For Love of Liberty Read online

  Disappointment dampened Libby’s spirits as she chewed on the edge of her lip. Rats! As a spanking new graduate of Vassar for all of one week, she had hoped to cinch the newspaper position—today, if possible—in order to embark upon her true calling: women’s rights in her home state of Nevada. Her mouth cemented with the same determination that had won her valedictorian of her class. A ‘calling’ that drew her to the women’s suffrage movement like miners to gold. Or in Nevada’s case—silver.

  Her eyes flitted to a rail clock mounted on the far wall that registered just past eleven, and her limbs stiffened along with her spine. Well, if the director didn’t take the whole livelong day, she could possibly complete the interview and write the article before Milo left. Spirits climbing, she offered another smile. “Would it be all right if I waited for him in his office?” she asked, noting the absence of chairs in the small reception area.

  “Suit yourself.” The young woman rose and led her to a bubbled glass door, holding it open while Libby sailed through into an office that was remarkably neat. Noting the impressive stack of paperwork on the polished cherry-wood desk—perfectly staggered in a precise row off to the side—Libby settled into the matching cordovan leather chair.

  The woman at the door gave a short cough, the sound almost tinged with a smile. “Uh, who should I tell the director is waiting to see him?”

  “Liberty Margaret O’Shea,” Libby said with no little pride, “on assignment for the Territorial Enterprise, if you please.” And from God, she thought with a sudden rush of excitement. To help provide justice for all, whether in race or gender. “Thank you, Miss—”

  The half smile was back. “Delilah. You want a cup of swill?”

  Libby blinked. “‘Swill’?”

  “Director Finn likes his coffee as thick as the sludge they use on their blasted steam engines, so there ain’t no other word for it. But you’re welcome to it if you want.”

  “Uh … no, but thank you, Miss Delilah.” Libby smiled as she took a seat, grateful when the woman partially closed the door, leaving it ajar. Laying her pad and purse on the edge of the desk, she scanned the cozy office, breathing in the pleasant scent of leather, lime, and—she closed her eyes, trying to place the wonderful smell that lingered in the room—mint? Her nose automatically wrinkled, the scent conjuring up memories that were anything but pleasant.

  Of one Griffin Alexander McShane.

  Against her will, a shiver whispered down her spine, and she shook it off, jumping up to roam the office instead. Never had she been more grateful than now that her former archenemy had gone to work for the Central Pacific Railroad after graduation, taking him far away from Virginia City to Sacramento. Although Libby had her doubts that either the Sierra Nevada mountain range or the West Coast was far enough away to suit her. Not after he’d broken her heart her senior year, proving he was every bit the fortune hunter her father had proclaimed him to be. A hint of a smile shadowed her lips, helping to chase the awful memory away. But at least she’d won Scholar of the Year the next four years after he graduated, something that not only honed her desire to excel in college, but in everything she put her hand to.

  Especially securing a woman’s right to vote in Nevada.

  Absently perusing the office, she studied a beautiful photograph of the same Sierra Nevada Mountains that presided over Virginia City and her family’s own Ponderosa Pines Ranch. Her focus suddenly sharpened as she realized every wall in the room was graced with various framed photographs of Nevada scenery, each more magnificent than the last. “Oh my goodness.” Her hand fluttered to her chest as she gave the pictures her full attention, mesmerized by the raw beauty before her. “These are absolutely stupendous,” she said out loud, in awe of anyone who possessed such talent for capturing the true spirit of her home state.

  “Why, thank you, Miss O’Shea,” a deep voice said behind her, humor clearly lacing its tone. “I do believe that’s the first genuine compliment you may have ever given me. Unless, of course, you meant ‘stupid’ instead of ‘stupendous.’”

  Libby whirled around so fast, her straw hat went askew, fluttering its feathers and dislodging a wisp of auburn hair that dangled over her eye. Her body flashed hot and then cold, stomach plunging to the toes of her kid leather boots along with the blood from her cheeks.

  Nope, “stupid” was definitely the right word. She gulped.

