat.

“You’re not cut out for this business. I’ll send a telegram to your grandfather advising him that you are on your way back to Boston. I don’t know why in the hell he sent you here in the first place, but I bet he had a reason.”

Uncomfortable with his accusations, Kaira flinched at the words spearing her heart. Grandfather did nothing without a reason. He told her he’d chosen Texas to send her to learn the business, but was that the only reason? She responded in a firm, decisive voice. “I’m not going anywhere. Besides, we have a contract.”

“Yes, a contract that says you’ll work here as an apprentice for three months. In exchange for your help, I’m to teach you the rag business. Something you don’t seem to take seriously.”

“Why are you so angry?”

“Why not?” He shoved the trash can aside and jerked open a drawer. “You take over my bedroom. Interfere with my work. Refuse to do yours. And, in general, you are more trouble than any man deserves.”

“Are you irritated because I had items shipped from Boston and changed a few things in the bedroom?”

“A few things!”

“It’s the lace curtains, isn’t it?”

“No…Yes. It’s the, uh, everything. The frilly, girlie stuff everywhere I turn. That damnable ugly hat you wear. The prissy china basin and pitcher. Soft and velvety pillows and the bedcovers. What in the hell did you do with my quilt?” Not waiting for her answer, he vented on. “Why all that satin and lace on my bed?” He thrust the drawer closed with such force that it knocked over his pencil holder.

“Your bed?” The cussed man made her madder than-than her grandfather. “I believe it’s mine. As I recall, my contract states that you will provide me with suitable accommodations, and to be comfortable-”

“Where did it say that you can wreak havoc on my life? And I want that quilt.”

“It’s in the Saratoga.” She stepped toward Quinten, almost afraid of his response. “Why is the quilt so important to you?”

“It’s personal.” His tone softened. “My mother made it.”

Although he lowered his voice to a midrange roar, the annoyance on his face didn’t slack, yet the underlying sensitivity of his words captivated her.

“Quinten-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But you called me sweetheart.”

“I was thinking about Mother.” He stomped into one boot then the other and bolted upright. “Miss Renaulde, let’s get one thing straight. I am your boss and you are my student. Nothing more. Not now, not earlier, not ever. Do you understand?”

His stubbornness unleashed something within her. “Sit back down.” Triumph flooded through her when he winced at her words.

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

“Then I’ll tell everyone in town that you forgot your own godson’s christening.”

Shocked, he crossed his arms and planted his feet apart, which only served to call attention to his pigheadedness. “And how do you know that?”

“First off…” She eased onto Monk’s stool, feeling a bit like a fawn facing a Winchester. “Mrs. Diggs asked me if I’d remind you that the baby rattle you ordered had come in. You’d been by the mercantile several times of late, and hadn’t inquired about it, so she was worried.”

“Learning about the christening wasn’t hard. It’s no secret. What about the other two articles?” He snatched up his watch and looked at the face, as thought he was clocking her.

“The truth-”

“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“I wrote them. Every single, solitary word. Well, with the exception of-”

“How much is four bits?” he asked smugly. “And how did you know the man selling apples was from Wichita Falls?”

She shrugged off his first question, but became frazzled with the second. “I checked out each fact-”

“No, you didn’t.” He proceeded back to his desk, tore open a drawer, and tossed a newspaper at least two years old in her direction. “That story came straight from the Dodge City Times and we’ve already run it. And the chicken story sounds faintly familiar, except for the age of the critter. How many one-legged chickens make the newspaper?”

“Are you going to thank me?”

“For what? For intruding on my privacy, inserting yourself in my life without being asked, for nearly getting my chops busted by Masterson…for-”

“For saving your hide! If I hadn’t jogged your memory, you would have missed the christening.”

“Not on your life.”

“You never answered me. Why are you so angry?”

“Why are you so nosy?”

She frowned, not sure if his question was rhetorical or not. This was her opening. Maybe the last opportunity she would have to set the record straight.

“I think you’re angry because you’re scared.”

“I don’t recall asking your opinion. I asked why you’re nosy.”

Kaira didn’t hesitate and rushed past his comment. “Scared that a woman will be attracted to you, then repulsed by your scars. Scared you might show your tender side. Which, by the way, you did this evening when you rubbed my neck. First one finger, then three.”

“I knew you weren’t asleep!”

“No, you didn’t, or you would have never touched me. You are frightened of living, don’t think you deserve being happy, and so many things that I couldn’t even keep count. You make a job of making folks think you are insensitive and tough.” She needed to take a breath, but couldn’t stop long enough, afraid the words would stop flowing. “I came into town prepared for you to put me on the next coach back to Boston. I was afraid, too. Afraid of succeeding. You made me see that I don’t have to be afraid any longer. Ever since I can remember, I followed in the footsteps of one powerful man after another. My grandfather, his father before him, my dad, at least a half a dozen uncles and twice that many cousins. I had to go to the right school, use proper etiquette, speak and act a lady, everything I wasn’t. Everything I didn’t want to be. Everything…”

Somewhere between the second and third “everything,” or even as early as her reference to her grandfather, Quin lost his train of thought. One that was heading for a huge pileup any moment.

Why am I so angry?

Not for any of the reasons she had named. He was angry for reacting so badly to her seeing him undressed, reaching in his soul and massaging an ache. Resurrecting feelings he tried much of his life to hide.

Quin hooked a chair with the toe of his boot and slumped into it. He closed his eyes, not giving a flying fig if Kaira noticed. After all, she was too busy flouncing around the room, performing a soliloquy.

Anger was all Quin could remember feeling. First was hugging his father good-bye when he went off to war, never to return, then watching his mother grieve herself to death. Later, Quin was shipped from one family to another until Monk took him in and taught him the worldly ways of living.

If it hadn’t been for his mentor, Quin would have lost the ranch before he was old enough to play with roly-polies. Settling in at the old homestead, Monk taught Quin how to ride with the wind, follow a trail while covering tracks, and how to hunt and fish for survival. Drink whiskey like a man and play a decent hand of poker. To take care of his body and mind. Quin went to school, something many young men his age didn’t get a chance to do. Readin’ and numbers, as Monk used to say, were what would make a man successful. That and having general smarts, he’d always add.

Quin couldn’t help but smile at his wandering thoughts. The ol’ cowpoke had taken him to church every time the door opened, except during roundup time. Then they’d hook up with an outfit and take a herd of cattle up north to market. Once Amarillo became a rail town and stockyards became a plenty, Monk bought the print shop, like his father before him, and trained Quin in the newspaper business. The ol’ buzzard had taught Quin everything a young man needed to know, except how to keep his heart from being broken.

Kaira’s rambling cut through his musing. “And then I arrive in Amarillo and…”

Quin watched Kaira. Every time she stopped for a breath and her eyes met his, his heart turned over. When she wasn’t watching, his gaze traveled over her face, then moved down her body slowly. The very air around her seemed electrified and wrapped him in invisible warmth, sparking feelings in him that had nothing to do with reason.

