In fairness, maybe she had created chaos in his tranquil existence. She’d taken over his bedroom, spiffing it up to make it to her liking. But, in turn, his touch had set off wild, unleashed sensations within her, feelings reserved only for soiled doves.
Why had she even attempted to apologize to the knot-head for Grandfather Renaulde saddling him with a wet- behind-the-ears, snot-nosed tenderfoot? She didn’t think she’d missed any of the idioms Quin had tagged on her as she’d waited outside the door on her first day, summoning up enough courage to face the unpredictable, big man with a bigger reputation. Now she understood why her grandfather said that Quin and three Philadelphia lawyers would make a good match for the devil.
From the moment she stepped into the newspaper office, she had recognized a restless rebellion in Quin’s every move. His forced demeanor failed to mask an underlying wildness. Definitely a man who gave women the desire to tame. He portrayed independence much like her grandfather. Mulling it over, she counted the similarities between the two obstinate, bullheaded men.
Kaira dropped into the editor’s chair and steadily rocked back and forth.
Spitfire and brimstone-bring on the matches, the whole room smelled like him. Woodsy, layered with leather and printer’s ink, as bold and appealing as the man himself. The one scent missing-coffee. Monk always had a pot brewing.
After making her way to the makeshift kitchen in the back room, Kaira fed the cast-iron stove two small logs-a new experience for her. Proudly, she poured water into the coffee pot and added a generous amount of Arbuckle’s. Not sure how much she should use, and considering its dark, rich color, she tapped in another cup or so of grinds. She then replaced the tin in the cupboard beside a bowl of peppermint sticks.
On the battered sawbuck table she spied a crock that she didn’t remember seeing before. Lifting the lid, the aroma of tea waned as it filled the air. A smile tickled her lips. Had hell frozen over?
Hot tea and honey sounded irresistible. After preparing a cup, Kaira found her way back to the front office. Pacing and blowing on the mug to cool the hot liquid, she kept an eye on the window. Sunrays radiated out into a vivid tapestry of copper washed with indigo. Morning approached rapidly.
With little sleep, except for the wink or two she caught waiting on Quin to return to the office, Kaira hurried to her room and selected an ordinary, blue muslin day dress. She missed the luxury of her indoor bathtub at home, finding drawing and heating water quite annoying.
She eyed a hatbox. Considering the windy, dusty weather of the Panhandle, her beautiful, hand-fashioned trappings served no purpose but to be bothersome. Her starched, Bostonian friends would be appalled at her lack of style, but at least it’d give Quinten one less thing to find fault with.
On her way out, she laid aside two dime novels and picked up a leather-bound book from the highboy.
Refreshing her tea, she returned to Quin’s desk and opened an etiquette book considered the boarding school Bible. She thought back to the hours her headmistress had forced each girl to practice becoming a lady. Kaira flipped through the pages and began to read, taking in each word with new meaning: “A false admiration of man will change an angel into a demon. A misguided blow of the mallet will shatter all the efforts of years of training to learn to become a lady…”
Hearing the familiar sound of Monk shuffling into the office, she sprang from behind Quin’s desk and slipped the book beneath her notepad on her worktable.
Appearing unconcerned with Quin’s absence, Monk muttered a shy hello before exchanging his jacket and Stetson for an apron and visor.
Monk knew Quin better than anyone. Maybe he could tell her why Quin seemed angry with her more times than not. She needed guidance, and the seasoned gentleman seemed long on candid advice.
“Are you too busy to have a cup of coffee?” Kaira asked, taking a chance that he wouldn’t decline.
“Sure would be a pleasure, ma’am. I’ll fix us both a cup.” He started for the back room, his limp more profound than usual. She recalled her nanny saying that the wet after a storm stirred up her “rumatiz” something fierce.
Monk returned with two chipped mugs, gave her one, and headed to his desk. Taking a sip, a stunned look caught on his face, and his cheeks swelled up like a squirrel carrying a walnut. From across the room the dastardly, thick, ill-smelling concoction assaulted her nostrils.
She considered taking the trash can to him so he could spit out the unsavory stuff, but he swallowed.
“Mighty fine coffee, ma’am. Yep, mighty fine.” He set the cup aside.
“Do you know where Mr. Corbett might be?” She followed his example, and slid her cup out of the way.
“Reckon I do, ma’am, sure do. He’s over gettin’ all duded up, he is.” He pulled on a sleeve-protector.
Good! That would give her time to talk with the old man.
“You know Mr. Corbett better than anyone-”
“Raised the boy since he was knee high to a grasshopper, sure did.”
She caught herself glancing toward the door, realizing her misgivings were increasing by the second. “I don’t know exactly how to ask this-”
“Spit it out, ma’am. Jest say what’s on your mind. Keepin’ somethin’ stuck in your craw will make a man poorly.”
“Good advice. Thank you.” For once, she felt uncomfortable speaking her mind, but Monk made it so easy. “Has Mr. Corbett-”
“Call him Quin, he never took a likin’ to being called Mister.”
“Okay. Has Quin always been-let’s call it a tad testy?”
“He ain’t a tad testy, he’s about as out’a humor as a prairie chicken headin’ for a skillet. Jest depends on how the wind’s blowin’.”
Well, this might be easier than she first thought, considering Monk normally protected Quin like a nanny goat with her kid.
“Did it all start when he got hurt?” She hesitated, realizing Monk didn’t know she knew about Quin’s injury.
“Figured you found out…” He picked up his cup then set it back down, probably remembering how horrible the coffee tasted. “Considering what a sore mood that boy was in over at the livery stable last night, pert near midnight. Yep, he sure looked like something the dogs drug in outta the rain. Growled like one, too. Yes, ma’am, he sure did look unhappy.”
“I guess it’s my fault.”
“No, ma’am. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
“I don’t understand.” Kaira took a quick, sharp breath of confusion.
“There’s a lot of things you don’t understand, ma’am. A man like Quin ain’t fond of being fenced in.”
“And, I’m fencing him in?”
“Nope. The work is. He was born to ride the range and be free. His back is jest part of what’s eatin’ him.”
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.
