Kaira sat back and listened to Monk tell her about Quin’s father dying in the filth and neglect at Andersonville Prison. Too tired and frightened from fighting the Indians, his mama grieved for the past. Unable to continue managing the ranch, she allowed the few head of cattle not rustled or slaughtered to wander away. Finally, all her hands took their measly pay, what they hadn’t already stolen from her, and headed off the ranch, never to return. Nothing gave her hope, not even her son, Quin.

Step by step, the ol’ codger told every aspect of Quin’s growing up, including how Monk came upon the little feller burying his ma under a big old cottonwood tree not far from a withered field of wildflowers. How he watched the youngster pick a few stalks of limp Indian Blanket and some sort of a daisy and stick them in the mound of dirt that he had so carefully packed over his ma’s grave…as firm as any nine-year-old could.

Tears trembled on her eyelashes. More slow, hot tears wet her throat and threatened to spill out of her eyes. Faced with the harsh reality of how helpless and frightened Quin must have felt, she closed her eyes, allowing the links of his life to fit together one after another, until it formed a beautiful chain depicting the whole of Quinten Jon Corbett.

“I talked the kid into letting me stay on as a ranch hand for the winter. He paid me what he could until the money played out, then we took to droving to make ends meet. We had our good times, and some not so good ’uns, too.” Monk stood and picked up his cup. “Want more coffee?” he asked as though he’d drank the whole pot.

“No, thanks.” Kaira covered her face with her hand, trying to sort out everything she had learned about the mysterious editor.

But the most astonishing revelation came after Monk returned from putting water on to boil. He never complained about her coffee, just started another pot.

“We’ll have us more Arbuckle’s before we know it.” He returned and hitched himself upon a stool. “After he got hurt and couldn’t hit the trail, I didn’t feel right about going off and leaving the kid behind, so I took the little money I’d horded, bought this print shop, and ran it until I sold it to your grandfather.”

“He bought the shop from you?” Stunned, she repeated what he said. Kaira attempted to mask her inner turmoil with a deceptive calmness. “I’m confused.”

Her grandfather had told her unequivocally that he had purchased the shop from Quinten.

Kaira cleared her throat, more shaken than she wanted Monk to know. “Then how did Quin end up with the business? He does own it, doesn’t he?”

“Yep, he sure does. I don’t think you’d appreciate the story, so let’s jest leave it be. The shop belongs to the boy, not me.”

“I believe I’d surprise you.”

“No ma’am, nary another word. It’d only disappoint you.” His tone was apologetic, yet left no room for discussion.

“Quin owes you for everything he is-everything he has?”

“No, ma’am! It’s me who owes Quin. He saved me from sure death when that ornery lead steer and a bull filled with pizz’n’vinegar got into a scrape up around Dodge City. If the boy hadn’t been brave-not to mention foolish-enough to get me out of the way, I’d been pushin’ up daisies somewhere on the range, with nobody but a bunch of buzzards for company.”

“So that’s the real reason Quin doesn’t want anyone to know about his injury. He doesn’t want anyone to know the truth…that he was hurt being a true hero.”

“No, ma’am, Quin don’t wanna be nobody’s hero ’cause heroes only get their hearts broken, and that boy’s been hurt so much that he’s bound and determined not to let it happen again.” Monk shifted uneasily in his seat, probably realizing that Quin would be furious if he knew they were discussing him in such an intimate fashion. “Yep, for sure, the man’s fightin’ with all his might to make sure he won’t get hurt no more.”

Thoughts whirled in Kaira’s head as she tried to separate emotions from reality. Why had her grandfather deliberately kept from her the truth about who he bought the shop from? She thought him a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one. Why the deception? Did he want the newspaper to fail? And, if so, for what purpose?

Determination coupled with a streak of inbred defiance took over. Kaira had no intentions of allowing the ol’ toad back in New England to take away the only thing Quin had left-the Panhandle Herald. Whether Quin wanted her help or not, she was in Amarillo to stay. The newspaper would succeed. She’d focus on nothing but learning the rag business, maybe even enough where Quin could be free to spend more time at his ranch-go back to doing what his true calling was…being a cowboy.

By George, if Grandfather wanted to play a game, she’d best him this time.

Monk interrupted her thoughts. “I gotta take next week’s newspapers over to Jeb Diggs cause we never know when Coop will be pulling in here to pick ’um up to cart over to Mobeetie.”

“Mr. Monk, before you leave, may I ask you something else?”