“Plus, today is April Fools’ Day, so I thought you’d enjoy a joke.” She stopped and looked up and his heart lurched madly. “Any red-blooded man enjoys…”

“The last I heard, April Fools’ is on the first day of April, so you’re either early or late, depending on which you prefer.”

Kaira’s brows arched mischievously and she twisted her pretty little lips, as though giving the whole idea plenty of thought. “I rarely look at a calendar…”

Or a watch, either, Quin thought.

Damn, that woman was so compelling, with a magnetism potent enough to rivet him in place. He veered away again, thinking about velvety skin concealing an inner strength bordering on stubbornness like nothing he’d ever experienced.

Monk had taught him everything, but somewhere along the line he’d failed the class on how to handle a woman like Kaira.

“Do you want to know what happened to my back and shoulder?” Quin wasn’t sure where the words came from. Maybe it was her magnetism after all.

“I barely noticed a scar.”

And I barely noticed your attributes looking as though they are crying to be caressed, to come fully awake, Quin thought.

Torn by conflicting emotions, he began. “I was foolishly young, invincible, I thought. Rode the range when I wasn’t on my ranch, near the Canadian River.” He cleared his throat, pretending not to be affected by his pounding heart. “Monk and I hired on with an outfit taking a couple of thousand longhorns up to Dodge City. Moses, the lead steer on the drive, was hoofin’ it along between me and Monk, since we were riding point. We had our eyes on a young, feisty bull closing in on Moses. I knew if they began to fight, Moses would kill the maverick and we’d be gathering up strays for a month. Like an idiot, I thought I could distract the ornery critter, but not before Ol’ Moses turned and decided to put the bull in his place. They hooked horns and somewhere along the way, I got into the fracas.”

“Which one did you say was the head cow?”

“Lead steer, and it was Moses.”

“You and Monk didn’t hurt either of the cows, did you?”

“Steers! No, between me getting gored and Monk getting me the hell out of the way they forgot their differences and the bull ended up at the railhead. Ol’ Moses had to sluefoot his way back to Amarillo with the drovers. If it hadn’t been for Monk, I’d be dead.”

Before he knew it, Kaira kneeled before him. Taking his hands in hers, she kissed one then another. “It must have hurt, Quin.” She cooed like a mourning dove, throaty, soft, and meaningful. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Try giving that tongue of yours a rest, sweetheart.” Not knowing what possessed him, he lifted her into his lap.

Hungrily, his mouth covered hers, sending spirals of ecstasy through him. He intended to kiss her gently, but when she returned his kisses with such reckless abandonment, he turned demanding. Quin masterfully taught her new ways to use her tongue. Learning fast, she amorously responded, arousing him fully.

Blood pounded in Kaira’s brain, leapt from her heart, and made her knees tremble.

Quin’s mind told him she’d slap him all the way to Goliad and back if he went further, but his body refused to listen to the warning. He slowly moved his hand under her skirt to skim her hips and thighs. She was stunned at the unharnessed desire that his gentle touch sent throughout her body, her own eagerness to touch him, accept, and return each passionate kiss.

Before she completely tossed out any semblance of logic and let Quin have his way with her, Kaira had to tell him the truth. She couldn’t sleep with a man she lied to. She slid her arms from around his neck, splaying her palms against his chest. Looking into his eyes, she knew the moment might pass, and Quin would withdraw as he did earlier in the evening, but she had to take the chance. He had to know everything. “I have something I have to say…”

Quin rolled his eyes. She always had something to say, but why right now? He tried to pull her back into his embrace.

“You have five seconds, starting right now.” He pointed toward the shelf clock and smiled. A very wicked, sensual smile.

“I need to say this. I feel so sorry for you-”

As quickly as their kisses turned to passion, he pulled her arms from around his neck and set her upright, allowing the hem of her skirt to fall into place in the process.

Quin came to his feet. “I’m not your charity case. I don’t want your pity.” He ran his hands though his hair. “Your grandfather sent you here for a purpose, and taking me on as a charity case wasn’t it.”

“You’re not a charity case. I meant-”

“You seem to think the words ‘I meant’ will correct whatever ill-conceived remarks that flow from your mouth. Do us both a favor and do the job you were hired for-get me some news.” He pulled his slicker and hat from the coat tree. “I’m not your project or your lackey. Don’t feel sorry for me.” He stormed outdoors bareheaded, carrying the raincoat.

Intense lightning flashed, followed by a deafening clap of thunder that split the air and seemed to reinforce Quin’s furor.

Kaira yelled into the darkness. “You’ll have an editorial tomorrow that you will never forget-Mister Corbett!”

Chapter 10

Kaira kicked the door shut with picture-rocking force. The reverberation disturbed the only shelf on the wall, which held a mantel clock with some God-awful mythological creature reclining on top.

Settling her hands on her hips and pursing her lips, she studied the newsprint that Quin had nailed up-DEADLINE, AMARILLO BY MORNING. Good judgment replaced childishness, and suppressed her desire to rip the ludicrous reminder into a zillion pieces, bake it in a pastry, and serve the rascal some humble pie.

In fairness, maybe she had created chaos in his tranquil existence. She’d taken over his bedroom, spiffing it up to make it to her liking. But, in turn, his touch had set off wild, unleashed sensations within her, feelings reserved only for soiled doves.

Why had she even attempted to apologize to the knot-head for Grandfather Renaulde saddling him with a wet-behind-the-ears, snot-nosed tenderfoot? She didn’t think she’d missed any of the idioms Quin had tagged on her as she’d waited outside the door on her first day, summoning up enough courage to face the unpredictable, big man with a bigger reputation. Now she understood why her grandfather said that Quin and three Philadelphia lawyers would make a good match for the devil.

From the moment she stepped into the newspaper office, she had recognized a restless rebellion in Quin’s every move. His forced demeanor failed to mask an underlying wildness. Definitely a man who gave women the desire to tame. He portrayed independence much like her grandfather. Mulling it over, she counted the similarities between the two obstinate, bullheaded men.

No! Quinten doesn’t deserve my apology. The turkey could stay mad for all she cared. Then reality nudged her-aside from being a comely Texan who any woman would enjoy spooning in the moonlight, Quin was the editor and her boss, so she had no choice but to respect his position.

Kaira dropped into the editor’s chair and steadily rocked back and forth.

Spitfire and brimstone-bring on the matches, the whole room smelled like him. Woodsy, layered with leather and printer’s ink, as bold and appealing as the man himself. The one scent missing-coffee. Monk always had a pot brewing.

After making her way to the makeshift kitchen in the back room, Kaira fed the cast-iron stove two small logs-a new experience for her. Proudly, she poured water into the coffee pot and added a generous amount of Arbuckle’s. Not sure how much she should use, and considering its dark, rich color, she tapped in another cup or so of grinds. She then replaced the tin in the cupboard beside a bowl of peppermint sticks.

On the battered sawbuck table she spied a crock that she didn’t remember seeing before. Lifting the lid, the aroma of tea waned as it filled the air. A smile tickled her lips. Had hell frozen over?