  For me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Mr. Mc … McVain … w-what are you d-doing here?” Liberty rasped, fire blasting her cheeks over the slip of her own personal nickname for the pest from her past. Her question came out more of a croak as she attempted to secure her hat with pins that quivered as much as her stomach.

  One thick, dark brow jagged high as a smile played on his full lips. “McVain?”

  More blood surged into her face, so hot that her hands broke out in a sweat along with her brow. “I … I m-mean, Mr. McShane. Are you here to see Director Finn too?”

  That languid smile went to work as he strolled in. He bypassed her altogether to take the seat behind the desk with a twinkle in light brown eyes a shade lighter than her suit. “No, ma’am, I’m afraid I am Director Finn.”

  She stared, barely able to string two coherent thoughts together. “I … I d-don’t understand. Instead of McShane?”

  “Nope.” Gaze fused to hers, he slowly removed an impeccable sack suit jacket and draped it over his chair before taking his seat, rolling the sleeves of his pinstripe shirt to reveal corded forearms matted with hair. A faint smile hovered on his handsome face while he loosened his string tie and the top two buttons of a silk waistcoat, his relaxed manner in total contrast to her own paralysis. Mouth twitching, he lounged back in his chair with hands propped behind his neck. “Instead of Griffin.”

  All she could do was blink.

  A mischievous flash of white teeth took her years back to toads in her lunch pail and worms in her inkwell. He ducked his head in tease, tumbling several dark curls over his forehead while those hazel eyes sparkled with mischief. “As in Grif-fin?” His sculpted nose wrinkled in jest. “Not sure that fancy college helped all that much, Libs—you seemed a whole lot smarter back in high school.”

  Fire scalded her face, igniting her temper. “Wish I could say the same for you, Mr. Finn.”

  His husky laughter ricocheted off the walls as he plopped long legs on his desk, pressed charcoal trousers somehow at odds with leather boots in dire need of a polish.

  Like their owner.

  “Now that’s what I was shooting for,” he quipped with that maddening twinkle in his eyes, “a little sound and fury from my Liberty Bell.”

  Libby slapped two hands on her hips and stepped forward. “For your information, Mr. McVain, I am not your Liberty Bell, and I’ll thank you to stop calling me that.”

  The grin eased into a crooked smile as he idly scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Miss Bell. You’re cold as steel and make an awful lot of noise, so if the bell rings …”

  She stamped her foot, feeling all of fourteen again. “The only ‘ringing’ going on here, Mr. McShane, will be around your neck if you continue this juvenile behavior.” Snatching her notebook and reticule from the edge of the desk, she hugged both to her chest, chin in a jut. “When will Superintendent Yerington be in the office?”

  “Well, let’s see now …” He glanced at his pocket watch, then peered up with a hint of humor in eyes that may have softened a hair. His brows tented with a touch of sympathy. “His office is actually in Carson City, so … Fourth of July?” He sighed and dropped his feet to the floor with a thud, hands resting on the arms of his chair as he studied her intently. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Miss O’Shea, since I am the one and only representative for the Virginia & Truckee Railroad in all of Virginia City.”

  Libby’s jaw dropped a full inch. Blue blistering blazes!

  She bit her tongue, gripping her pad and reticule so hard, her fingers were now as bloodless as her fac
e. “I’ll just have to take the stage to Carson City, then.”

  He peeked at his watch again and grimaced. “Wellllll, the next stage doesn’t leave till tomorrow morning, and over and above the four hours you’d have to travel one way—barring any holdups or Indian raids, of course—I’m afraid Superintendent Yerington is back East for his sister’s wedding.”

  Dirty drawers of the Devil! All hope seeped out along with the air in Libby’s lungs, sagging both her shoulders and her morale.

  He rose and extended a remarkably calloused hand for a man in a suit, his voice suddenly gentle as he nodded toward the chair beside her. “Look, Liberty, have a seat, please, and let’s start over, shall we? I think it’s time we both put the past behind, don’t you?”

  She assessed the sincerity of the man before her, who now offered a handshake over his desk, and wondered if she could trust him. Whenever she’d tried in the past, she’d found herself locked in an outhouse or washing ink out of her hair.

