A loud sigh parted from his lips as he stared at her, a trace of resignation in the crook of his half smile. “All right, Miss O’Shea, you have my complete assurance.”
“I have your word on that?” she emphasized with a duck of her head, gaze pinned to his. “That as Director of the Virginia & Truckee Railroad, you and your railroad will take every precaution to eliminate fatalities, be they from weather, poor working conditions, or blasting?”
His smile faded. “I am not God, Miss O’Shea, no matter how exalted your opinion of me may be. I can certainly promise I will do everything in my power to safeguard the lives of my men, but I’m afraid nitroglycerin is not as compliant.”
“Then don’t use it,” she said with a sudden plea in her tone, the challenge in her eyes daring him to break with the ranks of greed. “Use gunpowder instead, like they used to, before nitroglycerin murdered hundreds of Chinese workers.”
He bent forward, voice clipped and low. “They-were-accidents, Miss O’Shea, not-murders, and you have no idea how many casualties there were.”
“No, because Central Pacific didn’t bother to keep records of”— she sat up straight on the brink of her chair, fingers gripped to the edge of his desk—“and I quote—‘coolie casualties.’”
His jaw hardened as a nerve flickered in his temple. “The Chinese weren’t the only casualties in the building of the railroad, Miss O’Shea—”
“No, only the majority of them …” She eased back in the chair, her eyes never leaving his. “And the most violated.”
He slammed a fist to his desk, his voice rising several octaves. “They were well-compensated, blast you, and fully aware of the risk.”
“Tell that to their starving widows and babies!” she hollered back, both of them on their feet now, faces flushed and tempers high. They glared at each other for several seconds before her body cooled along with her tone, shoulders squared. “Promise there will be no nitroglycerin,” she whispered, purse and pad to her chest.
He loomed with palms propped, eyes all but cauterizing her to the spot as he bit out every single word. “The only thing I’ll promise is that no pampered, upper-crust daddy’s girl with more feathers in her head than her hat is going to march in here—”
She bludgeoned a lacy glove to his desk. “Promise or I will launch a campaign to make you comply, and I-will-win!”
Slowly rising to his full height, he stared, arms slack at his sides while his jaw dropped in disbelief. “This never was about an interview, was it, Libby? This is about you winning—over me, over the railroad—isn’t it?”
“I want a guarantee, Mr. McShane, now, and I want it ironclad.”
“Well you got it, Miss Bell.” He jerked his jacket off his chair and slashed it on, storming around his desk. She was rendered speechless when he ripped the pad and pencil from her hand and shoved them in her purse. Pushing it at her, he dragged her to the door with a hook of her elbow, voice as tight as his hold. “I guarantee you one thing for dead sure, ma’am—this interview is over.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Horse apples!” Her shout echoed through the office as she skidded to a stop, heels digging in. “Not until we finish.”
“Oh, we’re finished …” He commenced hauling her to the door.
“When. Pigs. Fly,” she said through clenched teeth, free hand anchored to the knob while her skirt flapped like a banner in the breeze strung between him and the door.
“Or pig-headed rich girls.” He tried to yank her free to no avail, her hand welded to the brass as if the two were one. Halting, he whirled around, one massive finger aimed at the door. “Leave now, or I’ll show you how pigs fly.”
“No,” she said with an upward thrust of her chin, “not until you promise.”
“Fine. You won’t leave?” He hurled her arm away and strode past his saucer-eyed secretary. “Then I will.” Snatching his Stetson off the rack by the door, he slapped it on with a grim smile in Miss Delilah’s direction. “Del, if she doesn’t leave of her own accord, you have my permission to throw her out on her feathers. I’ll be back when she’s gone.” He opened the door.
“Oh, no you don’t, mister.” Launching herself forward, Liberty spurted around him, arms pasted to the jambs to block his way. “We are going to finish this conversation.”
“Over-my-dead-body,” he growled, heating more than her cheeks when he rudely plucked her up by the waist and set her aside so hard, she wobbled.
“Oh—good idea!” She tripped him with her foot, biting back a smile when he flailed like a puppet before regaining his balance. “But first we’re going to talk, you … you … ill-mannered mule!”