Hot tea and honey sounded irresistible. After preparing a cup, Kaira found her way back to the front office. Pacing and blowing on the mug to cool the hot liquid, she kept an eye on the window. Sunrays radiated out into a vivid tapestry of copper washed with indigo. Morning approached rapidly.

With little sleep, except for the wink or two she caught waiting on Quin to return to the office, Kaira hurried to her room and selected an ordinary, blue muslin day dress. She missed the luxury of her indoor bathtub at home, finding drawing and heating water quite annoying.

She eyed a hatbox. Considering the windy, dusty weather of the Panhandle, her beautiful, hand-fashioned trappings served no purpose but to be bothersome. Her starched, Bostonian friends would be appalled at her lack of style, but at least it’d give Quinten one less thing to find fault with.

On her way out, she laid aside two dime novels and picked up a leather-bound book from the highboy.

Refreshing her tea, she returned to Quin’s desk and opened an etiquette book considered the boarding school Bible. She thought back to the hours her headmistress had forced each girl to practice becoming a lady. Kaira flipped through the pages and began to read, taking in each word with new meaning: “A false admiration of man will change an angel into a demon. A misguided blow of the mallet will shatter all the efforts of years of training to learn to become a lady…”

Hearing the familiar sound of Monk shuffling into the office, she sprang from behind Quin’s desk and slipped the book beneath her notepad on her worktable.

Appearing unconcerned with Quin’s absence, Monk muttered a shy hello before exchanging his jacket and Stetson for an apron and visor.

Monk knew Quin better than anyone. Maybe he could tell her why Quin seemed angry with her more times than not. She needed guidance, and the seasoned gentleman seemed long on candid advice.

“Are you too busy to have a cup of coffee?” Kaira asked, taking a chance that he wouldn’t decline.

“Sure would be a pleasure, ma’am. I’ll fix us both a cup.” He started for the back room, his limp more profound than usual. She recalled her nanny saying that the wet after a storm stirred up her “rumatiz” something fierce.

Monk returned with two chipped mugs, gave her one, and headed to his desk. Taking a sip, a stunned look caught on his face, and his cheeks swelled up like a squirrel carrying a walnut. From across the room the dastardly, thick, ill-smelling concoction assaulted her nostrils.

She considered taking the trash can to him so he could spit out the unsavory stuff, but he swallowed.

“Mighty fine coffee, ma’am. Yep, mighty fine.” He set the cup aside.

“Do you know where Mr. Corbett might be?” She followed his example, and slid her cup out of the way.

“Reckon I do, ma’am, sure do. He’s over gettin’ all duded up, he is.” He pulled on a sleeve-protector.

Good! That would give her time to talk with the old man.

“You know Mr. Corbett better than anyone-”

“Raised the boy since he was knee high to a grasshopper, sure did.”

She caught herself glancing toward the door, realizing her misgivings were increasing by the second. “I don’t know exactly how to ask this-”

“Spit it out, ma’am. Jest say what’s on your mind. Keepin’ somethin’ stuck in your craw will make a man poorly.”

“Good advice. Thank you.” For once, she felt uncomfortable speaking her mind, but Monk made it so easy. “Has Mr. Corbett-”

“Call him Quin, he never took a likin’ to being called Mister.”

“Okay. Has Quin always been-let’s call it a tad testy?”

“He ain’t a tad testy, he’s about as out’a humor as a prairie chicken headin’ for a skillet. Jest depends on how the wind’s blowin’.”

Well, this might be easier than she first thought, considering Monk normally protected Quin like a nanny goat with her kid.

“Did it all start when he got hurt?” She hesitated, realizing Monk didn’t know she knew about Quin’s injury.

“Figured you found out…” He picked up his cup then set it back down, probably remembering how horrible the coffee tasted. “Considering what a sore mood that boy was in over at the livery stable last night, pert near midnight. Yep, he sure looked like something the dogs drug in outta the rain. Growled like one, too. Yes, ma’am, he sure did look unhappy.”

“I guess it’s my fault.”

“No, ma’am. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

“I don’t understand.” Kaira took a quick, sharp breath of confusion.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t understand, ma’am. A man like Quin ain’t fond of being fenced in.”

“And, I’m fencing him in?”

“Nope. The work is. He was born to ride the range and be free. His back is jest part of what’s eatin’ him.”

Kaira sat back and listened to Monk tell her about Quin’s father dying in the filth and neglect at Andersonville Prison. Too tired and frightened from fighting the Indians, his mama grieved for the past. Unable to continue managing the ranch, she allowed the few head of cattle not rustled or slaughtered to wander away. Finally, all her hands took their measly pay, what they hadn’t already stolen from her, and headed off the ranch, never to return. Nothing gave her hope, not even her son, Quin.

Step by step, the ol’ codger told every aspect of Quin’s growing up, including how Monk came upon the little feller burying his ma under a big old cottonwood tree not far from a withered field of wildflowers. How he watched the youngster pick a few stalks of limp Indian Blanket and some sort of a daisy and stick them in the mound of dirt that he had so carefully packed over his ma’s grave…as firm as any nine-year-old could.

Tears trembled on her eyelashes. More slow, hot tears wet her throat and threatened to spill out of her eyes. Faced with the harsh reality of how helpless and frightened Quin must have felt, she closed her eyes, allowing the links of his life to fit together one after another, until it formed a beautiful chain depicting the whole of Quinten Jon Corbett.

“I talked the kid into letting me stay on as a ranch hand for the winter. He paid me what he could until the money played out, then we took to droving to make ends meet. We had our good times, and some not so good ’uns, too.” Monk stood and picked up his cup. “Want more coffee?” he asked as though he’d drank the whole pot.

“No, thanks.” Kaira covered her face with her hand, trying to sort out everything she had learned about the mysterious editor.

But the most astonishing revelation came after Monk returned from putting water on to boil. He never complained about her coffee, just started another pot.

“We’ll have us more Arbuckle’s before we know it.” He returned and hitched himself upon a stool. “After he got hurt and couldn’t hit the trail, I didn’t feel right about going off and leaving the kid behind, so I took the little money I’d horded, bought this print shop, and ran it until I sold it to your grandfather.”

“He bought the shop from you?” Stunned, she repeated what he said. Kaira attempted to mask her inner turmoil with a deceptive calmness. “I’m confused.”

Her grandfather had told her unequivocally that he had purchased the shop from Quinten.

Kaira cleared her throat, more shaken than she wanted Monk to know. “Then how did Quin end up with the business? He does own it, doesn’t he?”

“Yep, he sure does. I don’t think you’d appreciate the story, so let’s jest leave it be. The shop belongs to the boy, not me.”

“I believe I’d surprise you.”

“No ma’am, nary another word. It’d only disappoint you.” His tone was apologetic, yet left no room for discussion.

“Quin owes you for everything he is-everything he has?”

