Kaira watched Quin pull a stack of handwritten pages from his center desk drawer. He carefully sat them on the typesetting table.

Uncertainty clutched at her heart.

Quin flashed a brief, arresting smile that dazzled against his sun-drenched skin. He was even more stunningly virile than ever. Blasted, he was so charming when he smiled.

Clenching and unclenching her hands, Kaira squirmed in her seat, wishing her uncomfortableness would subside and she could scrounge up the courage to ask him where he had spent the night. But then it wasn’t any of her concern.

Dern it! The man looked better than any French pastry she’d ever tasted. A delicacy that once you are introduced to, you can’t do without. Although still unruly, Quin’s dark hair was shorter and he was freshly shaven, smelling of soap, leather, and a hint of lilac aftershave.

“I ran into Monk last night. He’s been working too hard, so with you here to help, I told him to take the rest of the day off. He’s picked up enough news off the telegraph to put together a decent paper next week.”

“Do you still need a piece?” Although Quin had typeset most of the next edition, she knew he still had white space, something not profitable to a publisher.

“I could use it. Got one?” A flash of humor crossed his face. “One that doesn’t have anything to do with melons or apples. No fruit at all.”

“And no Mark Twain?” Half leery of his good humor, she flashed a tentative smile. Fully prepared for him to quill up at the notion that she had a serious story, she said, “Yes, I have something. It isn’t gossip. It’s a peace offering to prove my renewed commitment to the success of the paper.”

“Then for once, we’re both plowing in the same direction, huh?” He spoke in a kind, jesting way. “Did you put it in the drawer with the others or do you have it on you?”

“I have it in here.” She reached for her caba, hesitating slightly. “Before you start typesetting it, we need to talk.”

“Kaira, generally you do the talking and I do the listening, so why don’t you start and I’ll catch up with you.” He went back to his desk and sat down.

“Why did Monk sell the newspaper to my family?”

“The ol’ coot didn’t tell you?” Quin looked surprised and a bit hesitant to say more.

“No-no, he didn’t and I need to know.”

“He sold the newspaper after I got hurt to pay the taxes on the ranch. We’d depleted most of our funds, and the money we were suppose to receive for the few head that did make it to market never got back to us.”

“I didn’t know. So, how did you become the editor-in-chief?”

“He didn’t tell you that either?” Quin didn’t wait for her reply. “It’ll only disappoint you.”

“That’s exactly what Monk said, so tell me the truth…all of the truth.”

“Let’s just say he and your grandfather didn’t see eye to eye. Didn’t share the same philosophies. Monk pretty much wanted to stay low-key and not disturb folks. Renaulde wanted big changes that most of the new frontier wasn’t prepared for. Monk was bound and determined not to give in and they fired him.”

“Fired him!” She was appalled. The cold and heartless cad. Terminating someone because they didn’t share his opinion.

“Yep. I stepped in and agreed to become the editor, only if they’d leave me be, let me hire my own assistant, and pay his wages out of my own pocket.”

“That is an atrocity.” She wasn’t sure that the soft spot she had for the old man wasn’t responsible for much of her ire. She opened her pocketbook and retrieved two envelopes that she had carefully protected all the way from Boston to Texas.

“Quin, I know I haven’t appeared to take my employment very seriously, but I want to begin. I want to learn. I’m well educated and have something to offer. Here is a piece I brought with me.” Carefully, she avoided saying a piece that her grandfather had given her in return for her promise that she’d get it into the newspaper. “It’s an editorial.”

“We don’t do editorials.” He smiled, backing off. “But let me read it.”

“Grandfather said that they are what makes a newspaper sophisticated, gives it respect, and increases circulation.”

Kaira took a deep breath, thinking back to when her grandfather had given her the article. How he explained that she would know when the time was right to give it to Quin. That it was the kind of piece that would set a journalist apart from a reporter. Not some silly writing about the patent dispute over the flexibles. As he had pointed out, paper matches would never replace stick ones.

He warned her that she didn’t want to spend all of her career reporting on events such as the new drinking straws that they were sure would catch on. Or the Atlanta druggist who was peddling his new concoction, Coca-Cola, right out of his store. There might be a story there if the two got together; otherwise, she’d spend her career trying to create a name for herself out of drivel and other’s troubles.

Grandfather had promised the editorial would make him proud of her and she would be a real journalist. A reporter who could make big money selling her stories to McClure’s and Ladies Home Journal. She’d be somebody to reckon with.

“Are you going to give the article to me or do I need to hogtie you to get it?” Another arresting smile appeared.

Kara handed both envelopes to Quin and returned to her chair. Facing him, she fidgeted in anticipation. She visualized the pleasure on his face after he read the story.

Grandfather said it would put the Panhandle Herald on the map and everyone would be talking about the story.

Quin placed the thinner envelope in his desk drawer. “Bonus for the Masterson story,” he said. Carefully he unsealed the thicker one.

Leaning back in his chair, he slowly, methodically read the editorial, occasionally peering up at her over his glasses.

Once finished, he returned to the first sheet. After rereading each page, he turned it face down on his desk and continued on. He read each word, almost too carefully. His jaw clenched tighter and tighter as he read further. His eyes became stormy, and his brow furrowed into a frown. Apparently, he wasn’t as enthralled with the story as she thought he’d be.

Quin laid the editorial on the desk. He removed his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. Opening his pocket watch, he checked the time and closed the gold cover.