“Okay, that’s it.” A squeak left her lips while her body took flight, her squeal quickly lost in an unladylike grunt when he tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of feed. “And I’ve never met a mule with manners, Miss Bell, but if I do, I’ll be sure to send him over to give you some tips. Del, I’ll be back shortly.” He slammed the door hard, drawing the attention of several men who issued jovial greetings as they passed, their low chuckles broiling her cheeks all the more.
“Put me down right now!” she hissed, wiggling and pummeling his back with her free hand while she clutched her purse with the other. Passing the mercantile next door, she noted the dropped jaws of several well-dressed women. Another rush of blood scorched her face, both from anger and the humiliation of hanging upside down like a bat. “Let-me-down-this-instant!” she gritted out with renewed fury, battering him all the harder. “You are acting like a complete barbarian!”
“Well, no surprise there.” He stomped down the wooden sidewalk, locking her legs against his chest when she tried to kick him. “What do you expect from somebody who starves babies and women—chivalry?”
“Ha!” she shouted, banging shoulders that felt like boulders while she commenced to bashing his head with her purse. “You wouldn’t know the meaning of chivalry if Daniel Webster personally defined it for you, you … you … overgrown bully!”
“No, but I sure can spell it, lady, along with royal pain in the—”
“Afternoon, Finn.” A man offered a casual tip of his hat, continuing on down the boardwalk as if Finn McShane manhandling a woman were an everyday occurrence.
Libby issued a grunt along with her best efforts at a pinch given the rippled steel beneath her abductor’s shirt, ignoring a group of little boys who tittered close behind. “Where are you taking me?” she shouted, then bellowed a disbelieving “ouch” when he promptly returned her pinch with one of his own, the nip of his fingers against the back of her thigh igniting far more than her temper. “Did you just pinch me?”
“You bet, and if I could do the same to your mouth, I would.”
“Why, good afternoon, Finn, and goodness me, is that Liberty O’Shea? It’s so good to see you, my dear!”
“Well, that makes one of us,” Finn muttered, pausing to touch the brim of his hat in deference to Mrs. Poppy, the pastor’s wife. As much a part of Virginia City as the silver mines scattered across the landscape, Mrs. Poppy was a legend as the town’s matchmaker, pert near pairing as many couples as Pastor Poppy hitched. Barely a smidgen over four-foot-eleven, the seventy-five-year-old matriarch had always held a special place in Libby’s heart, often slipping her one of her famous poppy-seed lemon drops after church.
“Mrs. Poppy! Yes, I arrived just yesterday,” Libby called as Finn continued his rampage down the wooden walkway, picking up speed, “so I’ll come see you soon, I promise.”
“Good girl,” the old woman returned, her full rosy cheeks a familiar complement to an off-kilter silver topknot bouncing on her head. She waved as she continued on her merry way while a wagon passed with a blinding roll of dust and a cheer for Finn.
Somehow Libby managed a boot to his knee. “Finn McShane, if you don’t put me down this instant …”
“With pleasure,” he said with a growl, mauling the knob of the newspaper office before kicking the door open. The receptionist froze, along wi
th a patron who was apparently placing an ad. “Excuse me, ladies, but I have a message for Mr. Parks—won’t take a moment.”
“What-are-you-doing?” Libby whispered harshly, thrashing all the more at the prospect of making a scene at the place she hoped to work.
Completely ignoring her, he strode down the hall and kicked another door open, instantly paralyzing Milo Parks, who gaped with a pen in his hand. “Inter-view o-ver, Miss O’Shea,” he snapped, dumping her on Milo’s desk without ceremony. He aimed a thick finger, glaring at the man who’d been—until today—his best friend. “And so help me, Parks, if you send this woman down to my office ever again, our friendship is over, got it?” Without another word, he barreled out and slammed the door, rattling both it and the windows of Milo’s office.
Sliding off the front of Milo’s desk as discreetly as possible, Libby bit her lip while she straightened her dress with shaky fingers, throat dry at the prospect of turning around to see the horror on her prospective employer’s face.
