by Jodi Thomas
“That melon story, as stupid as it was, is already in those stacks of newspapers you nearly stumbled over coming in.” He tipped his head toward the door.
“To be more exact, it was Huck using the word mushmelon in chapter twelve—”
“I don’t care about mushmelons or muskmelons, Samuel Clements or Mark Twain, I need news. What about that paint that went loco, got himself unhitched, and went to find his owner in the Amarillo Belle last night? Did anyone get hurt?”
“I didn’t ask. They probably—”
“No probably. I want facts!” He darted from his chair and towered over her.
The shocked look on her face confirmed his speculation that she had used up the afternoon most likely rereading Mark Twain. “Here’s the deal, Kaira—”
“You called me Kaira—”
“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Damn, his glib response slipped from his mouth like marbles played on shale. He had intended to keep their relationship professional, and referring to her as Miss Renaulde was more appropriate than using her more intimate given name. “Uh, yeah. Yes, I did. If we’re going to work together—anyway, back to the issue at hand. You will sit here until hell freezes over, or until you write me three articles for the newspaper. I don’t give a rusty rat’s ass which one you do. I want something printable, factual, and newsworthy.”
Quin placed both hands on the table and leaned into her. “I got my interview with Masterson. Where is yours?” He tried to shut out the faint smell of sweet lily of the valley and ignore her softness, but all he could think about was the sense of excitement growing within him, penetrating the stone center of his heart.
Kaira watched him intently, not giving an inch. A single thread of respect and understanding began to form between them.
Damn, he didn’t need a woman in his life. Any woman, much less some beautiful, spitfire Easterner who made his temper flair and his blood boil.
Where was Monk when he needed him? Now would be a perfect time for the ol’ codger to dispense some sage advice, but it seemed that he had disappeared, probably to find Mavis Harper and see if she needed consoling.
“Uh, Miss Renaulde.” Quin straightened and looked down on the most generously curved parted lips he’d ever seen. The sudden need for air strangled him. “I’m going out.” He grabbed his Stetson. “When I get back, I’ll expect those stories written, ready for me to typeset.”
A drink suddenly sounded good. A stiff drink…one stiff enough to make Ol’ Glory stand at attention!
Hooking up with Ira, Shorty, and Monk, Quin played five card stud and chased whiskey with beer until the pain in his shoulder subsided. Winning enough to order Monk a comfortable chair helped his mood, but the liquor didn’t begin to chase away thoughts of Miss Dawdle-Butt.
Images of her lavender eyes following him out the door waltzed across his mind. They were closer to violet, like a field of primrose on a misty morning. Her eyes brimmed with passion and half-filled promise.
Such an attraction could be dangerous. He mustn’t forget the purpose of her employment. If he failed to teach her the newspaper business, he’d lose the bonus. In turn, he’d break a pledge to himself and Monk. His ranch was at stake, yet the memories of her presence stoked a rampart fire in his gut. Illogical sensations couldn’t define the source, but the feelings continued to erupt.
Quin had a growing need to check on Kaira. He’d been pretty tough on her earlier. Maybe he should apologize.
Hell no.
If there were any apologies heaped out, she’d do the spooning. What did he have to apologize for—because she riled him up so much with her beauty and sharp tongue? Humbug! He ordered a final shot of whiskey and tossed it back, hoping to get rid of the nagging question marks.
Quin slid his glass toward Wally and pitched some extra coins on the bar. As an afterthought, he turned back to the bartender. “You got any of that tea left over?”
After some good-hearted ribbing from Monk, and with thoughts of Kaira still thickening in his head, Quin tucked the crock of warm tea in his arms and headed toward the shop.
Off to the west, soundless lightning flickered against the night sky. He pushed the print shop door open, and the quietness that welcomed him was as noticeable as the lack of thunder. Dying lamplight caused gray shadows to dance against the walls.
Sitting down the crock, Quin noticed Kaira slumped forward, resting her head on her folded arms, as though protecting a secret. She had removed the ornaments holding her ebony hair high on her head, making her locks cascade around her shoulders. She snored softly.