“Yes, ma’am, reckon you can.” He removed his visor and fingered the bill, as though he’d answered about all of the questions he planned to.

“I need your help.”

Panic settled over the old-timer’s face. “Yes, ma’am. You know I’d do most anything for you-”

“I mean, I need your advice.”

“Yep, for sure, got lots of that.”

“Will you teach me the newspaper business?”

“Yep, can sure do that.” He held onto the visor for dear life. “Yes, ma’am, I’d be plumb tickled to help you out.”

“Thank you. You won’t be sorry.” She picked up her cup and walked toward Monk’s desk to retrieve his. “Another question. What can I do to make the newspaper successful?”

“Do your job, ma’am. Quit playin’ games with Quin. Teasing the boy. He’s had enough of that to fill a lifetime. Pardon me for saying it, but-”

“I haven’t taken any of this seriously, is that what you’re saying?”

“Sorta, ma’am.” He hung the visor on the peg. Shuffling over to the stack of papers, he effortlessly lifted a twine-tied bundle over his shoulder. “One more thing, Kaira, you’re not a dimwit. You gotta make him believe in you. You know what the boy needs, jest give it to him.”

“Beginning with an editorial he won’t forget?”

“Yep. And, a good ol’ pot of sonofabitch stew and biscuits wouldn’t hurt either. Don’t got many fixin’s in the cupboard, but we got credit with Jeb Diggs, so get anything you need.” Not bothering to take off his apron or sleeve protectors, Monk grabbed his hat and headed toward the door.

Stopping and slightly turning her direction, he said, “Quin loves them Maryland Beaten Biscuits, and a good ol’ larruping tongue pie would cheer the boy up.”

Once Monk was out of sight, Kaira seized Quin’s weighty, black apron and heaved it over her head. She laughed goodheartedly as it fell heavily over her breast, almost taking her breath away. She stretched. Having to put her arms in positions unaccustomed to her, she finally got the waist tied.

Oh, Kaira was taking this serious…nobody knew how seriously!

Chapter 11

Quin watched Monk exit the newspaper office like a short-tailed bull in fly season as he headed toward Diggs Grocery and Hardware. The bundle of newspapers balanced on Monk’s shoulder seemed weightless as he scurried along, dragging his leg slightly.

“Afternoon, Miss Harper.” Quin tipped his hat to the woman who had appeared beside him, damning himself for poor timing. Another twenty paces and he’d made it to his office without her catching up with him. He kept walking until Mavis Harper latched onto his arm, making it impossible to continue. At least he was squarely in front of the window of his office, and hopefully Kaira would come to his rescue. On the other hand, she might gleefully watch Mavis eat him alive.

Half-heartedly, he listened to Mavis rave about his new reporter. Reporter my ass! Nodding in agreement every now and again, he let her sing Miss Renaulde’s praises, while his thoughts seemed to focus mainly on Kaira’s, uh, attributes.

Surely the woman had cooled down by now.

Quin had. He’d had plenty of time to adjust his attitude and think things through on the cold, wet trip to his ranch.

Once the storm moved out, a full moon showed him the way. Quin had checked on the barn and the house to make sure no saddle tramp had taken advantage of his absence. Satisfied, Quin led his buckskin, who he unimaginatively had named “Buckskin,” to the barn where he unsaddled the gelding, rubbed him down, and turned him out in the corral.

Too restless to sleep in the house, Quin found his secret corner of the barn and stretched out on the dry, dusty hay. Unsettled, he tried to shuck memories of hiding in the barn, praying he was invisible, being scared of strangers who happened onto the ranch. Terrified of what they would do with a young child alone if they found him. Fearful for his life, but more afraid of being forced on yet another family who viewed him as nothing but a nuisance and an extra mouth to feed, since he hadn’t been big enough to work in the fields.

Sleep came sparingly.

At daybreak, having spent a chilly, fitful night, Quin rambled his way up to the house. Not bothering to start a fire, he found some beans and ate them straight from the can. That would be enough nourishment to last until he got back to town and had a good meal at Miss Maggie’s.

Saddling the gelding, Quin made his customary stop under the cottonwood trees. A weathered cross with the words REBECCA KATHLEEN CORBETT-MY MOTHER burnt into the wood and bent by years of wind and rain served as the headstone.

Quin cleared the area of dead limbs and winter’s brush. Pleased that the Indian Blanket had bloomed, he picked a few.