Give Me a Texan

by Jodi Thomas

  “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 bis
cuits 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.”