He drew closer, halting behind her.
Quin tried to look away. He wanted desperately to keep his arms to his side, but as though a magnet drew his fingers to her, he stopped short of caressing the patch of soft, ivory skin exposed at the nape of her neck. An utterly enticing and very kissable part of her body. No Texas-born male could resist touching her. Gingerly he laid one finger, then three, on velvety skin. The feel of naked flesh against his calloused fingertips reached across the years to rouse emotions he had kept buried…until today.
Kaira stirred only slightly, as though enjoying a tender moment. A tender moment! He wasn’t being tender…he was being selfish and manhandling a defenseless woman.
Jerking his hand away, he caught sight of three papers neatly penned with a woman’s flourish. Each had separate headings.
He shook off the unexpected sensations and picked up the articles. Taking the pages to his desk, he turned up the lamp, put on his glasses, and began to read.
“Poor Chicken: The Pan Handle has a curiosity in the shape of a chicken which has only one leg. It was hatched that way, is about a year old, and seems as happy and contented as though it had two legs.”
Doesn’t she even know, Panhandle is one word? Tossing the story aside, he continued to the next headline:
“Apples Quickly Taken: An itinerant-looking man with very small mules was selling apples here Wednesday. They came from Wichita Falls. They retailed at four bits a dozen, and were quickly taken.”
The apples or the mules? Maybe both! Groaning while cutting his eyes toward the sleeping woman, he went on to the next story:
“Christening Scheduled: Briar Ebenezer Duncan, infant son of Milford Duncan and his wife, Opal, will be christened on Sunday.”
Damn it! Quin slapped down the page with purpose and jerked off his spectacles, frustrated for almost forgetting the upcoming event, and all because of Miss Peabody-of-Boston!
He made a mental note to swing by the mercantile tomorrow to check on the silver rattler he had ordered. Maybe he should have selected a more practical gift than what Monk had suggested. Being a godfather to a little tyke was a momentous obligation. There were dozens of well-respected men more qualified than a washed-up cowboy. Joe Long, the foreman of the Frying Pan, and his wife, Lucinda, would be better godparents, particularly since she couldn’t bear a child. Quin had helped birth a heap of calves, so why would the thought of being a godfather to little Briar Duncan make his chest fill with pride?
Quin leaned back in his chair. Making steeples with his fingers, he watched Kaira sleep, obviously unaffected by the light or shuffling of papers.
“Miss Renaulde,” he little more than whispered.
She didn’t stir.
“Kaira,” Quin said louder. Pulling out of his chair, he walked toward her. “Hey, wake up. You need to go to bed.”
She moved her head slightly, but remained still.
Tarnation, he had two choices; let her sleep or rescue her from a crick in her neck. She was an investment, and if she couldn’t walk tomorrow because of sleeping sitting up, she couldn’t find any news at all, worthless or not.
Quin owed her. After all, she had probably saved him from a public tar and feathering by reminding him of little Briar’s christening.
Gently, he lifted her into the cradle of his arms. He could feel her soft breath against his neck as she snuggled into his shoulder. The sweet scent of li
ly of the valley once again shrouded him. “Kaira, I’m taking you to bed,” he whispered so close to her ear that he could feel his own breath.
“Good.” Kaira’s voice was barely audible.
Quin felt the words more than heard them, her lips feather-touched his neck, arousing his passion once again.
She nuzzled closer, like a newborn kitten—needy and hungry.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly reached the landing without waking his charge, and pushed his bedroom door open with the toe of his boot.
Outside, the night sky blazed with angry blue-white lightning, setting the room aglow. Fat raindrops splattered against the windowpanes as cannon-blasts of thunder echoed in the distance.
Protectively, Quin tightened his hold on Kaira.
His breath caught in his throat and his heart missed a beat, not from the electrical storm, but from what he saw in his bedroom.
“What in the hell?” He almost dropped Kaira on the wooden floor. “What in Sam Hill did you do?”
