“Miss Renaulde-”

“It’s not gossip.”

He folded his arms across his chest and leaned farther back in his chair. “So, tell me what you know as fact.”

“Payton McCord was wearing a new Stetson. Looks a lot like yours…” Apparently his look of disapproval made Kaira realize this wasn’t the kind of fact he needed.

“I saw, uh.” She hesitated. “Well, the altercation involving McCord, wasn’t that his name?” Seemingly proud that she remembered his name correctly, she looked directly into Quin’s face, who nodded. “And Miss Lemmons and Miss Harper, whatever her first name is-”

As if compelled to respond, Monk added, “I hear that Mavis Harper gal with them cow-patty eyes and swingin’ hips is as flighty as a strumpet on nickel night, but then I’ve only heard that-”

“Gossip! Give me news!” Quin was more angry at allowing Kaira to trap him into asking questions about the incident than Monk’s intervention.

“That being said”-she flipped over another page-“as I recall, one of my assignments was to learn the difference between muskmelons and mushmelons.” Her eyes brightened with pleasure. “I do believe the correct term is muskmelon. Although Samuel Clements, you know, Mark Twain…” She hesitated, as though waiting on Quin to challenge her. “Anyway, he referred to them as mushmelons in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

“That melon story, as stupid as it was, is already in those stacks of newspapers you nearly stumbled over coming in.” He tipped his head toward the door.

“To be more exact, it was Huck using the word mushmelon in chapter twelve-”

“I don’t care about mushmelons or muskmelons, Samuel Clements or Mark Twain, I need news. What about that paint that went loco, got himself unhitched, and went to find his owner in the Amarillo Belle last night? Did anyone get hurt?”

“I didn’t ask. They probably-”

“No probably. I want facts!” He darted from his chair and towered over her.

The shocked look on her face confirmed his speculation that she had used up the afternoon most likely rereading Mark Twain. “Here’s the deal, Kaira-”

“You called me Kaira-”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Damn, his glib response slipped from his mouth like marbles played on shale. He had intended to keep their relationship professional, and referring to her as Miss Renaulde was more appropriate than using her more intimate given name. “Uh, yeah. Yes, I did. If we’re going to work together-anyway, back to the issue at hand. You will sit here until hell freezes over, or until you write me three articles for the newspaper. I don’t give a rusty rat’s ass which one you do. I want something printable, factual, and newsworthy.”

Quin placed both hands on the table and leaned into her. “I got my interview with Masterson. Where is yours?” He tried to shut out the faint smell of sweet lily of the valley and ignore her softness, but all he could think about was the sense of excitement growing within him, penetrating the stone center of his heart.

Kaira watched him intently, not giving an inch. A single thread of respect and understanding began to form between them.

Damn, he didn’t need a woman in his life. Any woman, much less some beautiful, spitfire Easterner who made his temper flair and his blood boil.

Where was Monk when he needed him? Now would be a perfect time for the ol’ codger to dispense some sage advice, but it seemed that he had disappeared, probably to find Mavis Harper and see if she needed consoling.

“Uh, Miss Renaulde.” Quin straightened and looked down on the most generously curved parted lips he’d ever seen. The sudden need for air strangled him. “I’m going out.” He grabbed his Stetson. “When I get back, I’ll expect those stories written, ready for me to typeset.”

A drink suddenly sounded good. A stiff drink…one stiff enough to make Ol’ Glory stand at attention!

Hooking up with Ira, Shorty, and Monk, Quin played five card stud and chased whiskey with beer until the pain in his shoulder subsided. Winning enough to order Monk a comfortable chair helped his mood, but the liquor didn’t begin to chase away thoughts of Miss Dawdle-Butt.

Images of her lavender eyes following him out the door waltzed across his mind. They were closer to violet, like a field of primrose on a misty morning. Her eyes brimmed with passion and half-filled promise.

Such an attraction could be dangerous. He mustn’t forget the purpose of her employment. If he failed to teach her the newspaper business, he’d lose the bonus. In turn, he’d break a pledge to himself and Monk. His ranch was at stake, yet the memories of her presence stoked a rampart fire in his gut. Illogical sensations couldn’t define the source, but the feelings continued to erupt.

Quin had a growing need to check on Kaira. He’d been pretty tough on her earlier. Maybe he should apologize.

Hell no.