“No, ma’am! It’s me who owes Quin. He saved me from sure death when that ornery lead steer and a bull filled with pizz’n’vinegar got into a scrape up around Dodge City. If the boy hadn’t been brave-not to mention foolish-enough to get me out of the way, I’d been pushin’ up daisies somewhere on the range, with nobody but a bunch of buzzards for company.”

“So that’s the real reason Quin doesn’t want anyone to know about his injury. He doesn’t want anyone to know the truth…that he was hurt being a true hero.”

“No, ma’am, Quin don’t wanna be nobody’s hero ’cause heroes only get their hearts broken, and that boy’s been hurt so much that he’s bound and determined not to let it happen again.” Monk shifted uneasily in his seat, probably realizing that Quin would be furious if he knew they were discussing him in such an intimate fashion. “Yep, for sure, the man’s fightin’ with all his might to make sure he won’t get hurt no more.”

Thoughts whirled in Kaira’s head as she tried to separate emotions from reality. Why had her grandfather deliberately kept from her the truth about who he bought the shop from? She thought him a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one. Why the deception? Did he want the newspaper to fail? And, if so, for what purpose?

Determination coupled with a streak of inbred defiance took over. Kaira had no intentions of allowing the ol’ toad back in New England to take away the only thing Quin had left-the Panhandle Herald. Whether Quin wanted her help or not, she was in Amarillo to stay. The newspaper would succeed. She’d focus on nothing but learning the rag business, maybe even enough where Quin could be free to spend more time at his ranch-go back to doing what his true calling was…being a cowboy.

By George, if Grandfather wanted to play a game, she’d best him this time.

Monk interrupted her thoughts. “I gotta take next week’s newspapers over to Jeb Diggs cause we never know when Coop will be pulling in here to pick ’um up to cart over to Mobeetie.”

“Mr. Monk, before you leave, may I ask you something else?”

“Yes, ma’am, reckon you can.” He removed his visor and fingered the bill, as though he’d answered about all of the questions he planned to.

“I need your help.”

Panic settled over the old-timer’s face. “Yes, ma’am. You know I’d do most anything for you-”

“I mean, I need your advice.”

“Yep, for sure, got lots of that.”

“Will you teach me the newspaper business?”

“Yep, can sure do that.” He held onto the visor for dear life. “Yes, ma’am, I’d be plumb tickled to help you out.”

“Thank you. You won’t be sorry.” She picked up her cup and walked toward Monk’s desk to retrieve his. “Another question. What can I do to make the newspaper successful?”

“Do your job, ma’am. Quit playin’ games with Quin. Teasing the boy. He’s had enough of that to fill a lifetime. Pardon me for saying it, but-”

“I haven’t taken any of this seriously, is that what you’re saying?”

“Sorta, ma’am.” He hung the visor on the peg. Shuffling over to the stack of papers, he effortlessly lifted a twine-tied bundle over his shoulder. “One more thing, Kaira, you’re not a dimwit. You gotta make him believe in you. You know what the boy needs, jest give it to him.”

“Beginning with an editorial he won’t forget?”

“Yep. And, a good ol’ pot of sonofabitch stew and biscuits wouldn’t hurt either. Don’t got many fixin’s in the cupboard, but we got credit with Jeb Diggs, so get anything you need.” Not bothering to take off his apron or sleeve protectors, Monk grabbed his hat and headed toward the door.

Stopping and slightly turning her direction, he said, “Quin loves them Maryland Beaten Biscuits, and a good ol’ larruping tongue pie would cheer the boy up.”

Once Monk was out of sight, Kaira seized Quin’s weighty, black apron and heaved it over her head. She laughed goodheartedly as it fell heavily over her breast, almost taking her breath away. She stretched. Having to put her arms in positions unaccustomed to her, she finally got the waist tied.

Oh, Kaira was taking this serious…nobody knew how seriously!

Chapter 11

Quin watched Monk exit the newspaper office like a short-tailed bull in fly season as he headed toward Diggs Grocery and Hardware. The bundle of newspapers balanced on Monk’s shoulder seemed weightless as he scurried along, dragging his leg slightly.

“Afternoon, Miss Harper.” Quin tipped his hat to the woman who had appeared beside him, damning himself for poor timing. Another twenty paces and he’d made it to his office without her catching up with him. He kept walking until Mavis Harper latched onto his arm, making it impossible to continue. At least he was squarely in front of the window of his office, and hopefully Kaira would come to his rescue. On the other hand, she might gleefully watch Mavis eat him alive.

Half-heartedly, he listened to Mavis rave about his new reporter. Reporter my ass! Nodding in agreement every now and again, he let her sing Miss Renaulde’s praises, while his thoughts seemed to focus mainly on Kaira’s, uh, attributes.

Surely the woman had cooled down by now.

Quin had. He’d had plenty of time to adjust his attitude and think things through on the cold, wet trip to his ranch.

Once the storm moved out, a full moon showed him the way. Quin had checked on the barn and the house to make sure no saddle tramp had taken advantage of his absence. Satisfied, Quin led his buckskin, who he unimaginatively had named “Buckskin,” to the barn where he unsaddled the gelding, rubbed him down, and turned him out in the corral.

Too restless to sleep in the house, Quin found his secret corner of the barn and stretched out on the dry, dusty hay. Unsettled, he tried to shuck memories of hiding in the barn, praying he was invisible, being scared of strangers who happened onto the ranch. Terrified of what they would do with a young child alone if they found him. Fearful for his life, but more afraid of being forced on yet another family who viewed him as nothing but a nuisance and an extra mouth to feed, since he hadn’t been big enough to work in the fields.

Sleep came sparingly.

At daybreak, having spent a chilly, fitful night, Quin rambled his way up to the house. Not bothering to start a fire, he found some beans and ate them straight from the can. That would be enough nourishment to last until he got back to town and had a good meal at Miss Maggie’s.

Saddling the gelding, Quin made his customary stop under the cottonwood trees. A weathered cross with the words REBECCA KATHLEEN CORBETT-MY MOTHER burnt into the wood and bent by years of wind and rain served as the headstone.

Quin cleared the area of dead limbs and winter’s brush. Pleased that the Indian Blanket had bloomed, he picked a few.

While Quin worked, the sun came alive and burned off much of the haze, casing a shadow over his shoulder. A sense of serenity veiled Quin as he placed the wildflowers on the grave still glistening with dew. As though someone touched his soul, he shivered. He had to be going loco because he was certain he had heard his mother’s voice. “Live my son. Live for me.”

Quin laid his head on the grave. A tear dropped silently on the wildflowers. He knew it wasn’t manly to cry, but maybe he should have done it years ago.

Swinging into his saddle, Quin headed Buckskin for Amarillo, with thoughts of Kaira heavy on his mind.

He’d never experienced such heated passion as he did with her. She brought out both the best and the worst in him…the beast in him. She seemed to find perverse pleasure in challenging him to protect her. Every curve of her body spoke defiance, with a hint of maddening arrogance. Quin loved the way she had prickled up when her anger turned to scalding fury. She had hurled words at him like stones. Damn, he thought he might be in love with her. A gal to match him tit-for-tat. He’d seen salty women in his life, but none like Kaira Clarice Renaulde.