Chapter 9
Shocked beyond belief, Kaira steadied herself and watched Quinten Corbett stalk down the stairs. Never had she been treated in such an undignified fashion. He hadn’t quite dropped her, but had unceremoniously plopped her on her feet. Quinten shot her a glare that would melt a horseshoe before he walked—rather, stomped—out, leaving her staring at the south end of the northbound pigheaded editor.
Kaira flounced to the window, pulled back the lace curtain, and watched lightning arc from cloud to cloud.
Why the sudden change with Quinten? And, just when she had come to enjoy the feel of his forceful hands as they cupped her posterior. A rock-solid chest that held a heart that sounded like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest cavity. Muscles of iron protecting her against the raging storm, and his tenderness…was a trait she hadn’t expected in the big man.
A rambunctious clap of thunder caused her to jump.
Could it be that Quinten recognized that she only pretended to be asleep? Or that she played an innocent shenanigan on him by copying some old articles that she knew would catch in his craw? After all, isn’t April Fools’ Day a time of trickery? But then, he probably hadn’t noticed and she hadn’t had a chance to remind him. Kaira enjoyed a good prank every now and again, especially one that held promise. But this one had failed miserably. She ended up the fool.
Oh, Kaira had no intentions of allowing Quinten to touch her inappropriately, or do anything unacceptable to a lady. Nothing she didn’t want him to do.
A flash of light lit up the room again.
She would not be treated so shabbily. She had done nothing wrong. He had suddenly turned coat and stomped away. He couldn’t touch her the way he did, setting off sensations that no well-bred Bostonian lady should feel, and get away with it. By daybreak, she might be on the next train back to New England, but she deserved an answer from Mr. Corbett. He might be a handsome, rugged cowboy with a fiery, white-hot touch, but he would not trample on her emotions.
After taking a moment to pile her hair on top of her head and reinsert hairpins, she straightened her blouse and tinted her lips. Throwing her shoulders back, she headed downstairs to locate the jackass.
Quinten was nowhere in sight and the office was dark, except for soft light slithering from beneath the door of the back room, which served as storeroom, a place for the type to be cleaned, and a small corner kitchen.
Cautiously, she touched the closed door. Detecting the rush of water hitting a basin, she tested the knob. Unlocked.
Uncertainty knotted in her soul. Quinten was no doubt still angry for reasons she couldn’t phantom. Kaira swallowed her misgivings, knowing she mustn’t allow an innocent joke to turn into something it was never meant to be.
She wanted to help Quin succeed, while learning journalism herself. Kaira realized that the whole thought of being taken sincere was foreign to her. She had never thought of herself as a journalist or anything except a product of an affluent family who gave her the best. From a French nanny to an education at the elite Boston College, she was given everything her heart desired and more. So why the sudden need to have Quinten’s approval?
Easing the door open, she made less noise than a scampering mouse in a cotton field. She caught sight of Quinten’s magnificent near-naked body with nothing on but his unmentionables. Her heart leaped to her throat, and she felt sparks burst into flames and shoot directly to a place where such sensations were alien to her.
Never had she seen anything as shocking, or riveting. Kaira tried to quell the awareness flittering in her body.
Quinten leaned over the washbasin and splashed water on his face. Picking up the pitcher, he doused himself with cold water, leaving his hair shimmering in the soft lamplight.
Kaira wondered if he was trying to wash away his anger. Her gaze froze on his tall, beautifully proportioned body.
He shivered as the cold stream hit, making his muscles ripple like skipping stones on water.
From powerful thighs made for a pair of tight jeans to the slimness of his hips, she studied every muscle, every inch of the man that exuded masculinity in every breath. He shifted his weight, exhibiting a forceful body better fit for a saddle than a desk.
Her gaze stopped below his right shoulder. Numerous pitted pockmarks were lodged around a deep, purplish, and jagged scar plowed into his back. Suppressing an outcry, Kaira covered her mouth and closed her eyes. Not from repulsiveness, but from being unable to bear thoughts about a man carrying such a horrid disfigurement. What horrible accident had caused the scar?
