Give Me a Texan

by Jodi Thomas

  “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 respons
e, 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.”