A throaty chuckle rumbled while she repinned her hat, and whirling around, her jaw swagged low at the look of utter delight on Milo Park’s face. “Well, I’ll be!” the assistant editor said with a clasp of hands behind his neck, slanting back in his chair with a bona fide grin. Despite Milo’s amber hair to Finn’s deep chestnut and his sky-blue eyes to Finn’s whiskey brown, the two had always seemed like siblings to Libby, twins really, whose carefree attitudes bonded them like brothers. Only Milo had mostly been the nice brother, rarely taunting her except when his mule-headed friend had egged him on. “Haven’t seen our boy that stirred up since you fleeced him in the science fair our senior year, Libs, so good job.”
Her fingers froze on the pin in her hat. “You mean … you’re not mad?”
“Shoot, no,” Milo said with a cross of his legs on a desk scattered with galleys. “Truth be told, he’s had me a mite worried lately with all the hours he’s been clockin’, both for the railroad during the day and then clearing his land at night. Turned into a regular workhorse when he hired on with V&T. Cuttin’ way back on socializing with me or the ladies, which doesn’t set well with me or them, I can tell you that.” He sighed and scratched the back of his neck, eyes narrowed in thought. “It’s almost like he’s lost his fire, you know? So darn worried about that dad-burned land of his and the vein of silver he found, his sparkle has sorta fizzled right out.” A twinkle lit in his eyes as he gave her a wink. “Till you.”
Libby blinked. “I don’t understand. He’s a mule of a bully with a hair-trigger temper, who just kicked me out of his office and dumped me on your desk. How is that a good thing?”
Milo chuckled. “Well actually that ‘mule of a bully’ is one of the most mild-mannered men I know—calm, rational, steady as a rock.” He flashed a grin, the glint in his eye matching the one in his teeth. “Except around you.”
His smile suddenly sobered, transforming him into the professional editor she’d begged for a job mere hours ago. “Which is a good thing because he’s my best friend, Libby, and frankly I’m worried about him. He doesn’t smile as much as he used to and he’s too blasted complacent to suit.” His lips curved into a slow smile. “So I’d like to light a fire under him, and you’re just the stick of dynamite I need because nobody trips his wire like you, Liberty O’Shea, nobody.”
Head in a tilt, she studied him through slatted eyes, almost suspicious that this was some sort of trick. “Does that mean I have the job?”
He grinned. “As long as you write one heck of an editorial that stokes the logs in that boy’s stove and you put that impressive resumé and Vassar degree to good use stirring up circulation for the Enterprise.”
Liberty squealed and circled Milo’s desk to give him a tight hug. “Oh, Milo, thank you sooooo much, and I promise you won’t regret this.”
He gave her an awkward pat on the back while a ruddy shade of red bled up the length of his neck. “Nope, with your spunk and brains, Libs, I don’t think I will, not even a little.” The twinkle was back in his eyes as he assessed her with a pensive cock of his head. “Now our ‘mule of a bully with a hair-trigger temper’?” He grinned as he picked up his pen, pausing to give her a wink. “I’m countin’ on it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“That was dirty dealin’, Parks,” Finn said in a near hiss after their lady friends had excused themselves to use the necessary at Flo’s Diner. Gaze narrow, he eyed his best friend over the rim of his cup, his temper steaming more than the coffee. Make that former best friend, he thought with a healthy swig that burned all the way down—not unlike Parks sending Liberty O’Shea to his office. A low blow that had singed his mood as black and crisp as Flo’s deep-fried bacon.
Milo only laughed, Finn’s scowl obviously providing no censure whatsoever. “Why?” he said with a sly smile, hoisting his cup in a mock toast. “She applied for the editorial position, and her resumé was impeccable, not to mention she always could write circles around you and me. Besides, you’re always grousing I never give V&T any free publicity, so I thought this trial interview was the perfect chance.” He paused, assessing Finn through laughing eyes that held a hint of a dare. “Unless, of course … you’re still carrying a torch for her …?”
“Oh, your bucket’s full of cow chips!” Finn’s usually mild manner exploded, igniting his temper hotter than that blasted torch he wasn’t carrying for Liberty La-di-da Bell. The dad-burned richest, prettiest, smartest, touchiest female in the entire county. And, unfortunately, the only one who skittered his pulse by just giving him the evil eye, something downright rare in a town where girls usually hung all over him, giving him way more than the “eye.” His mouth went flat. The only “hanging” Liberty wanted to do was him from a tree, the higher the better. Problem was, all she’d ever tempted him to do was … touch her, hold her, tell her she drove him plum crazy with those spitfire eyes and sassy mouth. Not to mention that keen mind and wildfire passion for life he so ached to channel.