Composure held a fragile shell around her. Kaira opened her eyes but continued to stay fixed on the painful-looking, long-ago-healed wound. Her stomach knotted. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she grabbed the doorframe for balance.
Quinten whirled.
Kaira stood frozen. His physique was even more impressive face on. Since he had already seen her, she might as well make the most of the opportunity. After all, she’d never seen a man in his unmentionables before. In boarding school a floozy described a naked male body to her, but it paled in comparison to this magnificently built man.
She took the liberty to study his features. From his chiseled jaw covered with a smidgen of dark stubble, past angry lips and stormy eyes raging with furor, to that God-awful scowl he seemed to reserve just for her.
“What in the hell?” A muscle clenched along his jaw. He grabbed his shirt. Pulling it over his shoulders, he left the front open, and took a decisive step toward her.
But not before she got a good look at his memorable front side. As she had suspected, beneath his shirt he had a broad chest with a massive triangle of dark hair that disappeared somewhere beneath his flat stomach, short of his unwhisperables. His nipples formed perfect peaks on the swells of muscle. He looked magnificent, as though created from some novelist’s imagination.
Bewildered at his outburst, and not sure whether it was a question or profanity, Kaira refused to respond and stood rooted in place, unable to pry her stare off the man.
What she was doing was simply unacceptable, yet she couldn’t help herself. Unsuccessfully, she attempted to transfer her gaze to his feet, but that didn’t help once she got midway down his exquisite, scantly dressed body.
Hypnotized, she boldly held a fortuitous stare on Quinten, shocked to think that as a well-bred lady she had such an overwhelming desire to reach out and boldly touch him. To see if his skin was as warm and strong as his fingers, if his muscles would harden beneath her touch, if the heat that filled her body like a prairie fire would flame hotter yet.
“What in the hell are you staring at?” He furiously snatched his pants from a nail. “I can’t even have any privacy in my own place! Get the hell out of here.”
“Well, I’m not leaving, so go ahead and put on your trousers—”
“Jeans—” His angry retort hardened his features.
“Jeans, trousers…you still put the same, uh, necessaries in them as any man,
don’t you?”
Not expecting a response, she inventoried the room as Quin turned his back, tucked in his shirt, and buttoned his fly.
A massive worktable anchored the room, allowing for little furniture. A stove, washstand, and cupboard in the corner made for a makeshift kitchen.
“You just don’t seem to be able to follow instructions. I said get out.” He ground the words between his teeth.
“Not until you terminate me or we get things straight between us.” She spoke boldly, matching his ire.
“Don’t tempt me. You have no idea, sweetheart, just how close you are to being thrown to the wolves…” Quin pushed past her and headed for his desk. “And they love fresh meat.
“You’re not cut out for this business. I’ll send a telegram to your grandfather advising him that you are on your way back to Boston. I don’t know why in the hell he sent you here in the first place, but I bet he had a reason.”
Uncomfortable with his accusations, Kaira flinched at the words spearing her heart. Grandfather did nothing without a reason. He told her he’d chosen Texas to send her to learn the business, but was that the only reason? She responded in a firm, decisive voice. “I’m not going anywhere. Besides, we have a contract.”
“Yes, a contract that says you’ll work here as an apprentice for three months. In exchange for your help, I’m to teach you the rag business. Something you don’t seem to take seriously.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Why not?” He shoved the trash can aside and jerked open a drawer. “You take over my bedroom. Interfere with my work. Refuse to do yours. And, in general, you are more trouble than any man deserves.”
“Are you irritated because I had items shipped from Boston and changed a few things in the bedroom?”
“A few things!”
“It’s the lace curtains, isn’t it?”
“No…Yes. It’s the, uh, everything. The frilly, girlie stuff everywhere I turn. That damnable ugly hat you wear. The prissy china basin and pitcher. Soft and velvety pillows and the bedcovers. What in the hell did you do with my quilt?” Not waiting for her answer, he vented on. “Why all that satin and lace on my bed?” He thrust the drawer closed with such force that it knocked over his pencil holder.