“Quinten Corbett.” Miss Harper’s voice penetrated Quin’s thoughts and brought him back to the streets of Amarillo. “I do believe I lost you for a moment.” She smiled, her big eyes blaring in excitement.

“No, ma’am. I heard every word. Would you excuse me?” Quin made his getaway before she could grab his arm again.

Quin virtually slammed the door behind him. He took off his Stetson and hung it along with his slicker on the peg, mumbling a sheepish hello to Kaira, who sat at her desk reading.

Out of habit, he checked the time. Three sixteen. Damn, he’d missed dinner and supper wouldn’t be served until five o’clock. Miss Maggie never varied her schedule an iota.

Walking to his desk, he caught sight of Kaira tucking wayward strands of hair back into place. She seemed flustered and a bit nervous as she pulled at the cuffs of her sleeves, barely glancing up.

“Are you getting sick?” He noted the beads of perspiration on her forehead, and a shimmering of blush that ran across her neckline and downward toward her…attributes.

“No. I’m…fine.” She sounded winded.

“Did you have a good morning?” Quin retrieved his apron from the back of his chair.

“Yes, thank you.” Her blush deepened to crimson.

Quin was certain he’d hung the apron in its regular place when he left, but then he’d been pretty angry and might have forgotten to put it up.

He slid the protector over his head, surprised by the warmth left over from being recently worn. It was Kaira’s warmth, and dern if he didn’t think he smelled her-lily of the valley on the cowhide. But why had she worn his work apron?

Kaira watched Quin pull a stack of handwritten pages from his center desk drawer. He carefully sat them on the typesetting table.

Uncertainty clutched at her heart.

Quin flashed a brief, arresting smile that dazzled against his sun-drenched skin. He was even more stunningly virile than ever. Blasted, he was so charming when he smiled.

Clenching and unclenching her hands, Kaira squirmed in her seat, wishing her uncomfortableness would subside and she could scrounge up the courage to ask him where he had spent the night. But then it wasn’t any of her concern.

Dern it! The man looked better than any French pastry she’d ever tasted. A delicacy that once you are introduced to, you can’t do without. Although still unruly, Quin’s dark hair was shorter and he was freshly shaven, smelling of soap, leather, and a hint of lilac aftershave.

“I ran into Monk last night. He’s been working too hard, so with you here to help, I told him to take the rest of the day off. He’s picked up enough news off the telegraph to put together a decent paper next week.”

“Do you still need a piece?” Although Quin had typeset most of the next edition, she knew he still had white space, something not profitable to a publisher.

“I could use it. Got one?” A flash of humor crossed his face. “One that doesn’t have anything to do with melons or apples. No fruit at all.”

“And no Mark Twain?” Half leery of his good humor, she flashed a tentative smile. Fully prepared for him to quill up at the notion that she had a serious story, she said, “Yes, I have something. It isn’t gossip. It’s a peace offering to prove my renewed commitment to the success of the paper.”

“Then for once, we’re both plowing in the same direction, huh?” He spoke in a kind, jesting way. “Did you put it in the drawer with the others or do you have it on you?”

“I have it in here.” She reached for her caba, hesitating slightly. “Before you start typesetting it, we need to talk.”

“Kaira, generally you do the talking and I do the listening, so why don’t you start and I’ll catch up with you.” He went back to his desk and sat down.

“Why did Monk sell the newspaper to my family?”

“The ol’ coot didn’t tell you?” Quin looked surprised and a bit hesitant to say more.

“No-no, he didn’t and I need to know.”

“He sold the newspaper after I got hurt to pay the taxes on the ranch. We’d depleted most of our funds, and the money we were suppose to receive for the few head that did make it to market never got back to us.”

“I didn’t know. So, how did you become the editor-in-chief?”

“He didn’t tell you that either?” Quin didn’t wait for her reply. “It’ll only disappoint you.”

“That’s exactly what Monk said, so tell me the truth…all of the truth.”

“Let’s just say he and your grandfather didn’t see eye to eye. Didn’t share the same philosophies. Monk pretty much wanted to stay low-key and not disturb folks. Renaulde wanted big changes that most of the new frontier wasn’t prepared for. Monk was bound and determined not to give in and they fired him.”

“Fired him!” She was appalled. The cold and heartless cad. Terminating someone because they didn’t share his opinion.

“Yep. I stepped in and agreed to become the editor, only if they’d leave me be, let me hire my own assistant, and pay his wages out of my own pocket.”

“That is an atrocity.” She wasn’t sure that the soft spot she had for the old man wasn’t responsible for much of her ire. She opened her pocketbook and retrieved two envelopes that she had carefully protected all the way from Boston to Texas.

“Quin, I know I haven’t appeared to take my employment very seriously, but I want to begin. I want to learn. I’m well educated and have something to offer. Here is a piece I brought with me.” Carefully, she avoided saying a piece that her grandfather had given her in return for her promise that she’d get it into the newspaper. “It’s an editorial.”

“We don’t do editorials.” He smiled, backing off. “But let me read it.”

“Grandfather said that they are what makes a newspaper sophisticated, gives it respect, and increases circulation.”

Kaira took a deep breath, thinking back to when her grandfather had given her the article. How he explained that she would know when the time was right to give it to Quin. That it was the kind of piece that would set a journalist apart from a reporter. Not some silly writing about the patent dispute over the flexibles. As he had pointed out, paper matches would never replace stick ones.

He warned her that she didn’t want to spend all of her career reporting on events such as the new drinking straws that they were sure would catch on. Or the Atlanta druggist who was peddling his new concoction, Coca-Cola, right out of his store. There might be a story there if the two got together; otherwise, she’d spend her career trying to create a name for herself out of drivel and other’s troubles.

Grandfather had promised the editorial would make him proud of her and she would be a real journalist. A reporter who could make big money selling her stories to McClure’s and Ladies Home Journal. She’d be somebody to reckon with.

“Are you going to give the article to me or do I need to hogtie you to get it?” Another arresting smile appeared.

Kara handed both envelopes to Quin and returned to her chair. Facing him, she fidgeted in anticipation. She visualized the pleasure on his face after he read the story.

Grandfather said it would put the Panhandle Herald on the map and everyone would be talking about the story.

Quin placed the thinner envelope in his desk drawer. “Bonus for the Masterson story,” he said. Carefully he unsealed the thicker one.

Leaning back in his chair, he slowly, methodically read the editorial, occasionally peering up at her over his glasses.

Once finished, he returned to the first sheet. After rereading each page, he turned it face down on his desk and continued on. He read each word, almost too carefully. His jaw clenched tighter and tighter as he read further. His eyes became stormy, and his brow furrowed into a frown. Apparently, he wasn’t as enthralled with the story as she thought he’d be.

Quin laid the editorial on the desk. He removed his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. Opening his pocket watch, he checked the time and closed the gold cover.

Kaira fidgeted in the quietness, feeling a black cloud hovering overhead. The spirited editor’s attitude had changed, dampening the air with gloom.

