by Jodi Thomas
“Your bed?” The cussed man made her madder than—than her grandfather. “I believe it’s mine. As I recall, my contract states that you will provide me with suitable accommodations, and to be comfortable—”
“Where did it say that you can wreak havoc on my life? And I want that quilt.”
“It’s in the Saratoga.” She stepped toward Quinten, almost afraid of his response. “Why is the quilt so important to you?”
“It’s personal.” His tone softened. “My mother made it.”
Although he lowered his voice to a midrange roar, the annoyance on his face didn’t slack, yet the underlying sensitivity of his words captivated her.
“Quinten—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But you called me sweetheart.”
“I was thinking about Mother.” He stomped into one boot then the other and bolted upright. “Miss Renaulde, let’s get one thing straight. I am your boss and you are my student. Nothing more. Not now, not earlier, not ever. Do you understand?”
His stubbornness unleashed something within her. “Sit back down.” Triumph flooded through her when he winced at her words.
“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“Then I’ll tell everyone in town that you forgot your own godson’s christening.”
Shocked, he crossed his arms and planted his feet apart, which only served to call attention to his pigheadedness. “And how do you know that?”
“First off…” She eased onto Monk’s stool, feeling a bit like a fawn facing a Winchester. “Mrs. Diggs asked me if I’d remind you that the baby rattle you ordered had come in. You’d been by the mercantile several times of late, and hadn’t inquired about it, so she was worried.”
“Learning about the christening wasn’t hard. It’s no secret. What about the other two articles?” He snatched up his watch and looked at the face, as thought he was clocking her.
“The truth—”
“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“I wrote them. Every single, solitary word. Well, with the exception of—”
“How much is four bits?” he asked smugly. “And how did you know the man selling apples was from Wichita Falls?”
She shrugged off his first question, but became frazzled with the second. “I checked out each fact—”
“No, you didn’t.” He proceeded back to his desk, tore open a drawer, and tossed a newspaper at least two years old in her direction. “That story came straight from the Dodge City Times and we’ve already run it. And the chicken story sounds faintly familiar, except for the age of the critter. How many one-legged chickens make the newspaper?”
“Are you going to thank me?”
“For what? For intruding on my privacy, inserting yourself in my life without being asked, for nearly getting my chops busted by Masterson…for—”
“For saving your hide! If I hadn’t jogged your memory, you would have missed the christening.”
“Not on your life.”
“You never answered me. Why are you so angry?”
“Why are you so nosy?”
She frowned, not sure if his question was rhetorical or not. This was her opening. Maybe the last opportunity she would have to set the record straight.
“I think you’re angry because you’re scared.”
“I don’t recall asking your opinion. I asked why you’re nosy.”
Kaira didn’t hesitate and rushed past his comment. “Scared that a woman will be attracted to you, then repulsed by your scars. Scared you might show your tender side. Which, by the way, you did this evening when you rubbed my neck. First one finger, then three.”
“I knew you weren’t asleep!”
“No, you didn’t, or you would have never touched me. You are frightened of living, don’t think you deserve being happy, and so many things that I couldn’t even keep count. You make a job of making folks think you are insensitive and tough.” She needed to take a breath, but couldn’t stop long enough, afraid the words would stop flowing. “I came into town prepared for you to put me on the next coach back to Boston. I was afraid, too. Afraid of succeeding. You made me see that I don’t have to be afraid any longer. Ever since I can remember, I followed in the footsteps of one powerful man after another. My grandfather, his father before him, my dad, at least a half a dozen uncles and twice that many cousins. I had to go to the right school, use proper etiquette, speak and act a lady, everything I wasn’t. Everything I didn’t want to be. Everything…”
Somewhere between the second and third “everything,” or even as early as her reference to her grandfather, Quin lost his train of thought. One that was heading for a huge pileup any moment.
Why am I so angry?
Not for any of the reasons she had named. He was angry for reacting so badly to her seeing him undressed, reaching in his soul and massaging an ache. Resurrecting feelings he tried much of his life to hide.