Kaira fidgeted in the quietness, feeling a black cloud hovering overhead. The spirited editor’s attitude had changed, dampening the air with gloom.

He gathered the parchments in a bundle, folded them neatly, and tapped the edges on the desktop, apparently weighing his words carefully. “You didn’t write this.” Quin’s voice was uncompromising yet oddly gentle, quickly turning rigid. “I would have thought that coming from a publishing family you would know that plagiarism is the worst breach of ethics.” He set his jaw and continued to tap on the table. “Maybe presenting something old and contrived is acceptable in Boston, but it isn’t in Texas. At least not while I’m the editor.”

“I didn’t write the damn thing, Quin.”

Seemingly unaffected by her confession and her profanity, Quin asked, “Have you even read it?”

She thought she might cry. “No.”

“Then let me read an excerpt for you.” He took a deep breath before beginning. “‘For decades it has been the goal of the federal Indian policy for containment on the Indian. About six years ago, a group of social reformers and government officials met at Mohonk Lake, New York-’”

“My grandfather instructed me on the details. Even our nineteenth President, Rutherford Hayes, attended. The Friends of the Indian movement has opened dozens of off-reservation day schools and boarding schools for the sole purpose of reeducating the Indians and make them better citizens.”

“Do you realize that all of the participants were from the East and only two had ever laid eyes on an Indian?”

“No, but, Grandfather Renaulde said-”

“Malarkey! He’s like so many other Easterners who are scared out of his wits about the political power growing in the West. They want it stifled.”

“And you truly believe that?” She didn’t wait for his response. “Grandfather and Uncle Christian sat me down and went to great lengths to explain the movement thoroughly, focusing on how it would benefit the Indians.”

“Kaira, you are naive to their motives. Have you ever heard of yellow journalism?”

“I’m familiar with it. It’s sensationalism in order to drive up circulation.”

“I recognize that you’ve been shielded from the realities of life. You’ve been protected from the ugly things that have happened.” He waved the pages through the air. “This piece all by itself can open wounds that are still very fresh in this part of the country.” He put his hands on either edge of the desk and leaned forward. Defiantly, he said, “I refuse to publish it, so take the damn thing back to Boston and tell the great Renaulde where he can shove it…”

“Grandfather is an influential man. He’s running for the Senate and has powerful people backing him. He won’t let this go without ramifications.”

“Don’t tell me about how cruel your grandfather is.”

His words made her bristle. “I didn’t say he was cruel-”

“I’ve been down this path before, and I know how ruthless he can be. Right after Monk sold the newspaper to your family, they tried to push the same editorial nonsense down his throat. That’s why they fired him.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “And you kept him on. Grandfather allowed it?”

“Only after I convinced him that it was in their best financial interest to let me keep Monk. It wasn’t anything out of his pocket, after all, I had agreed to pay Monk’s wages.” Quin leaned closer. “Money seems to pique your grandfather’s interest. He and I haven’t been on the best of terms since.”

“I had no idea, but wouldn’t it be better to publish the damnable thing than to antagonize Grandfather again?”

“Do you think it’s right to force someone to change their heritage?”

“Say what you mean. To force the Indians to take on our customs? If it betters them, possibly.”

“This group professed to support the Indian and be their friend, and it’s doomed to fail.”

“I don’t believe my family would support any type of renegade movement. Quin, maybe you aren’t keeping an open mind.”

“An open mind? Have you ever heard of the Red River War? Battle of the Washita? Adobe Walls?”

He frowned, but didn’t stop. “Do you think the old Navajo who befriended Amanda Lemmons’s father years ago and who still has to come to her place in the dark of night has a problem with Colonel Ranald Mackenzie slaughtering over a thousand Indian ponies at the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon?”

As hard as she tried to weigh his words, she could only stare at Quin. Slowly the pieces fell together. Her grandfather had used her, hoping she’d influence Quin into running the editorial. Fighting for words that refused to form, she shook her head.

“No, you wouldn’t. But I can assure you that folks around here remember. Remember being terrorized, having their cattle butchered, their homes burnt to the ground. Some of our town’s folks watched their whole family die because of the disagreements between the Indian and the government.”

“I had no idea, Quin. Honestly.” Tears welled in her eyes.

“Now, do you think I’d jeopardize my reputation and turn against my friends and neighbors by publishing an editorial on how much headway the government is making on molding the Indian into something they don’t want to be? And the Indians aren’t the least bit fooled by what the government is trying to do.”

“To make them into someone they aren’t?”

Quin slipped the pages back in the envelope. Retrieving the second one, he pulled to his feet and handed both to Kaira. “I’ve got to get over to the hotel to see Hank Harris, but I won’t be gone long.” He walked toward the door, grabbed his hat, then turned back in her direction. “I know this is distressing and makes you sad.” He tilted back his Stetson with his thumb, as though making sure she could see his eyes. “That’s why I don’t want what’s in the second packet. It’s a bonus for the Masterson interview. Renaulde used you, and I’ll never accept his blood money.”

“You know Grandfather will fire you, and you need the money.”

“No, it’s little more than a bribe, and it could never make me happy. Monk and I can live without this job. We’ve done it before and we can do it again. He’ll be happier out at the ranch, anyway. I’ve saved up enough to take care of us until I can find something else.”

“You need to restock the ranch. The money means nothing to Grandfather, so take it.” She shoved the white parcel in his direction.