He gathered the parchments in a bundle, folded them neatly, and tapped the edges on the desktop, apparently weighing his words carefully. “You didn’t write this.” Quin’s voice was uncompromising yet oddly gentle, quickly turning rigid. “I would have thought that coming from a publishing family you would know that plagiarism is the worst breach of ethics.” He set his jaw and continued to tap on the table. “Maybe presenting something old and contrived is acceptable in Boston, but it isn’t in Texas. At least not while I’m the editor.”

“I didn’t write the damn thing, Quin.”

Seemingly unaffected by her confession and her profanity, Quin asked, “Have you even read it?”

She thought she might cry. “No.”

“Then let me read an excerpt for you.” He took a deep breath before beginning. “‘For decades it has been the goal of the federal Indian policy for containment on the Indian. About six years ago, a group of social reformers and government officials met at Mohonk Lake, New York-’”

“My grandfather instructed me on the details. Even our nineteenth President, Rutherford Hayes, attended. The Friends of the Indian movement has opened dozens of off-reservation day schools and boarding schools for the sole purpose of reeducating the Indians and make them better citizens.”

“Do you realize that all of the participants were from the East and only two had ever laid eyes on an Indian?”

“No, but, Grandfather Renaulde said-”

“Malarkey! He’s like so many other Easterners who are scared out of his wits about the political power growing in the West. They want it stifled.”

“And you truly believe that?” She didn’t wait for his response. “Grandfather and Uncle Christian sat me down and went to great lengths to explain the movement thoroughly, focusing on how it would benefit the Indians.”

“Kaira, you are naive to their motives. Have you ever heard of yellow journalism?”

“I’m familiar with it. It’s sensationalism in order to drive up circulation.”

“I recognize that you’ve been shielded from the realities of life. You’ve been protected from the ugly things that have happened.” He waved the pages through the air. “This piece all by itself can open wounds that are still very fresh in this part of the country.” He put his hands on either edge of the desk and leaned forward. Defiantly, he said, “I refuse to publish it, so take the damn thing back to Boston and tell the great Renaulde where he can shove it…”

“Grandfather is an influential man. He’s running for the Senate and has powerful people backing him. He won’t let this go without ramifications.”

“Don’t tell me about how cruel your grandfather is.”

His words made her bristle. “I didn’t say he was cruel-”

“I’ve been down this path before, and I know how ruthless he can be. Right after Monk sold the newspaper to your family, they tried to push the same editorial nonsense down his throat. That’s why they fired him.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “And you kept him on. Grandfather allowed it?”

“Only after I convinced him that it was in their best financial interest to let me keep Monk. It wasn’t anything out of his pocket, after all, I had agreed to pay Monk’s wages.” Quin leaned closer. “Money seems to pique your grandfather’s interest. He and I haven’t been on the best of terms since.”

“I had no idea, but wouldn’t it be better to publish the damnable thing than to antagonize Grandfather again?”

“Do you think it’s right to force someone to change their heritage?”

“Say what you mean. To force the Indians to take on our customs? If it betters them, possibly.”

“This group professed to support the Indian and be their friend, and it’s doomed to fail.”

“I don’t believe my family would support any type of renegade movement. Quin, maybe you aren’t keeping an open mind.”

“An open mind? Have you ever heard of the Red River War? Battle of the Washita? Adobe Walls?”

He frowned, but didn’t stop. “Do you think the old Navajo who befriended Amanda Lemmons’s father years ago and who still has to come to her place in the dark of night has a problem with Colonel Ranald Mackenzie slaughtering over a thousand Indian ponies at the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon?”

As hard as she tried to weigh his words, she could only stare at Quin. Slowly the pieces fell together. Her grandfather had used her, hoping she’d influence Quin into running the editorial. Fighting for words that refused to form, she shook her head.

“No, you wouldn’t. But I can assure you that folks around here remember. Remember being terrorized, having their cattle butchered, their homes burnt to the ground. Some of our town’s folks watched their whole family die because of the disagreements between the Indian and the government.”

“I had no idea, Quin. Honestly.” Tears welled in her eyes.

“Now, do you think I’d jeopardize my reputation and turn against my friends and neighbors by publishing an editorial on how much headway the government is making on molding the Indian into something they don’t want to be? And the Indians aren’t the least bit fooled by what the government is trying to do.”

“To make them into someone they aren’t?”

Quin slipped the pages back in the envelope. Retrieving the second one, he pulled to his feet and handed both to Kaira. “I’ve got to get over to the hotel to see Hank Harris, but I won’t be gone long.” He walked toward the door, grabbed his hat, then turned back in her direction. “I know this is distressing and makes you sad.” He tilted back his Stetson with his thumb, as though making sure she could see his eyes. “That’s why I don’t want what’s in the second packet. It’s a bonus for the Masterson interview. Renaulde used you, and I’ll never accept his blood money.”

“You know Grandfather will fire you, and you need the money.”

“No, it’s little more than a bribe, and it could never make me happy. Monk and I can live without this job. We’ve done it before and we can do it again. He’ll be happier out at the ranch, anyway. I’ve saved up enough to take care of us until I can find something else.”

“You need to restock the ranch. The money means nothing to Grandfather, so take it.” She shoved the white parcel in his direction.

Quin stepped forward, stopping in front of her. Studying her, he casually lifted her chin with his thumb, bringing her eyes up to meet his. “I know Texas isn’t the life you are accustomed to. So go on back to Boston. I can’t hold you here.” He lightly kissed her lips. Taking her hand, still clutching the envelope, he lifted it to her breast. Covering her hand with his, he whispered huskily, “Take this with you. Return it to your family.”

He turned and walked out in silence, taking part of her heart with him.

Kaira fought nausea. Tears rolled down her face. Quin was right. Grandfather had used them both, planning to force his personal views onto the world. Probably, just as Quin warned, as a way to create havoc on the strengthening politics in the new West.

How could she pressure Quin into keeping the money, or at least try to, by showing him how he could take it without compromising his values and her sincerity? Maybe she should enlist Monk’s help, getting him to talk some sense into Quin. After all, they had gotten the interview with Bat Masterson.

She didn’t know how much the draft was for but figured it was in a sufficient amount to buy a herd of cattle. Not trying to sort cows from steers, she walked to the archived newspapers, remembering that Quin had published something recently that had the price of cattle listed. She leafed through the pages.

Idea after idea formed and like bubbles on a windy day, bursting before they were fully developed. If there was enough, Quin could buy some of the new barbed wire and fence off part of his acreage for a vegetable garden or for flowers and roses.

Monk promised to teach her the printing business, and once she learned enough to run the newspaper, he and Quin could spend their days on the ranch. Or maybe Quin would spend the nights with her in the big four-poster bed upstairs.

But how much money would it take to stock a ranch? She thumbed through a few more pages. She had to convince Monk to take the cash and buy cattle.

Kaira resisted looking at the draft long enough. After all, Quin had given it to her, so technically it belonged to her. She hurried to the door and locked it, hoping Quin or Monk wouldn’t return before she finished. She opened the envelope.