  Or a laughingstock when he’d jilted her for Jo Beth.

  Still, those light brown eyes were suddenly as rich and warm as Papa’s Best Irish whiskey—almost amber in the light that streamed through his side window. And, no doubt, just as capable of making her dizzy. Like the summer of her senior year when they’d actually gotten along as festival volunteers for a brief period of time.

  Till he broke my heart …

  She sucked in a deep draw of air, and the scent of Bay Rum and peppermint flooded her senses. Her gaze flicked to his hand and back while those caramel-colored eyes locked on hers with a depth and honesty she’d never seen in him before. Expelling a silent breath, she slowly reached out, emitting a tiny squeak at a spark of static electricity when his hand swallowed hers.

  Grip firm, he offered a smile that warmed her more than the lock of his palm. “Hello, my name is Griffin Alexander McShane, but my friends call me Finn, a nickname coined by my niece at the age of two, who had trouble pronouncing ‘G’s.”

  As natural as breathing, her lips tipped into a smile. “And my name is Liberty Margaret O’Shea, and all I can say is the saints preserve us if the niece is half the scamp as her uncle.”

  He grinned, and two dangerously deep dimples winked, imparting a woozy sensation in the pit of her stomach. “‘Scamp?’” His low laughter filled the small room, surrounding her like a hug, husky and warm. “I think the words you may be looking for are scoundrel and scalawag, Miss O’Shea, which brings me to a long-overdue apology for being less than chivalrous in school.” He released her hand with a wink that weakened the tendons at the back of her knees, conveniently, if not gracelessly, plopping her into the chair.

  Still standing, he leaned forward with a brace of palms to the desk and a smile that dazzled as much as the boyish twinkle in his eyes. “So … am I forgiven?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Forgiven? Liberty gulped. And then some. “I suppose that depends on the interview, Mr. McShane,” she said, her voice a little too breathless to suit.

  “Call me Finn, please, Miss O’Shea.” The dimples made an encore appearance, all but guaranteeing consent to anything he asked. “Unless, of course, you allow me the ‘liberty’ to use your Christian name?”

  She strove for casual despite the white-knuckled chokehold she had on the purse and pad in her lap. “Certainly, Finn. As long as there’s no bell attached, we should be golden.” Releasing a shallow breath of air, she willed her body to relax, taking a stab at humor. “Or maybe that should be silver, given the wealth of mines tunneling through our hills.”

  “Exactly,” he said, his demeanor suddenly more serious as he settled back in his chair with a loose fold of arms. “Which neatly brings us back to your original purpose, I believe—an interview about the proposed railroad?”

  Just the sound of the word “interview” pumped adrenalin into Libby’s veins. She retrieved a pencil from her purse and placed the pad of paper on top, ready to record the truth of what the V&T Railroad had in mind for the welfare of their laborers. “So, Finn, can you tell me a bit about the ambitions of the Virginia & Truckee Railroad?”

  His pause was barely noticeable, so smooth was his presentation, elbows now propped on the arms of his chair while he watched her over the clasp of his hands. “Certainly, Liberty. The V&T Railroad Company was incorporated in March of this year to serve the mines of the Comstock. As you are no doubt aware, a railroad was deemed necessary due to the exorbitant cost of freighting goods by wagon, as well as the transport of ore to the mills along the Carson River.”

  “Of course,” Libby said with a solemn nod, well aware a railroad would be a huge boon to Virginia City, even if her father’s bank hadn’t won the business.

  “We hope to break ground next February, with grading crews beginning two miles below Gold Hill on American Flats. Completion is slated for the end of the year.”

  Libby’s ears instantly perked at the mention of grading crews, and scooting to the edge of her chair, she fixed him with a penetrating stare, pencil poised over her paper. “You mention crews. Can you tell me what provisions are being made for the safety and care of the men you employ?”

  His eyelids narrowed almost imperceptibly, barely noticeable with the polite smile that stole over his chiseled features. “The V&T Railroad Company is committed to the safety and well-being of its workers, Liberty, I can assure you of that.”

