“She doesn’t have one,” said Quin, placing his hands protectively on her arm. “Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”

“I’m leaving Amarillo tomorrow, so if you’re still interested in discussing your proposition, miss, meet me at the hotel at eight o’clock tonight.” With a quirk of a grin he returned to the game, tossing a gold coin in the middle of the table. “Shorty, deal before some tinhorn comes along and wants in the game.”

The piano player changed tunes and customized the lyrics to fit the occasion. “Ooooh when a saint-goes marching out. Ooooh when a saint-”

“Saint, my ass!” Quinten groaned.

Kaira squared her shoulders and allowed him to escort her out of the room. Take control of the situation, Kaira, she thought. Don’t lose your temper. The man isn’t worth it. Or was he?

Once outside, she indignantly pulled out of his grasp, which seemed to have gotten progressively stronger as they crossed the room and exited the saloon. “Mr. Corbett, I respectfully request that you stop manhandling me immediately.”

“Damn it, woman, I’m not manhandling you.”

“I don’t know what they call it in Texas, but in Boston it is definitely unacceptable behavior.” She removed a tatted linen handkerchief from her handbag and fanned her face like a little old lady exposed to risqué humor. “Plus, I had Mr. Masterson exactly where I wanted him.”

“Madder than a short-hobbled horse?” He stood there tall, dark, and angry.

“He was laughing.”

“Oh sure. Because he was thinking how happy he’d be watching you sitting on a very skittish horse with a tight noose around your neck.” He cringed at his sarcasm. “But then, he wasn’t really mad at all, only interested in your proposition.”

“That is correct. My proposition is the only thing he was interested in.”

“And your proposal is?”

“To show you that I can be a reporter and obtain an interview for the newspaper.”

“Where did you come up with that hare-brained idea?” A chill ran up his spine. Not sure he wanted to know the answer, his jaw set.

“You and Mr. Monk discussed it last evening. I was-”

“Scooping my interview? Come on.” He hooked one arm to his hip. “Either come along gracefully or I’ll hog-tie you and carry you back to the office.”

Not in the mood to find out what her other options might be, Kaira slipped her left arm through his and secured the brim of her hat with her hand.

As though taking a pleasant stroll after a church social, the pair proceeded along the planked walk. His long stride increased their gait, forcing her to double-time it to keep up with him.

No doubt she was in trouble…serious trouble.

Chapter 7

Dozens of pairs of eyes watched the couple walk, rather gallop, toward the newspaper office. Kaira gripped her hat for dear life, afraid if she let go either their fast pace or a sudden gust of wind would carry it away, feather and all. After all, it’d take her months to get a replacement from Paris.

“I need to explain,” she huffed.

“There is nothing to explain. You’re a royal pain in the butt. You’ve already gotten into more hot water than one man could get you out of if he began dippin’ the day you were born.”

“Pain in the butt…I am most assuredly not. The way I see it, you’re the one who ruined my chances of getting an interview with Mr. Masterson.”

Quin partially guided her, practically pulled her into the office.

“Also, don’t forget how that nice Bat Masterson almost hit you defending me.”

He booted the door closed without comment.

Monk lifted his head. Detecting Quin’s testy mood, the old-timer slipped out of his chair and hobbled to the back room, shutting the door behind him.

“Have a seat, Miss Renaulde. It’s time we straighten out a few things.” The muscles in Quin’s neck visually tightened as he stepped to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. Obviously reconsidering his tactics, he inhaled deeply and asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Tea, please.” Then she became the one to reconsider. “Silly me.” She tried on her best “oops” smile and remained standing simply to make a statement. Although his mannerisms had softened, his stare had not. This was no time to try his patience, so she sat down. “It’s much too warm for hell to have frozen over. Right?”

A tiny smile appeared over Quin’s cup. “Much too warm.”

She wasn’t sure but she may have seen a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Kaira gathered enough nerve, and with as reasonable a voice as she could manage, said, “Quinten, I honestly meant no harm. I thought-”

“You thought! What’s wrong with the old-fashioned philosophy that an employee learns their job responsibilities before they go off half-cocked?”

“Half-cocked?”

“Forget it. It’s a Texas thing.”

She bit her lower lip. “I owe you an apology.”