Quin hooked a chair with the toe of his boot and slumped into it. He closed his eyes, not giving a flying fig if Kaira noticed. After all, she was too busy flouncing around the room, performing a soliloquy.
Anger was all Quin could remember feeling. First was hugging his father good-bye when he went off to war, never to return, then watching his mother grieve herself to death. Later, Quin was shipped from one family to another until Monk took him in and taught him the worldly ways of living.
If it hadn’t been for his mentor, Quin would have lost the ranch before he was old enough to play with roly-polies. Settling in at the old homestead, Monk taught Quin how to ride with the wind, follow a trail while covering tracks, and how to hunt and fish for survival. Drink whiskey like a man and play a decent hand of poker. To take care of his body and mind. Quin went to school, something many young men his age didn’t get a chance to do. Readin’ and numbers, as Monk used to say, were what would make a man successful. That and having general smarts, he’d always add.
Quin couldn’t help but smile at his wandering thoughts. The ol’ cowpoke had taken him to church every time the door opened, except during roundup time. Then they’d hook up with an outfit and take a herd of cattle up north to market. Once Amarillo became a rail town and stockyards became a plenty, Monk bought the print shop, like his father before him, and trained Quin in the newspaper business. The ol’ buzzard had taught Quin everything a young man needed to know, except how to keep his heart from being broken.
Kaira’s rambling cut through his musing. “And then I arrive in Amarillo and…”
Quin watched Kaira. Every time she stopped for a breath and her eyes met his, his heart turned over. When she wasn’t watching, his gaze traveled over her face, then moved down her body slowly. The very air around her seemed electrified and wrapped him in invisible warmth, sparking feelings in him that had nothing to do with reason.
“Plus, today is April Fools’ Day, so I thought you’d enjoy a joke.” She stopped and looked up and his heart lurched madly. “Any red-blooded man enjoys…”
“The last I heard, April Fools’ is on the first day of April, so you’re either early or late, depending on which you prefer.”
Kaira’s brows arched mischievously and she twisted her pretty little lips, as though giving the whole idea plenty of thought. “I rarely look at a calendar…”
Or a watch, either, Quin thought.
Damn, that woman was so compelling, with a magnetism potent enough to rivet him in place. He veered away again, thinking about velvety skin concealing an inner strength bordering on stubbornness like nothing he’d ever experienced.
Monk had taught him everything, but somewhere along the line he’d failed the class on how to handle a woman like Kaira.
“Do you want to know what happened to my back and shoulder?” Quin wasn’t sure where the words came from. Maybe it was her magnetism after all.
“I barely noticed a scar.”
And I barely noticed your attributes looking as though they are crying to be caressed, to come fully awake, Qu
in thought.
Torn by conflicting emotions, he began. “I was foolishly young, invincible, I thought. Rode the range when I wasn’t on my ranch, near the Canadian River.” He cleared his throat, pretending not to be affected by his pounding heart. “Monk and I hired on with an outfit taking a couple of thousand longhorns up to Dodge City. Moses, the lead steer on the drive, was hoofin’ it along between me and Monk, since we were riding point. We had our eyes on a young, feisty bull closing in on Moses. I knew if they began to fight, Moses would kill the maverick and we’d be gathering up strays for a month. Like an idiot, I thought I could distract the ornery critter, but not before Ol’ Moses turned and decided to put the bull in his place. They hooked horns and somewhere along the way, I got into the fracas.”
“Which one did you say was the head cow?”
“Lead steer, and it was Moses.”
“You and Monk didn’t hurt either of the cows, did you?”
“Steers! No, between me getting gored and Monk getting me the hell out of the way they forgot their differences and the bull ended up at the railhead. Ol’ Moses had to sluefoot his way back to Amarillo with the drovers. If it hadn’t been for Monk, I’d be dead.”
