“But last week at Miss Maggie’s I overheard a conversation about two ranch owners meeting at the hotel-”

“No gossip.” He warned.

Kaira flipped open the notebook and wrote: No gossip. No odoriferous musk…” Excuse me. Are they mushmelons or muskmelons?”

Obviously exasperated, Quinten forced on his spectacles, opened the top draw of the cabinet, and began selecting uppercase typeface, avoiding eye contact. “That’s a reporter’s job to find out. It’s called research.”

“Then I’m a reporter?”

“You’re an apprentice.” He jerked his head up and sighed in disbelief.

Annoyed, Kaira rose to her feet, grabbed her handbag, scooped up the notebook, and returned the pencil to Monk’s holder. “I prefer my own, thank you.” She sashayed out the door, not able to resist throwing yet another barb into the mix, “Sounds like I’m a reporter to me.”

“Apprentice! Apprentice! Apprentice!” Quin’s words rattled the window panes.

Monk appeared from the storeroom. “Yep, sure did set that calico straight, son. Sure did.” Mumbling, he shook his head and limped to his workstation.

“If I wanted your opinion, old man, I’d ask for it.” Quin couldn’t help but laugh, knowing Monk paid as much heed to his sarcasm as he did to the old-timer’s grumbling. The duo was like a good ol’ pair of work gloves. A perfect fit. One would be useless without the other.

“You only have to put up with her for three months, son.”

“That’s ninety days-a fourth of the year…” Trailing off, Quin slipped on his cowhide apron and glasses and went to work.

“Less a week,” said Monk.

The chit-chat of the telegraph began in earnest. For more than an hour both men worked without muttering a word.

Suddenly, Monk broke the silence. “Yep, that’s one thousand nine hundred ninety-two hours.” He adjusted his sleeve-protectors and turned to Quin. “It’s either keep her here and get the newspaper out like her grandfather said, or kiss that bonus good-bye. Then you can forget restocking the ranch. Choice is yours, Quin.”

“I’m at wits end.” Quin pulled the visor from his head. “She’s so damn frustrating. I’ve tried to be patient, but it’s as if she is bound and determined to make me dislike her and send her packing. Come hell or high water, I’m not breaking the contract. That woman’s like a nest of hornets that keep buzzing around me and I can’t get them settled down. The worst part, I can’t seem to get her off my mind.” He absentmindedly rubbed his aching collarbone. “If she’s here she gets me all rattled, and if she’s gone I worry about her.”

“Yep, for sure. Been noticing that.”

“She’s gotten under my skin and I can’t shuck her.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t try. Jest play the cards you’ve been dealt.” Monk shifted his weight and massaged his thigh. “But you’ve got to be powerfully patient with her. She’s like a bad rash that sure does hurt to scratch but feels mighty good when you’re through. You gotta make a newswoman out of her.”

“How do you profess I accomplish that?”

“Lengthen the lariat you have around her neck. Give her space. Gotta teach her come here from sic ’um. She’s no nitwit, jest wants to see how long she can beat you around the stump before you send her home. Then it’ll be all your fault she failed. No sir, for sure. That gal is no dummy.”

“Patience and a loose lariat will do it, you think?”

“Yep, sure do.”

Although it would be a stretch, Quin could try to be more patient, but wasn’t all that keen on the giving her space idea.

Quin had tried to allow Kaira to find the news on her own, but all she’d managed to come up with was that a ranch hand on the Frying Pan had bought a new Stetson, and a lady sheep rancher had come to town for supplies. Mrs. Diggs at the mercantile had ordered a new array of bonnets from Fort Worth, and ol’ Ira was complaining about Amarillo needing a good gunsmith.

Flipping his watch open, Quin checked the time. She’d been gone for nearly two hours and he couldn’t help but wonder what pickle the sassy-butt had gotten herself into. Damn, he hadn’t known her long enough to worry about her, but he did.

The thought barely had enough time to wane before Kaira burst through the front door, as though chased by a rattler in the outhouse.

“You’ll never believe what I just heard!”

Chapter 8

Astonishment painted their faces as Quin’s and Monk’s gazes followed a blur of feathers, crinoline, and ivory lace rushing in one door and out the other.

On her way through, Kaira halted, unpinned her hat, and dropped it, along with her handbag and notepad, on the deacon’s bench.

Quin held back a smirk and studied the bonnet. Dubiously, he shook his head. “Damn, that hideous thing looks like a confused bird made a nosedive for Miss Renaulde’s head and got all tangled up in that netty stuff,” he said to no one in particular.

The back screen slammed, echoing throughout the room.

