To Tempt A Texan. Georgina Gentry

street. She marched across, barely avoiding being hit by a beer wagon. “You!” She waved her finger at Blackie and her indignation knew no bounds. “You stole my carpenters!”

      “Guilty as charged.” Blackie grinned and sipped his drink. Miss damnyankee Iron Corset was almost pretty when she was angry, except her mouth was a thin, grim line. Not very kissable and that was always the first thing Blackie thought about when he looked at a woman’s mouth. Oh, hell, it was what any man thought about. “You can have them back when they get my building finished.”

      Her nostrils flared like a fine racehorse’s as she took a deep breath and glared at him over her spectacles. “My newspaper is certainly more important than a watering hole for whiskey-swilling toughs.”

      “Well, now, Miss Durango, that’s a matter of opinion, now, ain’t it?” He was loving this, after what the prim temperance crusader had put him through over the lot.

      She took another breath and blinked rapidly. For a moment, he almost thought he saw tears there, but decided she wasn’t feminine enough for that. She’d probably gotten dust in her eyes.

      Now she whirled and her small bustle waggled invitingly as she marched over to yell up at the carpenters on the scaffold. “You there, whatever he’s paying, I’ll pay more.”

      The men hesitated, shamefaced, and looked toward Blackie, then went back to work. Bam! Bam! Bam!

      “Didn’t you hear me?” She called.

      Bam! Bam! Bam! Apparently they didn’t.

      “It’s no use, sister.” Blackie grinned as he sauntered over and took in the scene with satisfaction. “They ain’t gonna quit my job.”

      She whirled on him, arms akimbo. Yes, indeedy, Miss Iron Corset was almost pretty when she was furious. “What is it you offered them if not better wages?”

      “Well, for starters, all the beer they could drink and a chance to meet my girls.”

      “Girls? What girls?” She looked around.

      “They ain’t here yet.”

      For a moment, she seemed speechless, which for the prim newspaper woman was probably a rarity, then a deep blush crept up the neck of her crisp white shirtwaist and spread across her face. “You mean—?”

      He nodded. “You know what I mean. The kind of girls men like will be comin’ in on the train from Del Rio.”

      “This is outrageous! You disgusting Rebel, I shall write an editorial!” She turned, nose in the air, and marched back across the street, narrowly missing tripping over Lively who was asleep in the middle of the road.

      Blackie watched her go and smiled. She had challenged him and he was responding. If Miss damnyankee Iron Corset wanted to act like a man, Blackie was up to the challenge. He yelled at Lively to move out of the street and returned to supervising the construction. Later, he could sublet this building to someone else when he built an even bigger and better saloon on that choice corner lot. In the meantime, it had been a good morning because he had bested the annoying Miss Lacey Durango.

      Chapter Four

      Inside the tent, Lacey paced anew. “He’s outrageous. The most stubborn man I ever met.”

      “Why don’t you get us some advertisers and some local news and stop worrying with that gambler, yes?” Isaac suggested gently, “don’t let him get your goat.”

      “You’re right, of course.” Lacey paused and peeked out the tent again. Again Blackie grinned and nodded to her. “That Texas loafer is not worth one moment of my attention. Maybe one of my stolen carpenters will drop a hammer on him. As hardheaded as he is, he probably wouldn’t even feel it.”

      Isaac sighed. “Stop being obsessed with him.”

      “Obsessed? Obsessed?” Her voice rose. “He’s trying to run me out of town, that’s what. My idea for a perfect, law-abiding town is directly at odds with what he’s got in mind.”

      “Miss Lacey,” Isaac wiped a smudge of ink from his hand, “you can’t dictate what kind of town this will be. Even rascals like that one have rights.”

      “I’ll have to outwit and out-maneuver him,” she said. “I’ll send a wire to the Ladies’ Temperance Association, get them to come. We’ll convince the voters, all men, of course, that they really don’t want all that drinking, gambling, and wild women.”

      The stooped, ink-stained man grinned. “Miss Lacey, you don’t know much about men.”

      She snorted with derision. “Believe me, I do. I was almost married once. What a rascal Homer was and he had me fooled into thinking he was perfect.”

      “The paper,” Isaac said patiently, “remember the paper?”

      “Oh, yes. I’ll go down and meet the morning train, see if I can pick up some stories of new settlers. I reckon I’d also better wire Uncle Trace that I’m fine and the newspaper is about to put out its first edition.”

      She got her pad and pencil and a parasol to protect her complexion from the warm sun and began a brisk walk to the depot two blocks down the street.

      She noticed Lively cross the street to join her, ambling along behind as she walked. “Honestly,” she flung over her shoulder to the lazy dog, “I don’t know why you choose to put up with that man. You’re both dumb males, I reckon.”

      The dog wagged his tail and strolled with her to the depot. Inside, she sent her aunt and uncle a wire: Dear Aunt Cimarron and Uncle Trace. Arrived safely. Stop. The newspaper is off to a great start. Stop. She thought it over, decided not to mention the difficulties that rascal across the street was causing her. Don’t worry. Stop. I’ll be fine. Stop. Love, Lacey.

      Then she fired off telegrams to other leaders of the Temperance Association: I am fighting a tide of booze and rascals here. Stop. This is a call to arms for every right-thinking woman who’d like to live in a dry, civilized town. Stop. Please come help me hold the barricades against sin. Stop. Your President, Miss Lacey Van Schuyler Durango.

      When she went outside, waiting on the platform for the train to arrive was a tall Indian wrapped in a blanket and wearing war paint.

      He looked at her and held up his hand. “How. Me Chief Thunder. You want buy brass buttons off General Custer’s coat?”

      “What?” Lacey blinked. “Now how would you have those?”

      “My father cut them off after he scalped Yellow Hair.”

      She knew from reading newspaper accounts that George Custer had not been scalped. “What tribe are you?” Lacey asked with growing suspicion.

      “Potawatomi.”

      “Well, Chief Thunder, I happen to know the Potawatomis are peaceful. The warriors at the Little Big Horn were Sioux and Cheyenne.”

      “Gimme a break, lady, I’m trying to make a living here.” He had dropped the fake Indian accent and now his English was as good as hers.

      She snorted. “Another rascal. So, who are you really and where are you getting the buttons?”

      He grinned at her. “I’m Joe Toadfrog from eastern Indian Territory. Now if your name was Toadfrog, wouldn’t you call yourself Chief Thunder? My dad was a half-breed trader who met a white girl and married her.”

      “Well, Joe, I suggest you get your story straight.”

      He shrugged. “I have the buttons shipped in from a New Jersey factory by the box and the stupid tourists don’t know the difference. It’s about time we Indians got even with the whites for stealing our land. Anyway, the extra change rounds out my income. Artists don’t make much.”

      Her eyebrows rose. “You’re an artist? Maybe you could do some art work for my newspaper.”

      “Oh,