Linda Broday - Give Me A Texan

“Monk!” He hung the apron on a wooden peg on the wall. Plucking his watch from his vest, he said, “You ol’ print hound, get out here. We’ve got luggage to carry upstairs.”

Kaira Renaulde had been in Amarillo for a week and still at least one Saratoga, sometimes two, arrived on every train coming through town.

Quin eyed the latest arrivals. “Monk, we need to get those damnable trunks out of our way. Got time?”

“Jest as soon as I finish this transmission.”

“How many more of those things do you think that lady has coming?”

“Don’t know.” Monk didn’t look. “But I know one thing for sure, no woman should own trunks that take two men to cart around. And all that climbin’s apt to make a man poorly.”

Quin glanced out the window, checked the hour, and stuffed the watch fob back in his vest pocket. He tried to pay no heed to Monk’s continual mulley-grubbing, but it didn’t work.

Monk’s grousing interrupted Quin’s thoughts.

“Whatcha think she has in those Saratogas?” asked Monk.

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn. All I care about is getting this blasted newspaper out.” Quin rolled his shoulders to relieve some of the soreness that always seemed to creep up around sunset.

“Do you think that calico’s totin’ a sidearm, son?”

“Doubt it. But if she is, it’s probably a pearl-handled, double-barreled derringer.” He snatched up his apron. “Why do you think she has to have so many trunks?”

“Maybe to cart around more of those frilly trappin’s, you think?”

“Don’t know. But I do know that we’ve got a hundred pounds of trouble and she’s upstairs in my bed.” Quin pulled the leather protector over his head. “Did you notice how interested she was last night when we were talking about Bat Masterson coming to town?”

“Yep, sure did. She perked those pretty little ears right up like a turkey listenin’ for buckshot on Thanksgiving morning.”

“Doubt if she even knows who Masterson is.”

“Yep, she sure did perk up.”

“You know, ol’ man, the bonus that gal’s grandfather promised me for an interview with the gambler will give us the money we need to restock the ranch and start over, don’t you?”

“Sure do. Yep, it’ll jest about get that ol’ ranch back amongst the living.” Monk pulled a bowie knife from the desk drawer and whittled on his pencil. “Son, since you don’t need me anymore and I’ve got a hankering for some of Miss Maggie’s corn dodgers and dumplin’s with all the doings, I’m fixin’ to head that way.” Satisfied that his pencil was sharpened enough, he returned the knife to the drawer. “Sure you don’t want me to stick around?”

“Nope. Got things under control. That is if she keeps her prissy-butt out of my hair. She’s been here a week and all she’s done is socialize and cause me to waste time having to deal with her.”

The old-timer grabbed his weathered Stetson. Shuffling out the front door, he grumbled, “Yep, she sure has. Got us a heap of trouble in that one.”

Hours later, a herb moss moon cascaded through the shop’s windowpanes, creating cattywampus shadows across the wooden floor.

Quin stacked the last bundle of newspapers near the exit.

Gunfire from somewhere near the Amarillo Belle pierced the air. Another rough night at the popular saloon. Probably a bunch of cowpokes celebrating payday. Or maybe a gambler letting off steam after losing the shirt off his back. Could have been a fight over a soiled dove. One thing was for certain. If there was a serious squabble, there’d be a new digging before dawn.

Gunplay always made for great headlines, but Quin hoped the visiting gentleman, gunslinger, and gambler he needed so desperately to interview wouldn’t be the one pushing up daisies. Quin shuddered at what would happen if he missed his opportunity. No sit-down with Masterson. No bonus. No cattle.

Quin checked the time. Three-twenty in the morning. If he caught a few winks, he’d be raring to go by daybreak.

Pulling off his spectacles, he took two steps toward the stairwell before halting. Blasted! A sleeping bundle of pure dee ol’ womanhood occupied his bed.

He spun on his heels, trudged out onto the porch, and took a deep breath. The balmy night promised to give way to another breezy spring day. As if turning up a lantern, the brilliant moon bleached the buildings white.

Sleeping under the stars hadn’t killed him so far. In his drover days, Quin had slept through gully-washers, Blue Norther’s that could freeze the hide right off a steer, and winds strong enough to carry the sucker off to parts unknown.

A little reflection didn’t hurt either. After all, spending too much time cooped up in a bed could cause a fellow to get all claustrophobic and make him forget his roots.

That beauty upstairs was already proving to be trouble, and spring hadn’t even seen its first thunderstorm.