“It seems that’s all we do…apologize.” He set down a cold mug of coffee before her. “Here. Need sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

Quin pounced upon Monk’s perch like a bullfrog on a toadstool. Pulling out a page of newsprint, he wrote in bold block letters: DEADLINE. AMARILLO BY MORNING!

Holding up the paper, he said, “That’s a deadline. That’s our deadline. That’s your deadline.” He got up, stepped past her, and tacked the newsprint on the wall. “This is all I’m interested in. Not excuses. Not apologies. Not explanations.” He turned back toward her. “I need news, not a gossip column. Understand?”

Kaira nodded, looking up through a fringe of eyelashes like a grammar school girl being raked over the coals for misbehaving. “Perfectly.”

“You are an apprentice. That means you do the muck work. Clean typeface. Do what the editor asks you to do. Assist Monk and me.” He wagged a long, forceful finger at her. “You’re a printer’s devil-not a reporter!”

Hasn’t anybody ever told Quinten not to point? Deciding that some things are better left unsaid, she let disappointment seep in and muddy her thoughts. Quin’s words cut to the core. Not a reporter! Do dirty work? No lady she knew would perform such unsavory tasks unless they were the gardener or a stable hand. Rightfully, she should give him a piece of her mind. He had no right. Oh, but he did. Quin had every right but still she refused to be referred to as a devil-even a printer’s devil.

Although she’d like the opportunity to soft-soap the rugged, temperamental editor just a bit, no doubt he would not only be amenable to her catching the next train back to Boston, but would cart her trunks on his back to the station to make sure she didn’t miss her ride.

Time was ripe to make her move.

“I can see, Quinten, that there is no reason for us to continue our business relationship. I shall return to Boston on the next train.” She snatched up her caba, stood, and moved less than a foot toward the stairwell before he stepped in front of her.

“Oh but you aren’t, Miss Renaulde. This is exactly what your grandfather warned would happen. And I will not give him the satisfaction of thinking that I can’t handle a greenhorn petticoat.”

“You know nothing about my petticoats, and you can’t stop me.”

“Don’t think I can’t.” He moved toward the door, where he filled the frame with his rock-hard body. “Your grandfather ordered me to teach you the newspaper business. And, damn it, lady, that’s exactly what I intend to do. So sit back down.”

His words assaulted her ears. He meant business and she didn’t much like the look in those bold, chocolate eyes that seemed to dare her to challenge him. Screwing up her face, she plopped down.

“Since you dilly-dallied away enough time to make Monk have to clean the typeface for the next run, here is what I expect.” Quin folded thick arms across his chest. “First off, you do as I say, and willingly.” He relaxed his stance slightly and eased his mouth into a lazy smile.

She felt ambushed by his amusement. A smile that seemed to soften his features, even make the dark stubble on his jaw appealing. Too bad it didn’t improve his poor attitude.

Damn, now that her grandfather had intervened, she would be forced to stay in the land of drifters, dreamers, and dancehall girls. Kaira would much rather perfect the skills she had learned at finishing school, attend cotillions, and use the philosophies acquired at Boston College. Her game of crokinole needed some work, and she had become lax in her enunciation. Back East she could cultivate the ways of the wealthy and privileged and not be concerned with the mundane, day-to-day operation of a newspaper in some unsophisticated, dirty Texas town.

Quin’s voice startled her, sending a shiver up her spine. “Are you listening? I’ll say it again to make my position perfectly clear. Leave Mr. Masterson alone.” His gaze bore into her. “And since you’ve wasted most of the day and Monk and I still have to get typesetting done, I have no choice but to send you out again to find some news-”

“And where do you suggest I gather such information?”

“I’d think you would instinctively know the answer.”

“I’ve lived a very sheltered life.”

“Jeeze!” Obviously his patience had thinned, but he continued, “Look over the wires that came from the Dodge City Times.” He deposited a notebook on the table. “Surely there’s something more interesting than odoriferous muskmelons and the warty cucumbers.”

“Writing instrument, please,” she said with smug delight.

Quin selected a pencil from the cup on Monk’s desk, and placed it in front of her with a thud. “Here. Next go to the undertaker and see who passed. After that, check out the register at the Amarillo Hotel. See if anyone of importance-other than Masterson-is in town. I want something of substance, not who was seen chit-chatting with whom.” He placed both hands flat on the table. Leaning into her, the line of his mouth tightened a fraction more and his brown eyes seemed to magnetize her gaze to his. “And, one cardinal rule…no gossip.”