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.
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
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.