If there were any apologies heaped out, she’d do the spooning. What did he have to apologize for-because she riled him up so much with her beauty and sharp tongue? Humbug! He ordered a final shot of whiskey and tossed it back, hoping to get rid of the nagging question marks.

Quin slid his glass toward Wally and pitched some extra coins on the bar. As an afterthought, he turned back to the bartender. “You got any of that tea left over?”

After some good-hearted ribbing from Monk, and with thoughts of Kaira still thickening in his head, Quin tucked the crock of warm tea in his arms and headed toward the shop.

Off to the west, soundless lightning flickered against the night sky. He pushed the print shop door open, and the quietness that welcomed him was as noticeable as the lack of thunder. Dying lamplight caused gray shadows to dance against the walls.

Sitting down the crock, Quin noticed Kaira slumped forward, resting her head on her folded arms, as though protecting a secret. She had removed the ornaments holding her ebony hair high on her head, making her locks cascade around her shoulders. She snored softly.

He drew closer, halting behind her.

Quin tried to look away. He wanted desperately to keep his arms to his side, but as though a magnet drew his fingers to her, he stopped short of caressing the patch of soft, ivory skin exposed at the nape of her neck. An utterly enticing and very kissable part of her body. No Texas-born male could resist touching her. Gingerly he laid one finger, then three, on velvety skin. The feel of naked flesh against his calloused fingertips reached across the years to rouse emotions he had kept buried…until today.

Kaira stirred only slightly, as though enjoying a tender moment. A tender moment! He wasn’t being tender…he was being selfish and manhandling a defenseless woman.

Jerking his hand away, he caught sight of three papers neatly penned with a woman’s flourish. Each had separate headings.

He shook off the unexpected sensations and picked up the articles. Taking the pages to his desk, he turned up the lamp, put on his glasses, and began to read.

“Poor Chicken: The Pan Handle has a curiosity in the shape of a chicken which has only one leg. It was hatched that way, is about a year old, and seems as happy and contented as though it had two legs.”

Doesn’t she even know, Panhandle is one word? Tossing the story aside, he continued to the next headline:

“Apples Quickly Taken: An itinerant-looking man with very small mules was selling apples here Wednesday. They came from Wichita Falls. They retailed at four bits a dozen, and were quickly taken.”

The apples or the mules? Maybe both! Groaning while cutting his eyes toward the sleeping woman, he went on to the next story:

“Christening Scheduled: Briar Ebenezer Duncan, infant son of Milford Duncan and his wife, Opal, will be christened on Sunday.”

Damn it! Quin slapped down the page with purpose and jerked off his spectacles, frustrated for almost forgetting the upcoming event, and all because of Miss Peabody-of-Boston!

He made a mental note to swing by the mercantile tomorrow to check on the silver rattler he had ordered. Maybe he should have selected a more practical gift than what Monk had suggested. Being a godfather to a little tyke was a momentous obligation. There were dozens of well-respected men more qualified than a washed-up cowboy. Joe Long, the foreman of the Frying Pan, and his wife, Lucinda, would be better godparents, particularly since she couldn’t bear a child. Quin had helped birth a heap of calves, so why would the thought of being a godfather to little Briar Duncan make his chest fill with pride?

Quin leaned back in his chair. Making steeples with his fingers, he watched Kaira sleep, obviously unaffected by the light or shuffling of papers.

“Miss Renaulde,” he little more than whispered.

She didn’t stir.

“Kaira,” Quin said louder. Pulling out of his chair, he walked toward her. “Hey, wake up. You need to go to bed.”

She moved her head slightly, but remained still.

Tarnation, he had two choices; let her sleep or rescue her from a crick in her neck. She was an investment, and if she couldn’t walk tomorrow because of sleeping sitting up, she couldn’t find any news at all, worthless or not.

Quin owed her. After all, she had probably saved him from a public tar and feathering by reminding him of little Briar’s christening.

Gently, he lifted her into the cradle of his arms. He could feel her soft breath against his neck as she snuggled into his shoulder. The sweet scent of lily of the valley once again shrouded him. “Kaira, I’m taking you to bed,” he whispered so close to her ear that he could feel his own breath.

“Good.” Kaira’s voice was barely audible.

Quin felt the words more than heard them, her lips feather-touched his neck, arousing his passion once again.