Right into loving him.
Which is exactly why he spent every moment in school harassing the daylights out of her. He was downright vexed how she made him feel inside. Angry that he wanted her. Flat-out crazy she didn’t want him back. And out and out irate that she made every other girl seem like he was settling for second best.
“Come on, Finn, you were going to run into her sooner or later, right?” Milo’s grin couldn’t mask the concern in his eyes. “I just hurried the process along.”
Wrong. Liberty O’Shea was the last person he wanted to run into. It was bad enough she still haunted the deep, dark recesses of his soul, taunting him with a longing as cruel as the taunts he used to hurl at her. Sure, he’d known he’d run into her eventually, but he’d wanted to be prepared when he did, not broadsided by an older, more sophisticated version, browsing his office as pretty as you please.
“Besides,” Milo continued with a lazy sip of his coffee, “you’ve been a regular drudge lately, working day and night, so I thought you could use a little excitement.”
One side of Finn’s lip hooked. “Yeah, well, an agitated bottle of nitroglycerin would have been kinder.” Huffing out a sigh, he set his coffee down to knead both temples with the pads of his fingers. “She all but came out and called me a murderer, actually accusing me of starving women and babies.”
“What?” Milo’s mouth fell open in a smile of disbelief.
“Yep.” Finn hunched over the table, forearms flat as he took another slow sip of his coffee. “Seems my prior connection to Central Pacific has her convinced that V&T not only plans to underpay the Chinese, but blow them up in the process and starve their families to boot.”
Milo’s deep laughter echoed through the chintz-curtained café where he and Milo often took lunch, earning curious glances from the patrons dining around them. “You’re joshing me,” he said, jaw sagging so low, it looked ready to pop its hinges despite the grin on his face. “She’s always been a plucky, little thing, fighting for every lost cause under th
e sun. I just figured she’d outgrow that, but I guess not.”
Milo leaned in and folded his arms on the table like Finn, eyes sparkling more than polished silver. “Remember the time she begged Miss Willoughby to let us bury the dead frogs with dignity rather than dissect them? Or that time she turned you down at the square dance to dance with Peewee Hinkle despite that nasty cold he had? Claimed he was better looking than you even with that cherry nose and fever blister.”
Laughter bubbled in Finn’s throat, the memory of Liberty limping off the dance floor easing his lips into an all-out grin. “Yeah, she sure had blood in her eyes when I made fun of Hinkle that night.” A chuckle slipped out. “Poor Peewee trailed her closer than a shadow after that, lovesick to the core.”
“Yeah, poor slob …” Milo eyed him with a glint in his eye, the knowing look on his face blasting Finn’s cheeks with an uncomfortable flash of fire.
Finn upended his coffee like it was 100-proof whiskey, gaze flicking across the room to where the ladies were just reentering through the back door. “The girls are back,” he said, relief coursing as he mentally kicked himself for confiding in Parks in high school about his feelings for Liberty.
Jo Beth Templeton caught his eye from across the room, offering a coy smile and a wave as she and her best friend, Bettie Boswell—Milo’s girl—made their way to the table. Jo Beth was the girl Finn stepped out with the most—when he stepped out—which wasn’t often, one of Milo’s chief complaints. Pert near as pretty as Liberty, she was the only daughter of George Templeton, president of Virginia City’s biggest bank, and the holder of Finn’s note on his land.
Finn couldn’t help but squirm a wee bit as he returned Jo Beth’s smile with a stiff one of his own, wishing he didn’t feel so darn guilty about squiring the banker’s daughter. After all, he applied for and received the loan long before he’d begun seeing Jo Beth, but somehow Finn always sensed there were emotional strings attached. As if acquiring that loan committed him far more to Jo Beth than he ever wanted to be. Oh, he liked her well enough and certainly more than any of the other girls he stepped out with. But he made darn good and sure Jo Beth knew he wasn’t beholden to any woman and that marriage was the last thing on his mind for a long time to come.