Linda Broday - Give Me A Texan

“Yes, sir, it is true. I had a better offer.” His gaze met Amanda’s. “That is if it’s still on the table.”

“Anyone would need their head examined to let the best in the business get away.” Sanborn took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. “What are they paying you? I’ll match any figure.”

“I won’t be drawing pay and I don’t think you can offer what she is. I’m looking to branch out.” The smile that formed beneath his mustache made her stomach do somersaults. “Darlin’, I think I might have an answer we both can live with. That north pasture, the buffer zone between you and the ranchers, could be put to good use if you’ll let me.”

“What are you saying, Payton?” The north pasture was the no man’s land where Amanda had found Payton’s hat. He must’ve figured out she left that portion of her land unused to shield her from the cattle barons. If he had plans for it that would suit her fine as long as he stood by her side.

With his eyes fastened on her he turned. “Mr. Sanborn, I’d be willing to help out with the roundup once a year if you’ll let me take my pay in cattle.”

Sanborn scratched his head, grinning. “Reckon I can. I take it you’re throwing in your lot with Miss Lemmons. Smart lady. She can teach you a thing or two I’ve heard.”

“Already has, sir. Cattle aren’t everything. I’ve developed an interest in mutton of late.”

“I’m hope you know what you’re doing, McCord.”

“Yes, sir, I do most certainly know. The way I figure it, sheep aren’t anything more than fluffy cows, except maybe a little squattier. The Panhandle has room for both and I aim to prove it. Might want to pass along the word to members of the Cattle Raisers Association that the Mutton Madam has gotten reinforcements.”

Amanda watched Sanborn’s confident stride up Main Street. Men projected confidence in different ways she was learning. Sometimes that boldness sneaked inside quiet comments that a body could overlook unless they paid close attention.

Had Payton, a dyed-in-the-wool cowboy, spared no thought to what he’d just done? He’d quit a job that defined who he was. And for what? The line in the sand wouldn’t come cheap.

“Did you mean that stuff you said about sheep?”

“Always mean what I say and say what I mean. I love you. I intend to spend the rest of my life making sure you never forget it. My word is my bond.”

Joe Long and some of the crew from the Frying Pan rode into town and tied up in front of the hotel. Her stomach sank.

Payton stiffened, tightening his fist. “Hell and be damned! I don’t know what they have up their sleeve, but they’d better have their fighting clothes on because I’m not going to stand for any more damn meddling. Sam hell! That’s it.”

One thing for sure, her future husband knew when to cuss and when to draw lines no one dared cross. A bright man, Payton McCord.

She smothered a laugh and stood on tiptoe. “Quit wasting all that energy on them and kiss me.”

Spring 1889, Texas Panhandle

Quinten Corbett plucked his watch from his apron pocket and studied the hour. Damnation, maybe time didn’t matter to some folks, but to Quin the world revolved around deadlines…professional and personal.

“Monk,” he barked across the cramped office filled with printing equipment and tables to his old ink-jockey friend. “Where in the blue blazes is the new apprentice? Did they ship him from Boston to Amarillo by wagon train?”

Receiving no response, Quin snapped his watch cover closed. Leaning forward, he returned an extra uppercase typeface to its slot in the tray. He shoved the top drawer into place, and proofread the headlines: Panhandle Herald, Killing at Amarillo Belle.

Pleased with the copy, he stood. Stretching to his full six-foot-plus height, he removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes.

The monotonous tap-tap-tap of news droned across the wires as James “Monk” Humphrey feverishly translated a Morse coded message. Oblivious to Quin’s existence, the ink-spiller stayed focused on his work. The stoop-shouldered old-timer’s arthritic fingers scrawled out the final words. Waving a page of script, he eased from the stool and hobbled toward the editor.

Quin glanced over the paper that Monk stuffed in his hand, and shook his head in defeat. “This the best news you can get?”

“I only translate the messages, son, I don’t compose ’um.”

Snatching up his spectacles, Quin paced the small office, reading aloud: “The juicy watermelon, the odoriferous muskmelon, and warty, git-up-and-dust cucumbers are expected to be in abundance this summer. Men and things change, but every returning season finds the cucumber possessing unalterably the same old characteristics.” He flung the paper on the worktable and scooted the wastebasket out of the way with the toe of his Justin cowboy boot. “This is the nonsense I’m expected to use to come up with enough news for two papers a week?”

