Resisting the urge to check the time again, Quin glanced toward the stairwell and let his mind drift along like a tumbleweed on a windy day.

What would he find if he actually ventured upstairs? The vision of Miss Renaulde standing at the window still crouched in the corner of his mind, waiting for the most inappropriate times to appear. Not able to shuck off the images of the woman bathed in soft light caused a surge of emotion to lash through him.

A rope knotted around his heart and squeezed tightly.

She was certainly a vision of loveliness. Maybe it was her luscious lips beckoning to be kissed that made him feel a wanting. Or ivory skin crying to be caressed; not to mention attributes begging to be touched.

Reality reared its ugly head. She was about as soft and cuddly as a barnyard kitten. She put on a facade of being tame and playful, but no doubt if a man got close enough to touch her, she’d hiss him to death.

Yep, that gal was as hot as butter on a biscuit, yet as tough as hardtack. Maybe a generous serving of boysenberry jam would sweeten her up enough for a man to enjoy.

But Miss Renaulde-guess he could call her Kaira considering the intimate thoughts he’d had about her-was definitely worthy of a second look.

All of his musing about her qualities didn’t solve the issue at hand. If she didn’t come down soon, he’d have no choice but to leave her in the hands of Monk. It’d put the old geezer in an awkward position to tell her that, as the feared ink-spiller, she was responsible for the muck work.

“Monk,” Quin hollered, pulling on his coat. “Masterson got into town yesterday. I’ve got to go over to the hotel and find him before he begins gambling. I’ve heard he takes his poker seriously, so I’m not going to be the one to disturb him.” He grabbed his Stetson and absentmindedly adjusted the band of woven wire. “If that gal doesn’t come down by noon, I guess you’d better go see about her.”

“That gal?” Monk repeated, as if he had no idea who Quin referred to. “Oh, she’s come and gone. I saw her over at Miss Maggie’s having breakfast about sunup.”

“What do you mean?” Quin turned away from the door to face the older man.

“Well, if I remember right, I said, ‘That gal has come and gone-’”

“I heard that much!”

“Then why’d you ask me to clarify it?” Not waiting on Quin’s response, he continued, “I heard her talking to Miss Maggie about Bat Masterson-”

“You don’t think she was-”

“Raring to interview the dandy?” Monk quipped. “Yep, that gal sure was.” Momentarily drawn back to the telegraph, he glanced its way then back to Quin. “If you’d been listening to me the first time I told you, instead of rambling around the room like a fella finding fault with Paradise, you’d have already known it.”

“Damnation and every cuss word I’ve ever used, I hope I can catch up with her before she fouls up the whole blasted deal.” Quin crammed the Stetson on his head and hurried to the door. Over his shoulder he said, “Masterson might be more man than that blue blood is used to handling.”

“Don’t bet the ranch on that, son,” Monk muttered.

“Yeah, Monk…that’s exactly what I’m doing!”

Quin let the screen door at the Amarillo Hotel slam behind him as he stalked out and crossed the planked sidewalk.

He’d been searching for Kaira for fifty-five minutes, with no luck.

At the mercantile, Mary Carol Diggs hadn’t seen her, but didn’t miss the opportunity to lecture Quin on the virtues of his new employee. What did the shop owner think? That he had never known a woman besides his mother and didn’t recognize his new hire as a classy lady through and through? Aggravation hammered at his heart. Just because he was past his prime at a ripe old thirty-two, and his womanizing days were only memories, didn’t mean he had forgotten how to treat a woman.

Worrying about things he had no control over wasn’t getting him anywhere. He needed to find Masterson, who had already left the hotel for a day of pleasure at the saloon. But which one?

The Amarillo Belle was the closest, so Quin tramped off in its direction. Eleven o’clock and the sun bore fire on the back of his neck, much like the churning in his stomach.

Quin could put his last buck on Masterson being at the Belle. Enough mounts to stock a respectful remuda were tied to the hitching posts.

He approached the batwing doors. Instead of the expected bustle and noise of the saloon, an eerie quietness fell from within.

His gut clinched tighter…This wasn’t good, not good at all.

Chapter 5

Not being able to resist the urge to keep time with the music, Kaira patted her foot to the rhythm of the banging piano.

A fun-loving mixture of cowboys willing to spend a little of their hard-earned cash, and flirty dancehall girls more than eager to help them out, crowded the smoke-filled room of the Amarillo Belle.

Using her best persuasion, Kaira smiled sweetly at the bartender. Delicately running her fingers around the lip of her tea cup, she awarded him with a second smile. “Thank you. I presume you don’t get many requests for tea?”

“No, ma’am. But I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leaned across the bar and lowered his voice. “We keep it for our girls. They don’t drink, but those cowpokes don’t know it.”

“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.