The draft fell to the floor as she saw her Grandfather’s familiar calling card with a note scrolled in his masculine flourish.

This draft is for the Masterson interview. One in a like sum will be yours if you keep that twerp of a granddaughter of mine in Texas and out of trouble until the election is over. After a period of three months, I will transmit a ticket for her safe passage to Boston. FJR

In despair, she grabbed the deacon bench and eased herself down on the hard wood. She tried to will her body to quit shaking, but it wouldn’t cooperate. She fought tears of disappointment, but her sense of loss was beyond tears.

Quin was right-her grandfather was cruel, more cruel than she could ever imagine. She had always been spirited, even her nanny said she marched to her own drummer, but she had never caused her family any embarrassment, at least not enough for him to banish her from his life so he could hold public office. Was she that easy to discard?

A fleeting thought made a brief appearance. Not for a second did she believe Quin knew the true reason her contract called for her employment of three months. The contract was clear that Quin would receive extra pay for teaching her.

The shimmy of the doorknob penetrated Kaira’s clouded thoughts. Determined to shuck her pensive mood, she smoothed her skirt, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Standing tall, she gathered her wits and unlocked the door, coming face to face with Jeremiah Cooper.

“Sorry, Mr. Cooper, I didn’t realize I had locked the door.” She hoped her voice didn’t show her emotions. “Neither Mr. Monk nor Quinten are here at the moment. May I help you?”

“Miss Kaira, I came for the newspapers to take up to Mobeetie.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Monk took them to Jeb Diggs a while ago.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “I best catch up with him.”

“Mr. Cooper, you deliver items for hire, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Could you take some luggage to the train station this afternoon?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be back after I pick up the papers and make my delivery to the mercantile. Did Quin get his story on Bat Masterson? You know he fought at Adobe Walls and was a surveyor over at Mobeetie, don’t you?”

“Yes, he did. And no, I didn’t.”

Kaira followed him to his colorful wagon with gilded scrollwork and painted scenes on the side panels. It reminded her of a gypsy wagon instead of one belonging to a drummer. Mr. Cooper asked to be called “Coop” and introduced her to his pretty, pregnant, red-haired wife, Deidra.

Standing on the wooden boardwalk, Kaira watched the peddler’s wagon move toward the Diggs Grocery and Hardware, stirring up a ribbon of dust behind.

With a heart as heavy laden as Deidra Cooper’s fruitful body, Kaira hurried upstairs. Removing her lace and satin Paris fashions from the wardrobe, she placed them in a Saratoga. Gingerly, she packed her hats. Once she finished, resisting a look, she closed the door and walked the long stairwell leading down to the office.

Coop returned and loaded the trunks.

Assured that her baggage was safe, Kaira strolled back into the newspaper office. Picking up Quin’s apron, she pressed it against her breasts.

Quin would be back before long. She still had a lot to do and not much time.

Chapter 12

The etiquette book Kaira had opened as a ruse, so Quin wouldn’t know she had been wearing his apron, still remained on her desk. She jotted down an excerpt that caught her eye. “It is most necessary for a girl to have a motive placed before her-one no more than the making of bread…”

She had come to Amarillo for a purpose. To take her apprenticeship and learn to be a journalist. Whether Mr. Quinten Corbett liked it or not, she was there to stay. She would help him keep the newspaper until he had enough money to restock the ranch…and she’d do so without her grandfather’s piddling crumbs. Quin might be a turncoat at the drop of a hat, but she wouldn’t. Maybe she couldn’t write worth a dern, but she’d learn to be indispensable in his life.

Kaira turned back the etiquette book another two pages “A misguided blow of the mallet,” she read. The idea formed with “the making of bread” and developed into a full-fledged mission.

She’d become indispensable, and the beginning…cook Quin dinner. After a hot meal, the intriguing cowboy would surely be more receptive to her theory on why he should keep the money. Maybe he’d let her stay around. Maybe he’d accept her lack of punctuality. Maybe he’d let her love him the way a woman should love a man.

Love! She nearly jumped out of her sit-down-upons. She had in mind stew, biscuits, and a pie…not making a home, making love, and making babies.

“I’ll start with cooking supper.” She shook off the wicked thoughts that had taken hold and pulled Quin’s apron over her head. This time it was much easier to tie.

On the way to the tiny kitchen in the corner of the back room, she thought about her expensive dresses and hats she’d shipped to Boston. She didn’t need anything that had been purchased with Grandfather Renaulde’s money. Damn him…damn his hide to hell!

Forcing disquieting thoughts to the recesses of her mind, she turned to the matter at hand. Now what in the heck was she going to cook? Although trained to someday become the lady of a house, she could barely boil water, much less prepare a meal. Where would she begin? A recipe book would help.

Searching the cupboard, she realized Monk was right. There weren’t many fixins but she’d make do. About to give up on finding a cookbook, she unearthed a well-worn one with a wooden cover, etched with a cattle brand she didn’t recognize. But then, she wasn’t familiar with any cattle brands, so why would that surprise her.

Written on fragile parchment she found recipes. Some were so faded that she could barely make out the quantities.

“There really is a Sonofabitch Stew!” she declared, immediately discounting that as an option. Touching a dead cow’s, or steer’s, brains and heart, even if she could find them to buy, made her stomach do somersaults.

And sure enough there was a tongue pie. Her throat went dry and she could hardly swallow, but she read through the recipe. Women actually scraped a cow’s tongue! And adding cinnamon and raisins would make it taste better? Not in her lifetime.

Maryland Beaten Biscuits, that’s what Monk called them. She ran her finger down the list of ingredients. Although she had no idea what the equations of a tad, a lump, a smidgen, or a handful would translate to, she had watched the cook make biscuits before. She could do it by guess and by golly. It hadn’t looked too difficult. A might laborious, but she remembered how scrumptious the biscuits turned out. Quin would be thrilled. After she got the bread made, she could decide whether he might like ham and eggs or biscuits and gravy. Bleakly, she discounted the gravy, not having the slightest idea how it was made. She was pretty sure she’d need cream of tarter or soda, but not sure which.

The biscuit recipe looked simple enough. She followed the recipe exactly. “Take one crock of warm water, not too hot, put in a smidgen of salt, a lump of lard, and the amount of flour you think the size of the family may require.” She stopped and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

Now, we aren’t a family. So, that means not as much flour as I’d use if I were making biscuits for a bunch, she thought.

She added a couple of handfuls of flour and read on. “Make it into a paste, douse it with flour, and beat the batter with a rolling pin until its workable, right at thirty minutes. If one doesn’t have a rolling pin, a solid mallet or ax will do.”

Thirty minutes! Kaira looked at the recipe again. Not wanting to soil the page any further, she didn’t touch it. Surely, it was three minutes, not thirty.

She proceeded to pour the gooey mess out on a tea towel. A little watery, but it did say paste, she thought. Kaira sprinkled it liberally with flour. No rolling pin to be found. A mallet? Isn’t a hammer the same as a mallet? She knew exactly where Monk had put the claw hammer.

