In the west the sun bled onto the prairie, making her painfully aware that little daylight remained, and she had no place to sleep. She gnawed on her lower lip.
“Is there something wrong?” Not waiting for a response, he continued. “You have made arrangements for a room at the hotel or the boardinghouse, haven’t you?”
“No.” She jerked her attention back to Quinten, taking pleasure in the flicker of surprise that made his dark eyebrows slant into a frown.
“We seem to have a misunderstanding,” she stated in her newly acquired unruffled voice. “I have a contract and it expressly states that you will provide accommodations for me.”
“Miss Renaulde, I live in the small room above the shop, and when I agreed to those terms, I didn’t realize, uh-”
“That I am a woman?”
“Yes, clearly.”
“I don’t see that it makes any difference. As you so quickly pointed out…I am here in the capacity of an apprentice, not as a woman. I don’t mind sharing your accommodations.” She lightly fingered a tendril of hair that touched her cheek.
“It’s nothing but a bedroom and barely big enough for one person. I’d made arrangements for the new hire to bunk with Monk at his place.” As though Quin felt uncomfortable discussing her sleeping arrangements, he hesitated before continuing, “And your reputation. A gentleman can’t-”
“Precisely my point. You are a gentleman so my reputation will remain intact.” She motioned toward the door, where three Saratoga trunks and at least a half a dozen hat boxes sat. “Please lead the way. There’s no reason that we cannot be under the same roof and maintain a proper decorum.”
“Ma’am, I can assure you that we
Her pulse quickened. “A contract is a contract.” She whipped an envelope from her caba. Opening it, she unfolded a page and handed it to Quinten. “Is this not your signature?”
“Yes. But things are complicated now.”
“Because I’m a woman? Please escort me to my room.” She closed the French handbag, giving the problem another thought. “Never mind, as you’ve pointed out, you have more pressing things that require your attention.”
Having earlier scouted the office, she observed that the room was big enough to get the newspaper out, yet small enough to feel welcome.
She fetched her hat, and with a springy bounce, she crossed the room. At the foot of the stairs, she retorted over her shoulder, adding a deliberate softness to her voice, “In the event you were wondering why I was so late, Mrs. Diggs at the mercantile has a very impressive selection of bonnets, plus she was most interested in the newest fashions being shown in Paris.”
Ascending the staircase leading to his bedroom, she continued, “And the nice waitress at the hotel dining was so very pleasant. Also, Hank Harris said to thank you for helping him out yesterday.” She stopped and turned back to him. “They spoke most favorably of you.”
Damn, she might as well have added, “And, I have no idea why.” Thunder, he expected the owners had sent him an apprentice instead of Miss Dawdle-Butt!
Quin yanked his visor from his head and ran his fingers through his thick crop of hair. Hellfire, it was hard to remain coherent with her around. A sudden twinge of something he hadn’t felt in a long time clutched at his gut. No time to explore his feelings. An edition of the paper was due out by morning and his so-called assistant, apprentice, pain in the rear, or a number of other names he could think of, had dawdled away daylight making social calls.
“Monk!” He hung the apron on a wooden peg on the wall. Plucking his watch from his vest, he said, “You ol’ print hound, get out here. We’ve got luggage to carry upstairs.”
Chapter 3
Kaira Renaulde had been in Amarillo for a week and still at least one Saratoga, sometimes two, arrived on every train coming through town.
Quin eyed the latest arrivals. “Monk, we need to get those damnable trunks out of our way. Got time?”
“Jest as soon as I finish this transmission.”
“How many more of those things do you think that lady has coming?”
“Don’t know.” Monk didn’t look. “But I know one thing for sure, no woman should own trunks that take two men to cart around. And all that climbin’s apt to make a man poorly.”
Quin glanced out the window, checked the hour, and stuffed the watch fob back in his vest pocket. He tried to pay no heed to Monk’s continual mulley-grubbing, but it didn’t work.
Monk’s grousing interrupted Quin’s thoughts.
“Whatcha think she has in those Saratogas?” asked Monk.
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn. All I care about is getting this blasted newspaper out.” Quin rolled his shoulders to relieve some of the soreness that always seemed to creep up around sunset.
“Do you think that calico’s totin’ a sidearm, son?”
“Doubt it. But if she is, it’s probably a pearl-handled, double-barreled derringer.” He snatched up his apron. “Why do you think she has to have so many trunks?”
“Maybe to cart around more of those frilly trappin’s, you think?”
“Don’t know. But I do know that we’ve got a hundred pounds of trouble and she’s upstairs in my bed.” Quin pulled the leather protector over his head. “Did you notice how interested she was last night when we were talking about Bat Masterson coming to town?”
“Yep, sure did. She perked those pretty little ears right up like a turkey listenin’ for buckshot on Thanksgiving morning.”
“Doubt if she even knows who Masterson is.”
“Yep, she sure did perk up.”
“You know, ol’ man, the bonus that gal’s grandfather promised me for an interview with the gambler will give us the money we need to restock the ranch and start over, don’t you?”
“Sure do. Yep, it’ll jest about get that ol’ ranch back amongst the living.” Monk pulled a bowie knife from the desk drawer and whittled on his pencil. “Son, since you don’t need me anymore and I’ve got a hankering for some of Miss Maggie’s corn dodgers and dumplin’s with all the doings, I’m fixin’ to head that way.” Satisfied that his pencil was sharpened enough, he returned the knife to the drawer. “Sure you don’t want me to stick around?”
“Nope. Got things under control. That is if
The old-timer grabbed his weathered Stetson. Shuffling out the front door, he grumbled, “Yep, she sure has. Got us a heap of trouble in that one.”
Hours later, a herb moss moon cascaded through the shop’s windowpanes, creating cattywampus shadows across the wooden floor.
Quin stacked the last bundle of newspapers near the exit.
Gunfire from somewhere near the Amarillo Belle pierced the air. Another rough night at the popular saloon. Probably a bunch of cowpokes celebrating payday. Or maybe a gambler letting off steam after losing the shirt off his back. Could have been a fight over a soiled dove. One thing was for certain. If there was a serious squabble, there’d be a new digging before dawn.
Gunplay always made for great headlines, but Quin hoped the visiting gentleman, gunslinger, and gambler he needed so desperately to interview wouldn’t be the one pushing up daisies. Quin shuddered at what would happen if he missed his opportunity. No sit-down with Masterson. No bonus. No cattle.
Quin checked the time. Three-twenty in the morning. If he caught a few winks, he’d be raring to go by daybreak.
Pulling off his spectacles, he took two steps toward the stairwell before halting.