Before he knew it, Kaira kneeled before him. Taking his hands in hers, she kissed one then another. “It must have hurt, Quin.” She cooed like a mourning dove, throaty, soft, and meaningful. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Try giving that tongue of yours a rest, sweetheart.” Not knowing what possessed him, he lifted her into his lap.
Hungrily, his mouth covered hers, sending spirals of ecstasy through him. He intended to kiss her gently, but when she returned his kisses with such reckless abandonment, he turned demanding. Quin masterfully taught her new ways to use her tongue. Learning fast, she amorously responded, arousing him fully.
Blood pounded in Kaira’s brain, leapt from her heart, and made her knees tremble.
Quin’s mind told him she’d slap him all the way to Goliad and back if he went further, but his body refused to listen to the warning. He slowly moved his hand under her skirt to skim her hips and thighs. She was stunned at the unharnessed desire that his gentle touch sent throughout her body, her own eagerness to touch him, accept, and return each passionate kiss.
Before she completely tossed out any semblance of logic and let Quin have his way with her, Kaira had to tell him the truth. She couldn’t sleep with a man she lied to. She slid her arms from around his neck, splaying her palms against his chest. Looking into his eyes, she knew the moment might pass, and Quin would withdraw as he did earlier in the evening, but she had to take the chance. He had to know everything. “I have something I have to say…”
Quin rolled his eyes. She always had something to say, but why right now? He tried to pull her back into his embrace.
“You have five seconds, starting right now.” He pointed toward the shelf clock and smiled. A very wicked, sensual smile.
“I need to say this. I feel so sorry for you—”
As quickly as their kisses turned to passion, he pulled her arms from around his neck and set her upright, allowing the hem of her skirt to fall into place in the process.
Quin came to his feet. “I’m not your charity case. I don’t want your pity.” He ran his hands though his hair. “Your grandfather sent you here for a purpose, and taking me on as a charity case wasn’t it.”
“You’re not a charity case. I meant—”
“You seem to think the words ‘I meant’ will correct whatever ill-conceived remarks that flow from your mouth. Do us both a favor and do the job you were hired for—get me some news.” He pulled his slicker and hat from the coat tree. “I’m not your project or your lackey. Don’t feel sorry for me.” He stormed outdoors bareheaded, carrying the raincoat.
Intense lightning flashed, followed by a deafening clap of thunder that split the air and seemed to reinforce Quin’s furor.
Kaira yelled into the darkness. “You’ll have an editorial tomorrow that you will never forget—Mister Corbett!”
Chapter 10
Kaira kicked the door shut with picture-rocking force. The reverberation disturbed the only shelf on the wall, which held a mantel clock with some God-awful mythological creature reclining on top.
Settling her hands on her hips and pursing her lips, she studied the newsprint that Quin had nailed up—DEADLINE, AMARILLO BY MORNING. Good judgment replaced childishness, and suppressed her desire to rip the ludicrous reminder into a zillion pieces, bake it in a pastry, and serve the rascal some humble pie.
In fairness, maybe she had created chaos in his tranquil existence. She’d taken over his bedroom, spiffing it up to make it to her liking. But, in turn, his touch had set off wild, unleashed sensations within her, feelings reserved only for soiled doves.
Why had she even attempted to apologize to the knot-head for Grandfather Renaulde saddling him with a wet-behind-the-ears, snot-nosed tenderfoot? She didn’t think she’d missed any of the idioms Quin had tagged on her as she’d waited outside the door on her first day, summoning up enough courage to face the unpredictable, big man with a bigger reputation. Now she understood why her grandfather said that Quin and three Philadelphia lawyers would make a good match for the devil.
From the moment she stepped into the newspaper office, she had recognized a restless rebellion in Quin’s every move. His forced demeanor failed to mask an underlying wildness. Definitely a man who gave women the desire to tame. He portrayed independence much like her grandfather. Mulling it over, she counted the similarities between the two obstinate, bullheaded men.
