He spun on his heels, trudged out onto the porch, and took a deep breath. The balmy night promised to give way to another breezy spring day. As if turning up a lantern, the brilliant moon bleached the buildings white.
Sleeping under the stars hadn’t killed him so far. In his drover days, Quin had slept through gully-washers, Blue Norther’s that could freeze the hide right off a steer, and winds strong enough to carry the sucker off to parts unknown.
A little reflection didn’t hurt either. After all, spending too much time cooped up in a bed could cause a fellow to get all claustrophobic and make him forget his roots.
That beauty upstairs was already proving to be trouble, and spring hadn’t even seen its first thunderstorm.
Kaira’s heart jumped to her throat as a loud, steely sound rang out in the distance and echoed off the hallowed business-fronts. Gunshots! Just like the ones she’d read about. Oh, she had heard gunshots before but none like these! Real, honest-to-goodness gunfire from the rough and rowdy West. Maybe the sheriff was chasing a bank robber? A murderer?
Yes, a fearless lawman was surely hot on the trail of a fierce, self-willed ruffian who had done some dastardly dark deed. And, all of it happening right below her bedroom window.
Prepared to see her first authentic outlaw barely clinging to life, blood gushing from a wound and him hanging from his stirrups by only the rowel of his spur, Kaira sprang out of bed and rushed to the window.
A midnight black horse carried a rider wrapped in a long ebony cloak. His face hid beneath a wide-rimmed hat, hanging so low that it met his chin, all giving the stranger a sinister appearance. The mischief-maker recklessly fired his weapon into the air as he flew down the middle of town, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
On his heels, racing to catch up, two more riders carelessly waved pistols, shooting at the moon and yelling at the top of their lungs, “Oooh my dar-lin’…Oooh my dar-lin’…Oooh my dar-lin’ Cle-men-tine!”
Kaira flinched, wanting to cover her ears to drown out the wailing.
“You are looost and gooone fooorever, dreadful sooory Clementine!”
That gal wouldn’t be lost long with all that ruckus. And where was the sheriff? The good guy?
Could the lead rider, who quickly melded with the darkness, be the infamous gambler, Bat Masterson? The man Quinten and Mr. Monk had been discussing?
A shadow moved on the porch. Kaira squinted to make out the figure.
Quinten stirred and the moonlight gave his dark hair a silvery sheen. His broad shoulders remained squared, as he leaned against the post, gold fob glittering. Turning slightly, he exposed a strong, well-defined profile that any woman wouldn’t mind waking up to.
Entranced by the unspoken sadness of his face, she stood silently. An air of isolation punctuated the man’s loneliness.
As though sensing her presence, his gaze shifted toward the window.
A vaguely sensuous light passed between them. Hastily she retreated. Hopefully out of his view, she clutched the lacy neck of her embroidered satin gown.
Her curiosity had been aroused; she stepped closer and peeped through the glass.
He was gone.
What was wrong with her? Quinten Corbett radiated a vitality that seemed to rock the ground beneath her, disturbing her in ways she didn’t think possible.
Moments later, Kaira eased between the sheets and pulled the still-warm bedding up to her chin. Visions of the good-looking editor played before her eyes as she fought sleep. Sleep that would surely evolve into dreams worthy of the pages of a best-selling dime novel.
This man, the subject of her very wicked thoughts, had to be more complex than he first appeared. Tough, lean, and powerful, an almost stereotypical dime novel hero, and she had to impress him. But how?
She thought back over the days she’d been in Amarillo. Quinten obviously lived and breathed the newspaper, but was more cattleman than editor. If only she had paid more attention to her family’s companies. In reality, she had no desire to be a part of their world. Kaira had little talent in publishing that would impress the likes of Mr. Corbett.
Kaira needed to get on his good side-surely he had one-and what better way than to scoop an interview with one of the most famous guns of the West.
Now, where would a lady find a gambler?
Chapter 4
A sleepless night under the stars didn’t improve Quin’s humor in the least. Feeling like Monk generally acted, about as pleasant to be around as a hide hunter on a hot day, Quin meandered to the potbelly stove and poured himself another cup of coffee thick enough to float an anvil.
The clink of the day’s first Morse-coded message drowned out most of Monk’s words, as he systematically translated into text the sounds of dots, dashes, and spaces.
Quin paced the floor and tried to ignore the old-timer’s mumbling.
In spite of Quin’s busy schedule, thoughts of Miss Renaulde intruded into his morning. Eager to get the apprentice busy cleaning a heaping bucket of typeface, the woman’s tardiness annoyed him more than he wanted to admit.
Ten o’clock and there still wasn’t any movement in the apartment above. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t heard a peep since he got back from breakfast around six-fifteen.
What should he do? Check on her? He mulled over the question as he topped off his coffee.
A gentleman would never enter a woman’s bedroom without permission. Maybe he should send Monk to see about her? Probably the best idea was to leave the lady alone. At this rate, if he depended on his new associate, the news would be history before he got it in print.
Resisting the urge to check the time again, Quin glanced toward the stairwell and let his mind drift along like a tumbleweed on a windy day.
What would he find if he actually ventured upstairs? The vision of Miss Renaulde standing at the window still crouched in the corner of his mind, waiting for the most inappropriate times to appear. Not able to shuck off the images of the woman bathed in soft light caused a surge of emotion to lash through him.
A rope knotted around his heart and squeezed tightly.
She was certainly a vision of loveliness. Maybe it was her luscious lips beckoning to be kissed that made him feel a wanting. Or ivory skin crying to be caressed; not to mention attributes begging to be touched.
Reality reared its ugly head. She was about as soft and cuddly as a barnyard kitten. She put on a facade of being tame and playful, but no doubt if a man got close enough to touch her, she’d hiss him to death.
Yep, that gal was as hot as butter on a biscuit, yet as tough as hardtack. Maybe a generous serving of boysenberry jam would sweeten her up enough for a man to enjoy.
But Miss Renaulde-guess he could call her Kaira considering the intimate thoughts he’d had about her-was definitely worthy of a second look.
All of his musing about her qualities didn’t solve the issue at hand. If she didn’t come down soon, he’d have no choice but to leave her in the hands of Monk. It’d put the old geezer in an awkward position to tell her that, as the feared ink-spiller, she was responsible for the muck work.
“Monk,” Quin hollered, pulling on his coat. “Masterson got into town yesterday. I’ve got to go over to the hotel and find him before he begins gambling. I’ve heard he takes his poker seriously, so I’m not going to be the one to disturb him.” He grabbed his Stetson and absentmindedly adjusted the band of woven wire. “If that gal doesn’t come down by noon, I guess you’d better go see about her.”
“That gal?” Monk repeated, as if he had no idea who Quin referred to. “Oh, she’s come and gone. I saw her over at Miss Maggie’s having breakfast about sunup.”
“What do you mean?” Quin turned away from the door to face the older man.
“Well, if I remember right, I said, ‘That gal has come and gone-’”
