Quin stepped forward, stopping in front of her. Studying her, he casually lifted her chin with his thumb, bringing her eyes up to meet his. “I know Texas isn’t the life you are accustomed to. So go on back to Boston. I can’t hold you here.” He lightly kissed her lips. Taking her hand, still clutching the envelope, he lifted it to her breast. Covering her hand with his, he whispered huskily, “Take this with you. Return it to your family.”

He turned and walked out in silence, taking part of her heart with him.

Kaira fought nausea. Tears rolled down her face. Quin was right. Grandfather had used them both, planning to force his personal views onto the world. Probably, just as Quin warned, as a way to create havoc on the strengthening politics in the new West.

How could she pressure Quin into keeping the money, or at least try to, by showing him how he could take it without compromising his values and her sincerity? Maybe she should enlist Monk’s help, getting him to talk some sense into Quin. After all, they had gotten the interview with Bat Masterson.

She didn’t know how much the draft was for but figured it was in a sufficient amount to buy a herd of cattle. Not trying to sort cows from steers, she walked to the archived newspapers, remembering that Quin had published something recently that had the price of cattle listed. She leafed through the pages.

Idea after idea formed and like bubbles on a windy day, bursting before they were fully developed. If there was enough, Quin could buy some of the new barbed wire and fence off part of his acreage for a vegetable garden or for flowers and roses.

Monk promised to teach her the printing business, and once she learned enough to run the newspaper, he and Quin could spend their days on the ranch. Or maybe Quin would spend the nights with her in the big four-poster bed upstairs.

But how much money would it take to stock a ranch? She thumbed through a few more pages. She had to convince Monk to take the cash and buy cattle.

Kaira resisted looking at the draft long enough. After all, Quin had given it to her, so technically it belonged to her. She hurried to the door and locked it, hoping Quin or Monk wouldn’t return before she finished. She opened the envelope.

The draft fell to the floor as she saw her Grandfather’s familiar calling card with a note scrolled in his masculine flourish.

This draft is for the Masterson interview. One in a like sum will be yours if you keep that twerp of a granddaughter of mine in Texas and out of trouble until the election is over. After a period of three months, I will transmit a ticket for her safe passage to Boston. FJR

In despair, she grabbed the deacon bench and eased herself down on the hard wood. She tried to will her body to quit shaking, but it wouldn’t cooperate. She fought tears of disappointment, but her sense of loss was beyond tears.

Quin was right-her grandfather was cruel, more cruel than she could ever imagine. She had always been spirited, even her nanny said she marched to her own drummer, but she had never caused her family any embarrassment, at least not enough for him to banish her from his life so he could hold public office. Was she that easy to discard?

A fleeting thought made a brief appearance. Not for a second did she believe Quin knew the true reason her contract called for her employment of three months. The contract was clear that Quin would receive extra pay for teaching her.

The shimmy of the doorknob penetrated Kaira’s clouded thoughts. Determined to shuck her pensive mood, she smoothed her skirt, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Standing tall, she gathered her wits and unlocked the door, coming face to face with Jeremiah Cooper.

“Sorry, Mr. Cooper, I didn’t realize I had locked the door.” She hoped her voice didn’t show her emotions. “Neither Mr. Monk nor Quinten are here at the moment. May I help you?”

“Miss Kaira, I came for the newspapers to take up to Mobeetie.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Monk took them to Jeb Diggs a while ago.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “I best catch up with him.”

“Mr. Cooper, you deliver items for hire, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Could you take some luggage to the train station this afternoon?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be back after I pick up the papers and make my delivery to the mercantile. Did Quin get his story on Bat Masterson? You know he fought at Adobe Walls and was a surveyor over at Mobeetie, don’t you?”

“Yes, he did. And no, I didn’t.”

Kaira followed him to his colorful wagon with gilded scrollwork and painted scenes on the side panels. It reminded her of a gypsy wagon instead of one belonging to a drummer. Mr. Cooper asked to be called “Coop” and introduced her to his pretty, pregnant, red-haired wife, Deidra.

Standing on the wooden boardwalk, Kaira watched the peddler’s wagon move toward the Diggs Grocery and Hardware, stirring up a ribbon of dust behind.

With a heart as heavy laden as Deidra Cooper’s fruitful body, Kaira hurried upstairs. Removing her lace and satin Paris fashions from the wardrobe, she placed them in a Saratoga. Gingerly, she packed her hats. Once she finished, resisting a look, she closed the door and walked the long stairwell leading down to the office.

Coop returned and loaded the trunks.

Assured that her baggage was safe, Kaira strolled back into the newspaper office. Picking up Quin’s apron, she pressed it against her breasts.

Quin would be back before long. She still had a lot to do and not much time.

Chapter 12

The etiquette book Kaira had opened as a ruse, so Quin wouldn’t know she had been wearing his apron, still remained on her desk. She jotted down an excerpt that caught her eye. “It is most necessary for a girl to have a motive placed before her-one no more than the making of bread…”

She had come to Amarillo for a purpose. To take her apprenticeship and learn to be a journalist. Whether Mr. Quinten Corbett liked it or not, she was there to stay. She would help him keep the newspaper until he had enough money to restock the ranch…and she’d do so without her grandfather’s piddling crumbs. Quin might be a turncoat at the drop of a hat, but she wouldn’t. Maybe she couldn’t write worth a dern, but she’d learn to be indispensable in his life.