Hurrying to the office, a trail of flour followed her. She found the hammer, and glancing at the clock she realized she had to hurry, and hot-footed it back to the kitchen.

With the hammer posed over the puddle of flour and water, Kaira gave the whole procedure a second thought. The pointy end would take too long. She examined the flat side of the tool. Fairly flat, and it would speed up the process. If only she had an ax, not that she knew what one looked like, but she did know that it was much larger.

Taking aim, she drew in air to reinforce her misgivings. She closed her eyes and thought through the process. Yes, she’d done exactly as the recipe had called for, and the biscuits were truly a delicacy that would tempt any man’s taste buds. Even Monk appreciated them.

Using both hands, she lifted the hammer high above her head and proclaimed silently that she wouldn’t stop until she had beaten the dough for thirty minutes.

One second. Two seconds, she counted.

Splat! Water and flour shot through the air with lightning speed. She reared back and made contact again. And again, trying desperately to convince herself that with a few more beats, her biscuits would be perfect.

Slam! She’d make the newspaper a success.

Slam! Make her grandfather sorry.

Slam! Make Quin happy and give him a life he deserved. One he didn’t have to pay for by compromising his values.

One hundred twelve. One hundred thirteen…

“Sweetheart.” Quin’s voice split the air and caused Kaira to jump as though he’d caught a black widow guaranteeing her inherence. “I hate to bring it to your attention.” He laughed, full-bodied, whole-heartedly. Once he controlled his hilarity, he came to her and took the hammer from her hand. “I think you’ve beat that damn thing to death.”

Quin laid her assault weapon aside and turned only to chuckle again. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There stood Kaira Clarice Renaulde, astounded member of the Pea-bawdy family of Boston, covered from head to toe with flour, lard, and water. Dribbles of paste dripped from wet ringlets around her temple. His apron, now a shade of gray, hung well below her knees and no doubt she had dough in places he only dreamed about touching. Even her nice attributes were dusted in white.

“I’m sorry, Quin.” She bit at the corner of her mouth. “I think I made an error with the amount of water I was supposed to use.” Then she joined him in his merriment, not stopping until tears ran down her cheeks.

Pouring water from the kettle, he wet a cloth and began helping her clean up. He swept and mopped the floor, while she picked dried dough out of her hair and tried to wash off his apron. He made a mental note to tell Mary Carol Diggs to buy two new aprons. One extra large and one tiny.

While the floor dried they sat on the worktable, legs dangling as if they sat on a dock. They sipped tea and laughed. Laughed and sipped tea.

Quin wasn’t sure exactly how he ended up drinking such a dainty, wimpy concoction, unless of course hell had frozen over.

“Quin, I’ve had a lot of time to think today. You gave me valid reasons why society shouldn’t try to make people into something they aren’t. Isn’t that exactly what you are doing?”

“I don’t see how I’m forcing-” He drained his cup and set it beside hers.

“No, you aren’t forcing others. You are forcing yourself. You are a cattleman who needs to be out on the open range, not cooped up in a newspaper office.” She moved her thigh, so it fit more comfortable against his, enjoying the feeling of his warmth through his Levi’s. “That’s why you stay angry, or did until today.” She rested her fingers lightly on his arm. “It isn’t because of the losses in your life…but that you’ve lost your life.”

“Then tell me why you want to be someone you aren’t, too.”

“Ah, there’s where you are wrong. That’s my problem. I didn’t conform to society, so Grandfather shipped me down here, so far away from Boston that if I spoke my mind the election would be over before New England got word of it. He wouldn’t have to take a chance on me embarrassing him and costing him the election.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” He leaned into her, nudging her shoulder with his.

“My ball gowns and those ugly hats you seemed to detest have already been shipped to Grandfather. I don’t need anything bought with his money. I want to be myself. Enjoy life. Enjoy a good prank. And enjoy…” She looked up at Quin. The smoldering flame she saw in his eyes startled her. “Enjoy kissing you.”

“Then what in the heck are you waiting on, sweetheart?” He swung her into the circle of his arms. “You know I have nothing to offer but a passel of love and a broken-down cowboy with no cows.”

“You mean steers?”

“Smart aleck.”

“Quin, I’m not in love with your cows, your steers, or your body. It’s your heart.”

Quin feathered warm kisses over Kaira’s lips, and she quivered at the sweet tenderness of his touch. Kissing the corner of her mouth, he nipped at her lower lip, sending sensual anticipation down to her soul.

Slowly, he outlined her lips with the tip of his tongue in leisurely exploration. All rational thought fled her mind. Not being able to stand the torture another minute, she claimed Quin’s mouth with hers. Kisses that had begun as soft and sensual became hungry, demanding.

Quin’s hands roamed freely over her body, allowing his fingers to touch as much skin as possible. He nestled her against him, the cradle of his hips welcoming her, and he didn’t try to hide his excitement. His tongue delved into her mouth, meeting hers, tasting, savoring the familiar and longed-for sweetness. She showed him how seriously she had taken his lessons on kissing, as she pleased him again and again.

Kaira circled Quin’s neck with her arms, inching her fingers into his tousled black hair. The smell of musk lingered. Quin’s breathing was rough, ragged as he moved to trail a ribbon of kisses along her throat and slipped his hands under her skirt, finding her warm, delicate thighs and hips. A vision only in his memories. Her bosom was crushed against his chest, her soft curves molded to his heated, aching body.

She answered the demands of his lips but wanted more, all of him. Desiring to touch him freely, she whispered, “Do you think we have time to make love?”

“I don’t know, let me check my watch.” He pretended to reach in his pocket.

Kaira caught him hand. “Not now you don’t.”

Quin angel-kissed her nose. “To answer your question, until now, making love to you never crossed my mind.”

“Liar.” Kaira unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, until his chest was fully exposed. “Don’t forget we have a newspaper to get out.” Burying her face in his chest, she breathed a kiss there.

“Hush.” Quin eased his hand from beneath her skirt, and lifted her head to where they were eye to eye. “I’ve got most of the work done. Monk can finish it. If you think you can behave yourself until Sunday, maybe Reverend Hicks can marry us right after my godson’s christening.”

“Quin, I want to be part of your life, and promise to make the hurt go away.” Her vow was sealed with a kiss.

“Don’t ever make it go away, sweetheart. I hurt so good right now that I don’t know what to do.” Sweetly draining all her doubts and fears, he kissed her again, until her body began to vibrate with liquid fire. “Just keep it up. Keep making me hurt this way.”

And she did, until dawn approached when Quin fell asleep in the big four-poster bed upstairs, holding Kaira.

Curled into the curve of his arm, she felt the velvety lace of the comforter they laid on. She pulled Quin’s mother’s quilt up to his chest and snuggled deeper against his side.

Kissing him good night, she whispered, “Sleep tight, my cowboy. I promise we’ll get the newspaper out to the folks of Amarillo by morning, and still make plenty of time for love.”