No! Quinten doesn’t deserve my apology. The turkey could stay mad for all she cared. Then reality nudged her—aside from being a comely Texan who any woman would enjoy spooning in the moonlight, Quin was the editor and her boss, so she had no choice but to respect his position.
Kaira dropped into the editor’s chair and steadily rocked back and forth.
Spitfire and brimstone—bring on the matches, the whole room smelled like him. Woodsy, layered with leather and printer’s ink, as bold and appealing as the man himself. The one scent missing—coffee. Monk always had a pot brewing.
After making her way to the makeshift kitchen in the back room, Kaira fed the cast-iron stove two small logs—a new experience for her. Proudly, she poured water into the coffee pot and added a generous amount of Arbuckle’s. Not sure how much she should use, and considering its dark, rich color, she tapped in another cup or so of grinds. She then replaced the tin in the cupboard beside a bowl of peppermint sticks.
On the battered sawbuck table she spied a crock that she didn’t remember seeing before. Lifting the lid, the aroma of tea waned as it filled the air. A smile tickled her lips. Had hell frozen over?
Hot tea and honey sounded irresistible. After preparing a cup, Kaira found her way back to the front office. Pacing and blowing on the mug to cool the hot liquid, she kept an eye on the window. Sunrays radiated out into a vivid tapestry of copper washed with indigo. Morning approached rapidly.
With little sleep, except for the wink or two she caught waiting on Quin to return to the office, Kaira hurried to her room and selected an ordinary, blue muslin day dress. She missed the luxury of her indoor bathtub at home, finding drawing and heating water quite annoying.
She eyed a hatbox. Considering the windy, dusty weather of the Panhandle, her beautiful, hand-fashioned trappings served no purpose but to be bothersome. Her starched, Bostonian friends would be appalled at her lack of style, but at least it’d give Quinten one less thing to find fault with.
On her way out, she laid aside two dime novels and picked up a leather-bound book from the highboy.
Refreshing her tea, she returned to Quin’s desk and opened an etiquette book considered the boarding school Bible. She thought back to the hours her headmistress had forced each girl to practice becoming a lady. Kaira flipped through the pages and began to read, taking in each word with new meaning: “A false admiration of man will chan
ge an angel into a demon. A misguided blow of the mallet will shatter all the efforts of years of training to learn to become a lady…”
Hearing the familiar sound of Monk shuffling into the office, she sprang from behind Quin’s desk and slipped the book beneath her notepad on her worktable.
Appearing unconcerned with Quin’s absence, Monk muttered a shy hello before exchanging his jacket and Stetson for an apron and visor.
Monk knew Quin better than anyone. Maybe he could tell her why Quin seemed angry with her more times than not. She needed guidance, and the seasoned gentleman seemed long on candid advice.
“Are you too busy to have a cup of coffee?” Kaira asked, taking a chance that he wouldn’t decline.
“Sure would be a pleasure, ma’am. I’ll fix us both a cup.” He started for the back room, his limp more profound than usual. She recalled her nanny saying that the wet after a storm stirred up her “rumatiz” something fierce.
Monk returned with two chipped mugs, gave her one, and headed to his desk. Taking a sip, a stunned look caught on his face, and his cheeks swelled up like a squirrel carrying a walnut. From across the room the dastardly, thick, ill-smelling concoction assaulted her nostrils.
She considered taking the trash can to him so he could spit out the unsavory stuff, but he swallowed.
“Mighty fine coffee, ma’am. Yep, mighty fine.” He set the cup aside.
“Do you know where Mr. Corbett might be?” She followed his example, and slid her cup out of the way.
“Reckon I do, ma’am, sure do. He’s over gettin’ all duded up, he is.” He pulled on a sleeve-protector.
Good! That would give her time to talk with the old man.
“You know Mr. Corbett better than anyone—”
“Raised the boy since he was knee high to a grasshopper, sure did.”
She caught herself glancing toward the door, realizing her misgivings were increasing by the second. “I don’t know exactly how to ask this—”