Kaira’s heart jumped to her throat as a loud, steely sound rang out in the distance and echoed off the hallowed business-fronts. Gunshots! Just like the ones she’d read about. Oh, she had heard gunshots before but none like these! Real, honest-to-goodness gunfire from the rough and rowdy West. Maybe the sheriff was chasing a bank robber? A murderer?

Yes, a fearless lawman was surely hot on the trail of a fierce, self-willed ruffian who had done some dastardly dark deed. And, all of it happening right below her bedroom window.

Prepared to see her first authentic outlaw barely clinging to life, blood gushing from a wound and him hanging from his stirrups by only the rowel of his spur, Kaira sprang out of bed and rushed to the window.

A midnight black horse carried a rider wrapped in a long ebony cloak. His face hid beneath a wide-rimmed hat, hanging so low that it met his chin, all giving the stranger a sinister appearance. The mischief-maker recklessly fired his weapon into the air as he flew down the middle of town, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

On his heels, racing to catch up, two more riders carelessly waved pistols, shooting at the moon and yelling at the top of their lungs, “Oooh my dar-lin’…Oooh my dar-lin’…Oooh my dar-lin’ Cle-men-tine!”

Kaira flinched, wanting to cover her ears to drown out the wailing. Who in the heck is Clementine?

“You are looost and gooone fooorever, dreadful sooory Clementine!”

That gal wouldn’t be lost long with all that ruckus. And where was the sheriff? The good guy?

Could the lead rider, who quickly melded with the darkness, be the infamous gambler, Bat Masterson? The man Quinten and Mr. Monk had been discussing?

A shadow moved on the porch. Kaira squinted to make out the figure.

Quinten stirred and the moonlight gave his dark hair a silvery sheen. His broad shoulders remained squared, as he leaned against the post, gold fob glittering. Turning slightly, he exposed a strong, well-defined profile that any woman wouldn’t mind waking up to.

Entranced by the unspoken sadness of his face, she stood silently. An air of isolation punctuated the man’s loneliness.

As though sensing her presence, his gaze shifted toward the window.

A vaguely sensuous light passed between them. Hastily she retreated. Hopefully out of his view, she clutched the lacy neck of her embroidered satin gown.

Her curiosity had been aroused; she stepped closer and peeped through the glass.

He was gone.

What was wrong with her? Quinten Corbett radiated a vitality that seemed to rock the ground beneath her, disturbing her in ways she didn’t think possible.

Moments later, Kaira eased between the sheets and pulled the still-warm bedding up to her chin. Visions of the good-looking editor played before her eyes as she fought sleep. Sleep that would surely evolve into dreams worthy of the pages of a best-selling dime novel.

This man, the subject of her very wicked thoughts, had to be more complex than he first appeared. Tough, lean, and powerful, an almost stereotypical dime novel hero, and she had to impress him. But how?

She thought back over the days she’d been in Amarillo. Quinten obviously lived and breathed the newspaper, but was more cattleman than editor. If only she had paid more attention to her family’s companies. In reality, she had no desire to be a part of their world. Kaira had little talent in publishing that would impress the likes of Mr. Corbett.

Kaira needed to get on his good side-surely he had one-and what better way than to scoop an interview with one of the most famous guns of the West.

Now, where would a lady find a gambler?

A sleepless night under the stars didn’t improve Quin’s humor in the least. Feeling like Monk generally acted, about as pleasant to be around as a hide hunter on a hot day, Quin meandered to the potbelly stove and poured himself another cup of coffee thick enough to float an anvil.

The clink of the day’s first Morse-coded message drowned out most of Monk’s words, as he systematically translated into text the sounds of dots, dashes, and spaces.

Quin paced the floor and tried to ignore the old-timer’s mumbling.

In spite of Quin’s busy schedule, thoughts of Miss Renaulde intruded into his morning. Eager to get the apprentice busy cleaning a heaping bucket of typeface, the woman’s tardiness annoyed him more than he wanted to admit.

Ten o’clock and there still wasn’t any movement in the apartment above. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t heard a peep since he got back from breakfast around six-fifteen.

What should he do? Check on her? He mulled over the question as he topped off his coffee.

A gentleman would never enter a woman’s bedroom without permission. Maybe he should send Monk to see about her? Probably the best idea was to leave the lady alone. At this rate, if he depended on his new associate, the news would be history before he got it in print.