by Jodi Thomas
“You weren’t working all that hard to pry her loose.”
“That’s because you didn’t see the grip of steel she had on my rear end. I gave up trying to pull her off and focused on trying to outrun her before I found out if the rumor is true.” He traced the curve of Amanda’s jaw with a finger. The light touch caused an ache in her belly.
“What rumor?”
“The campfire tales of cowpokes who swear that a man can catch something from Mavis that 20 Mule Team Borax can’t scrub off.”
“That’s mean.”
“How much more of a reliable source do you need? I don’t make up this stuff.” The lopsided smile gave his lips a sinful curve and made her heart skitter.
Footsteps sounded on the plank sidewalk and a man politely cleared his throat. “McCord, I hear you’re quitting the Frying Pan, gave your notice. Is it true? I’d hate to lose a seasoned rawhider like you. It’ll take a while to find someone with your skills.”
McCord was quitting his job? Why?
Amanda tugged attention from the heat in Payton’s eyes. She recognized the interrupter as Henry Sanborn. Of all the cattle barons he gave her a pretty fair shake. That meant something. Payton straightened with respect.
“Yes, sir, it is true. I had a better offer.” His gaze met Amanda’s. “That is if it’s still on the table.”
“Anyone would need their head examined to let the best in the business get away.” Sanborn took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. “What are they paying you? I’ll match any figure.”
“I won’t be drawing pay and I don’t think you can offer what she is. I’m looking to branch out.” The smile that formed beneath his mustache made her stomach do somersaults. “Darlin’, I think I might have an answer we both can live with. That north pasture, the buffer zone between you and the ranchers, could be put to good use if you’ll let me.”
“What are you saying, Payton?” The north pasture was the no man’s land where Amanda had found Payton’s hat. He must’ve figured out she left that portion of her land unused to shield her from the cattle barons. If he had plans for it that would suit her fine as long as he stood by her side.
With his eyes fastened on her he turned. “Mr. Sanborn, I’d be willing to help out with the roundup once a year if you’ll let me take my pay in cattle.”
Sanborn scratched his head, grinning. “Reckon I can. I take it you’re throwing in your lot with Miss Lemmons. Smart lady. She can teach you a thing or two I’ve heard.”
“Already has, sir. Cattle aren’t everything. I’ve developed an interest in mutton of late.”
“I’m hope you know what you’re doing, McCord.”
“Yes, sir, I do most certainly know. The way I figure it, sheep aren’t anything more than fluffy cows, except maybe a little squattier. The Panhandle has room for both and I aim to prove it. Might want to pass along the word to members of the Cattle Raisers Association that the Mutton Madam has gotten reinforcements.”
Amanda watched Sanborn’s confident stride up Main Street. Men projected confidence in different ways she was learning. Sometimes that boldness sneaked inside quiet comments that a body could overlook unless they paid close attention.
Had Payton, a dyed-in-the-wool cowboy, spared no thought to what he’d just done? He’d quit a job that defined who he was. And for what? The line in the sand wouldn’t come cheap.
“Did you mean that stuff you said about sheep?”
“Always mean what I say and say what I mean. I love you. I intend to spend the rest of my life making sure you never forget it. My word is my bond.”
Joe Long and some of the crew from the Frying Pan rode into town and tied up in front of the hotel. Her stomach sank.
Payton stiffened, tightening his fist. “Hell and be damned! I don’t know what they have up their sleeve, but they’d better have their fighting clothes on because I’m not going to stand for any more damn meddling. Sam hell! That’s it.”
One thing for sure, her future husband knew when to cuss and when to draw lines no one dared cross. A bright man, Payton McCord.
She smothered a laugh and stood on tiptoe. “Quit wasting all that energy on them and kiss me.”
No Time for Love
PHYLISS MIRANDA
To the love of my life,
my husband, Bob,
who supported me during the frantic times,
comforted me when I got discouraged,
and celebrated my accomplishments by
bringing me a big Coke every afternoon.
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 t
he 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.”
