Give Me a Texan

by Jodi Thomas

“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 m
uch 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 arr
ived 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.”