  “And fair pay, Finn? Is V&T committed to that as well, or do they plan to follow in the footsteps of the Central Pacific Railroad? Where, as you know, Chinese workers were paid a dollar a day without room and board while the Irish workers”—she inclined her head to underscore her point—“such as yourself, were paid two dollars per day, plus room and board.”

  Despite his calm demeanor, Libby saw a storm brewing in eyes that seemed to darken along with his mood. “The V&T Railroad Company is not Central Pacific, Miss O’Shea. As one of the shortest independent lines in the world, we have a vested interest in Nevada. We are Nevadans, just like you, whether Chinese or white, and our pay scale will reflect that with honesty and integrity, unlike Central Pacific.”

  “And yet I was told you were in Central Pacific’s employ, rising through the ranks while crews were worked from sunrise to sunset, six days a week, were you not, Mr. McShane?” Her temper thinned along with his eyes, their gazes going head-to-head. “Can you assure me it won’t be the same for the crews of Virginia & Truckee?”

  He leaned in, the tic in his cheek keeping time with the throb of her pulse. “I can assure a solid wage for a solid day’s work, Miss O’Shea, for any man willing to give his all during a fairly short but very lucrative period of time.”

  She jutted a brow. “His ‘all,’ Mr. McShane? Or his life? I’ve read about corpses of Chinese laborers found in the spring after horrendous snowstorms during tunnel construction, frozen solid like marble, tools still in their hands.”

  She noted a dangerous shift in his jaw but didn’t care, too incensed over the vile racial inequalities in which the high-and-mighty railroads indulged. “Tell me, Mr. McShane, can you ensure Chinese laborers won’t be forced to sacrifice their lives on the altar of greed and the almighty deadline?”

  “Even the almighty railroads cannot control the weather, Miss O’Shea,” he ground out, teeth milled tight.

  Her blood began to boil. “No, but safety precautions can be put in place, sir, can they not? To help protect the very workers who are putting money in your pocket?” She leaned in like he had, the tension between them sparking more than the static electricity from the handshake they’d shared. “Will you assure me weather safety provisions will be implemented even though Central Pacific failed to do so when you were on their payroll?”

  He shot to his feet, palms knuckle-white on his desk as he bent forward with fire in his eyes. “I can assure you, Miss Bell, that I will do everything in my power to safeguard our crews, including the implementation of safety measures that CP failed to do. And for your information, ma’am, the management
at Central Pacific and I did not see eye to eye on a number of points, which is why I took my leave to work with V&T.”

  Oh.

  She slowly sat back in her chair while he did the same, somewhat taken aback he wasn’t the money-grubbing company man she’d assumed him to be. She swallowed some of the fury in her throat, a fury that always rose like bile over the injustices men inflicted upon those they deemed inferior. Like women. Avoiding his piercing gaze, she promptly wrote his response on her notepad. Even so, he had been a company man during some of the most outrageous atrocities perpetrated against Chinese laborers during the construction of the transcontinental railroad. “Well,” she said with a less pointed heft of her chin, “I’m certainly glad to hear that, Mr. McShane—that possibly comforts me somewhat.”

  “Possibly?” He stared, mouth hanging open. “Somewhat?” He suddenly laughed and shook his head, steepling his fingers. “You know what, Libs? You’re all grown up now, and yet college hasn’t changed you much at all. You’re still that prickly little girl I could never seem to please, so I just gave up and teased you instead.” His smile was stiff. “Well, don’t be offended, please, but your ‘comfort’ level is not all that high on my priority list, Miss Bell.”

  “Really.” She studied him with a calculating squint while she tapped the pencil against her chin. “Well, how about the comfort level of the people of Virginia City, Mr. McShane?” She arched a brow, her sweet tone unable to mask the threat of her words. “Where are they on your so-called priority list?”

  “For the love of sanity,” he muttered, the words coming on the heels of a low chuckle as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you want from me, Libby—blood?”

  “I want assurances, Director McShane, as do the people of Virginia City, that as a representative of Virginia and Truckee Railroad, the lives of our Chinese residents will be protected at all costs.”