Linda Broday - Give Me A Texan

Scarlet satin and licorice lace swirled, as dancehall girls scattered like kitties confronted by a vicious hound.

Surely, Quin was going deaf. Had Kaira revealed Masterson’s winning hand? From what Quin had heard, the gambler would make short work of sweeping the floor with anyone interfering with his wagering.

Bat Masterson placed his cards face up, scooted his winnings to him, and placed his hands on the table, prepared to stand. A sudden chill veiled the movement.

Quin recognized a bobcat stalking a canary when he saw one. Feathers were about to fly, and he must protect Kaira. She needed a public flogging, but not by the famed gunslinger.

Like a bogged steer hip deep in mud, Quin stood rooted in place. On the third attempt, his legs moved forward. Picking up speed, he rushed the door, slamming the center with his chest. Both batwings parted and he crossed the sawdust floor before Masterson reached his full height.

In slow motion, Kaira turned in Quin’s direction, probably wondering why she hadn’t been told a tornado hit town. She blinked in bewilderment.

“Miss Renaulde!” Quin’s voice sounded unnatural even to him. “I need to see you outside, now.” His words echoed in the silence.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Corbett, but-” A crimson flush raced like a fever across her cheeks.

“But nothing. Outside. NOW!”

“Excuse me?” She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders in defiance, which emphasized her set of attributes to their fullest.

“I didn’t stutter.” Quin resisted the urge to throw her over his shoulder and exit the saloon. But he had never deliberately embarrassed a woman and didn’t plan to begin now. He gulped air. He could almost hear the hemp committee forming for Kaira’s public hanging.

Securing her arm with a firm grip, he drew her near. Close enough that the sweet smell of lily of the valley masked the stale scent of smoke, whiskey, and lust.

She shot him a look that could surely send him direct to his grave, and dug in her heels.

“Mr. Corbett, please.” She leaned lightly into him, tilting her face toward his.

Bat Masterson took a step forward. “It’s in your best interest to get your hands off Miss Renaulde…at once.”

Quin released her, realizing he could no more move the lady than he could a century-old cottonwood. Yet the thought of touching her in places hidden by crinoline and lace both unsettled and excited him. Where this woman was concerned, he seemed to have nothing but mush for a brain.

Kaira resituated her hat slightly and fiddled with a strand of loose hair that had escaped, but kept her stare glued on Quin, serving to unnerve him more.

While not taking her eyes off her confronter, she addressed the gambler in what was surely her best boarding-school English. “I’m fine, kind sir. Mr. Corbett meant no disrespect. Did you, Quinten?” She smiled sweetly, obviously detecting Quin’s uneasiness.

Quin groaned. What’s wrong with this gal anyway? He didn’t disrespect her as a woman, only her complete disregard for her duties to the newspaper. “Of course not, she’s my-”

“His new reporter.” She finished the sentence for him. “And we were about to have tea. Are you ready to join me, Quinten?”

Masterson retreated back to the gaming table.

The tar and feather option began to sound better to Quin, as pure dee ol’ furor replaced aggravation and rushed through him like a herd of spooked steers. “Do you know when hell is gonna freeze over, Miss Renaulde?”

“I honestly don’t know, but I’ll ask.” She slipped past him and stalked toward the table of gamblers so quick that Quin couldn’t catch her. “Mr. Masterson, do you have any idea when hell will freeze over?”

Under a snicker, he answered, “No.” He lifted questioning eyes to the card players. “Gentlemen?”

One by one they shrugged their shoulders.

Obviously perplexed with the lack of response, she raised a delicately arched eyebrow to Quin. “Why do you ask?”

“Because that’s when I’ll start drinking tea.”

“Then may I interest you in some spirits while I explain-”

“The only thing that I’m interested in is getting the newspaper out! And on time!”

“I propose to-”

“Drink tea in a saloon in the middle of the afternoon? Surely you jest-”

Masterson broke into one wave of laughter after another, interrupting Quin, until everyone at the table joined in…Everyone except for Quin, who was completely buffaloed by the sudden change in Masterson’s attitude. Quin studied one person then another.

Kaira cocked her head, as though to say she thoroughly understood the joke. Maybe even knew the punchline.

“This is the best gag that you guys have pulled on me in years.” Masterson slapped his hand on his thigh. “A real gut-splitter. And this sweet young thang was so convincing that she didn’t understand poker.” He gave a loud hey-haw. “Only a pro would know when it was safe to tell what I had in my hand.” He winked at Kaira. “And I’d like to hear your proposition.”

“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.

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.