A sinking feeling hit Quin as he drew his attention away from her bonnet and back to her words: You’ll never believe what I just heard.

“Lordy, Lordy, did she ever have a bee in her bloomers,” Monk snipped and turned back to his desk. “Someone needs to tell her we don’t have the only privy in town.”

Quin leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully tapped his index fingers together. “You do it. I don’t have time to figure her out.” He stared at the note on the wall…DEADLINE!

Interrupting his thoughts, Kaira rushed from the back room, fetched her belongings and headed toward the stairwell, before turning back to the two men. “I have a few things to take care of before I tell you the-”

“Gossip?” Quin finished her statement. “I’ve already cautioned you-”

“Oh, fiddle-faddle.” Kaira seemed unaffected by the warning as she continued, “Mr. Monk, may I bother you for a hammer and a few nails?”

The ol’ codger scrambled to a small workbench that clung to the south wall and selected a claw hammer and half a dozen Wagon Box nails. He smiled at her like she was a hot apple pie. “Anything else I can get you, ma’am?”

“No, and thank you. You’re such a precious man.” She accepted the items. Proceeding to the stairs, she flung over her shoulder, “This will not take long. I’ll be down shortly and tell you the, uh, news.”

And she was gone.

“What do you think she wanted the hammer for?” Monk nonchalantly asked, as though giving a lady a hammer and a handful of nails wasn’t out of the ordinary.

“Don’t know. You seem to be the expert on the lady’s needs, not me.”

What could Kaira, who on one hand seemed to be helpless, yet on the other requested a hammer and nails as though she were a carpenter, be up to? The thought barely had time to formulate when thunderous pounding rocked the walls from the ceiling to the planked floors.

Thud. From the reverberation, no doubt Kaira had dropped the hammer. Rapid-fire raps ensued, quickly followed by one abrupt bang.

As sudden as the noise began, an eerie quietness cloaked the building. Nothing could be heard except Monk’s labored breathing and Quin gulping air. Even the telegraph stopped to listen.

“For Pete’s sake, what did she do, find a mouse and beat the confounded creature to death?” Quin wondered out loud.

“Musta got him with that final splat.” Monk never looked up from his task.

Time passed in silence until lithe footsteps sounded on the stairs, drawing both men’s gazes upward. Dressed in a no-nonsense taupe skirt, topped by a plain ivory blouse accented with rows and rows of ruffles that hugged her…uh, attributes tightly, Kaira descended.

“Wearing sensible shoes, I see,” Quin muttered beneath his breath, figuring Monk couldn’t hear him anyway.

“Yep, for sure. She looks like she’s ready to get down to work,” the old man quipped.

“And it could even be newspaper business.” Quin resisted asking Monk why he seemed deaf to some things and turned all ears when it came to Miss Renaulde.

Coming within hearing distance, Kaira met Monk’s smile, passed over the hammer, and thanked him for his kindness.

Damn, if she didn’t make the ol’ hip-shot broncbuster blush.

“Miss Renaulde, if I’m not interrupting your day, I’d appreciate knowing about the news you gathered.” Quin nodded toward an oaken library table. “That is your work area, remember.”

Kaira carefully opened her notebook, flipped over several pages, and poised her pen as though prepared to take notes. “And what precisely do you wish to know?”

“What you found out!” Quin inhaled deeply and exhaled, trying desperately to corral his annoyance.

“Well, Payton McClain-”

“McCord not McClain. From the Frying Pan-”

“Payton McCord,” she repeated, as though she had used the right name in the first place, “and a lady named Harper came out of the Amarillo Hotel, and Payton’s intended, Amanda, uh…” She flipped through her notepad.

“Lemmons.” Quin provided the last name. “She inherited a little spread up near the Canadian River and raises sheep-”

“Oh yes, Amanda Lemmons, I ran into her at the mercantile shortly after I arrived when you assigned me the task of finding a story. A lovely woman. Evidently, the sheepherder wasn’t too happy finding McClain-”

“McCord-”

“With another woman and she kicked him in his, uh-I’ve heard it’s called his…well, his delicates.” She referred to her notes, as if she’d find the answer on the pages.

Monk suddenly reinvested himself in the conversation. “You mean Amanda kicked him in his-” Meeting Quin’s frown, the old ink-jerker hushed, clearly realizing his support wasn’t appreciated.

“Yes, Mr. Monk, his shins. Miss Lemmons proceeded to give a rather vicious kick he won’t forget for a while. I’m not sure what they said, but Miss Harper turned on him and booted him in his other shin. The ladies were somewhat brutal, and left him jumping around like a boarding school mistress at a cotillion. Talk has it that-”