by Jodi Thomas
“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 Grandfathe
r 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.