“I don’t make up the stuff, I jest transcribe it.” Monk returned to his perch, hunkered down, and prepared to receive the next transmission. “Besides, if it’s what the owners back East want, I’m guessing it’s what’ll be done.”

“And they think we can’t do it alone, so they send us some wet-behind-the-ears apprentice fresh out of Boston College.” Quin consulted his pocket watch again. “And where in the hell is that Renaulde character? I heard the train pull out an hour and forty-two minutes ago. Surely, he had enough sense to get off.”

Quin crammed a visor on dark, unruly hair. He jerked open the top drawer of typeface. “Odoriferous! Huh, I’ve never thought of a muskmelon as odoriferous, but then we don’t write the news. Huh, Monk?”

Exasperation rumbled in Quin’s chest, but he methodically filled the line bar with one typeface after another.

Memories of how the Boston publishing vultures gobbled up the newspaper when Monk was forced to sell it to pay taxes on the ranch churned through his mind. Frustration wedged in his craw. As the editor, he must work long hours. He would restock his once bountiful spread that sat abandoned north of town.

His gut coiled as thoughts turned to Monk, the only family Quin had ever known. He could hardly handle what the new owners had done to his friend when, after years of running the newspaper, they demoted him to a lowly clerk. All because the old guy refused to print an editorial straight from the president’s desk.

But more than anything, Quin fought the demons raging within him. Why couldn’t he come to grips with the fact that due to his own reckless behavior he was no longer a freehearted, spurring rancher?

“Hope the snot-nosed tenderfoot knows the difference between odoriferous muskmelons and warty cucumbers.” He wiped his brow, tucking his musing back into the recesses of his mind. “Monk, there are a few things I plan to get straight with this shave-tail before he gets the notion he’s runnin’ the place.”

Receiving only a response from the clinking telegraph, Quinten vented on. “This cub’s not a reporter, but an apprentice. And there’s one thing for sure, he better not come with that whiny Bostonian attitude that his family seems to have. You know the one I’m talkin’ about, Monk? The old coot who makes sure I pronounce Peabody Pee-bid-ee. Completely ignoring the o. Hell, it might be Pee-bid-ee in Boston, but it’s dang sure Pea-bawdy in Texas.” He strung out each syllable to emphasize his point. “The new guy needs to learn that right off the bat or our townsfolk won’t cotton to him in the least.” He sighed in resignation. “You ol’ hard-of-hearing geezer, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Morse code clattered in response.

“It’s probably best that he’s late,” Quin grumbled. “As it is, I’ll have to work all night getting this rag ready for Amarillo by morning. Don’t need to have him underfoot right now, anyway.”

The telegraph chatter ceased.

“Mark my word, we’ll get two editions out a week, just like those Yankee squatters want. We’ll make this work, and get the money to buy a herd of longhorns. I’ll set the rules and he’ll abide by them or he can traipse his high-falutin’ butt back to Boston.”

“Hey, boss. Uh, I think you’d, uh, better, uh-”

“Spit it out, Monk.” Quin jerked off his visor, wiped his brow, and reset the hat. “You don’t agree?”

“Uh, Quinten, I think you’d better hold up a bit.”

“I’ve already said we’re on a tight deadline-”

“I, uh, think your new, uh, apprentice is here.”

“Renaulde, you’ll just have to wait, I don’t have time to waste…” Quin pulled to his full height, and turned toward the door, prepared to size up the Yankee wonder.

Quin sized up the new guy okay…all one hundred and twelve pounds of ivory skin, onyx tresses piled high on her head, and a scowl that could halt a gunslinger in mid-draw.

When the woman finally broke the silence, she had a voice like a butterfly’s kiss, astoundingly light and soft, yet as clear as a mountain stream. “Please go on, Mr. Corbett. I’m eager to hear your rules before I assure you that I do not plan to take neither my snotty nose nor my high-falutin’ butt back to Boston. So, please set me straight.”

Words escaped him, something that rarely happened. Shaking off the element of surprise, Quin recovered sufficiently to take note that the traveling suit she wore no doubt came straight from the fashion plates of Godey’s Lady’s Book. He’d know the look anywhere after being forced to review the magazine during his apprenticeship.