Kaira turned back the etiquette book another two pages “A misguided blow of the mallet,” she read. The idea formed with “the making of bread” and developed into a full-fledged mission.

She’d become indispensable, and the beginning…cook Quin dinner. After a hot meal, the intriguing cowboy would surely be more receptive to her theory on why he should keep the money. Maybe he’d let her stay around. Maybe he’d accept her lack of punctuality. Maybe he’d let her love him the way a woman should love a man.

Love! She nearly jumped out of her sit-down-upons. She had in mind stew, biscuits, and a pie…not making a home, making love, and making babies.

“I’ll start with cooking supper.” She shook off the wicked thoughts that had taken hold and pulled Quin’s apron over her head. This time it was much easier to tie.

On the way to the tiny kitchen in the corner of the back room, she thought about her expensive dresses and hats she’d shipped to Boston. She didn’t need anything that had been purchased with Grandfather Renaulde’s money. Damn him…damn his hide to hell!

Forcing disquieting thoughts to the recesses of her mind, she turned to the matter at hand. Now what in the heck was she going to cook? Although trained to someday become the lady of a house, she could barely boil water, much less prepare a meal. Where would she begin? A recipe book would help.

Searching the cupboard, she realized Monk was right. There weren’t many fixins but she’d make do. About to give up on finding a cookbook, she unearthed a well-worn one with a wooden cover, etched with a cattle brand she didn’t recognize. But then, she wasn’t familiar with any cattle brands, so why would that surprise her.

Written on fragile parchment she found recipes. Some were so faded that she could barely make out the quantities.

“There really is a Sonofabitch Stew!” she declared, immediately discounting that as an option. Touching a dead cow’s, or steer’s, brains and heart, even if she could find them to buy, made her stomach do somersaults.

And sure enough there was a tongue pie. Her throat went dry and she could hardly swallow, but she read through the recipe. Women actually scraped a cow’s tongue! And adding cinnamon and raisins would make it taste better? Not in her lifetime.

Maryland Beaten Biscuits, that’s what Monk called them. She ran her finger down the list of ingredients. Although she had no idea what the equations of a tad, a lump, a smidgen, or a handful would translate to, she had watched the cook make biscuits before. She could do it by guess and by golly. It hadn’t looked too difficult. A might laborious, but she remembered how scrumptious the biscuits turned out. Quin would be thrilled. After she got the bread made, she could decide whether he might like ham and eggs or biscuits and gravy. Bleakly, she discounted the gravy, not having the slightest idea how it was made. She was pretty sure she’d need cream of tarter or soda, but not sure which.

The biscuit recipe looked simple enough. She followed the recipe exactly. “Take one crock of warm water, not too hot, put in a smidgen of salt, a lump of lard, and the amount of flour you think the size of the family may require.” She stopped and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

Now, we aren’t a family. So, that means not as much flour as I’d use if I were making biscuits for a bunch, she thought.

She added a couple of handfuls of flour and read on. “Make it into a paste, douse it with flour, and beat the batter with a rolling pin until its workable, right at thirty minutes. If one doesn’t have a rolling pin, a solid mallet or ax will do.”

Thirty minutes! Kaira looked at the recipe again. Not wanting to soil the page any further, she didn’t touch it. Surely, it was three minutes, not thirty.

She proceeded to pour the gooey mess out on a tea towel. A little watery, but it did say paste, she thought. Kaira sprinkled it liberally with flour. No rolling pin to be found. A mallet? Isn’t a hammer the same as a mallet? She knew exactly where Monk had put the claw hammer.

Hurrying to the office, a trail of flour followed her. She found the hammer, and glancing at the clock she realized she had to hurry, and hot-footed it back to the kitchen.

With the hammer posed over the puddle of flour and water, Kaira gave the whole procedure a second thought. The pointy end would take too long. She examined the flat side of the tool. Fairly flat, and it would speed up the process. If only she had an ax, not that she knew what one looked like, but she did know that it was much larger.

Taking aim, she drew in air to reinforce her misgivings. She closed her eyes and thought through the process. Yes, she’d done exactly as the recipe had called for, and the biscuits were truly a delicacy that would tempt any man’s taste buds. Even Monk appreciated them.

Using both hands, she lifted the hammer high above her head and proclaimed silently that she wouldn’t stop until she had beaten the dough for thirty minutes.

One second. Two seconds, she counted.

Splat! Water and flour shot through the air with lightning speed. She reared back and made contact again. And again, trying desperately to convince herself that with a few more beats, her biscuits would be perfect.

Slam! She’d make the newspaper a success.

Slam! Make her grandfather sorry.

Slam! Make Quin happy and give him a life he deserved. One he didn’t have to pay for by compromising his values.

One hundred twelve. One hundred thirteen…

“Sweetheart.” Quin’s voice split the air and caused Kaira to jump as though he’d caught a black widow guaranteeing her inherence. “I hate to bring it to your attention.” He laughed, full-bodied, whole-heartedly. Once he controlled his hilarity, he came to her and took the hammer from her hand. “I think you’ve beat that damn thing to death.”

Quin laid her assault weapon aside and turned only to chuckle again. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There stood Kaira Clarice Renaulde, astounded member of the Pea-bawdy family of Boston, covered from head to toe with flour, lard, and water. Dribbles of paste dripped from wet ringlets around her temple. His apron, now a shade of gray, hung well below her knees and no doubt she had dough in places he only dreamed about touching. Even her nice attributes were dusted in white.