For Love of Liberty

by Julie Lessman

  Stunned silence reined for several seconds until Mayor Tuttle shot to his feet with a tremendous ovation echoed by everyone in the room. “Well, now, that’s one dandy of a presentation, young lady, if I say so myself. Finn, let’s take the vote and get this buggy rolling.”

  Finn lumbered to his feet like an old man, his smile as tight as his gut. “Well now, I’d like to talk this through one moment, Mayor, before we go and bite off more than we can chew. While I agree that was one fine presentation by Miss O’Shea”—he managed a wooden nod at Liberty, whose patient air galled him all the more—“grand ideas like this require grand planning and way more man hours than we can afford with a sparse number of volunteers and a mere two co-chairs—”

  “Uh … three co-chairs,” Milo said carefully, avoiding Finn’s eyes as he rose to his feet. He scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Truth is, J.T.’s a little worried about me spending so much time away from the paper, so Liberty agreed to lend us a hand.”

  A hand. Finn blinked when a memory flashed of that same “hand” pinching and pummeling his back while she kicked and thrashed over his shoulder.

  “But …” Milo said with a quick raise of his palm, as if to quell Finn’s mood, “rest assured Liberty already has a detailed plan in place for each of the points in her presentation, so you can breathe easy, Finn.”

  Breathe easy? Blue blistering blazes, he couldn’t breathe at all …

  “Excellent plan, Co-chairman Parks,” the mayor said with a hearty shake of Milo’s hand, sealing Finn’s fate with a quick vote that confirmed both Liberty’s appointment as co-chair and her docket of ideas. The mayor then pumped her hand in a downright nauseating show of approval while everyone else in the room rushed to congratulate her like she was the bloomin’ Well’s Fargo wagon.

  When the crowd finally thinned, Finn had no choice but to step up and take his medicine like a man. Searing Milo with a thin-lipped glare, he offered Liberty a shake of his hand. “Congratulations, Miss O’Shea, for stealing the show tonight. Should be interesting putting our heads together once again.”

  The press of those perfectly pink lips assured him she was just as reluctant as he, her tone and smile as cool as his own. “I don’t believe we ever ‘put our heads together’ before, Mr. McShane—butt them together, yes—but little else. However, if they can drill through a mountain to mine silver, you and I can certainly drill through our prior differences to glean gold for our fair city.” A russet brow angled in warning. “As long as we limit all sparks to the fireworks, we should be just fine.”

  “Fine?” Milo slapped Finn on the back, apparently secure in the assumption that Finn wouldn’t rip his tonsils out in front of the mayor and Liberty. “Nope, better than fine—you two will make a formidable team, eh, Mayor?”

  “No question ’bout that,” Mayor Tuttle said with a broad smile, snatching his bowler from a chair while giving Finn a knowing wink. “Yesiree, young man, gotta feeling this little filly here is gonna keep you on your toes.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Finn mumbled as he snatched his own hat from the table, uttering a silent prayer for patience.

  And on my knees.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Biscuit, dear?” Liberty’s mother passed the basket to Liberty’s best friend Kitty, her smile as warm as their cook Gertie’s buttermilk biscuits, hot out of the oven. At forty-five years of age, Maeve O’Shea was an older version of Liberty with auburn curls threaded with silver and restrained in a proper coif at the back of her head. She reached to squeeze Kitty’s hand. “It’s so nice having you over for dinner again, Kitty, although I wish Martha could have joined us too. It’s been a bit dull here since Liberty’s been away at school.”

  “Likewise, I assure you, Mrs. O’Shea.” Kitty shot a broad smile at Liberty. “Especially the ‘dull’ part now that Libby’s back home.” She wiggled her brows. “Nobody stirs the pot like our Libby.”

  “Humpf.” Her father chomped on a roll. “The only pots stirring in this house will be in the kitchen, as it should be.”

  A gentle sigh drifted from Libby’s lips as her mother reached to give her hand a reassuring squeeze, letting her daughter know she was not alone in her dreams of liberty for all. As much as Libby loved New York, coming home to her mother was a salve to her soul, even if she and her father didn’t see eye-to-eye on the direction of her life. At least her mother understood her need for independence, the burning desire to make a difference.

  Before her mother had married her father, Maeve Monroe had been a strong-willed New York socialite on the ground floor of the suffragette movement. At least until Grandpa Monroe had forced her to marry Aiden O’Shea in a business alliance between two of New York’s wealthiest banking families. Although Mama had reluctantly acquiesced to both her father and her new husband, that hadn’t stopped her from raising her one and only daughter to be an independent thinker.

  Much to Papa’s dismay.

  Kitty shot a polite smile in Aiden’s direction, her dark curls gathered back in a chignon that made her look so much older than Libby remembered. “Well, all stirring aside, Mr. O’Shea, it’s certainly good to have my best friend home again.”

  “So, Kitty,” Liberty’s father said, voice gruff in his typical no-nonsense manner. His dark moustache twitched in annoyance as he reached for his coffee. “I presume you’ll be volunteering for the festival committee as well?” Bushy brows beetled low as his gaze flicked from Kitty to Libby and back while he peered over the rim of his cup. “If so, I certainly hope it’s on the quilting or baking committee instead of trying to run the show like my girl here.”

  “Liberty is a co-chair, Aiden,” her mother emphasized with the barest lift of her chin, sidestepping her husband’s question to Kitty altogether. Her tone was taut despite the smile on her face, revealing a hint of the one sore spot in an otherwise healthy marriage. “Which means she shares responsibilities with two others, darling, both males.”

  “I prefer the term ‘mules,’” Liberty muttered for Kitty’s ears alone, fighting a smile when a giggle slipped from her best friend’s lips.

  Papa grunted. “Poppycock! Women belong in the home, Maeve, tending to their husbands and children, not trying to elbow their way into a man’s world.” His mouth skewed to the right in a dry smile that reflected the delicate balance her parents had forged between affection and opinion. “But apparently you raised a daughter as stubborn as the bride I married over thirty years ago, with a backbone of steel to match and a passel of pig-headed pride.”

  “Yes, darling, I did,” Mama said with a glint in her eye that sparkled with both humor and grit. “And one of these days, Aiden O’Shea, I will get you to admit that I have saved you from a life of utter boredom with that very backbone of steel and pigheaded pride. Which, by the way, my love”—the glint shone to a gleam—“pales next to my husband’s.”

  “I’ll vouch for that.” Libby winked at her father.

  Her tease earned a rare chuckle as he relented with a shake of his head. “Pure self preservation, my dear, granted by the Almighty, no doubt, in lieu of a son.” His smile tipped as he buttered another roll. “And don’t think I won’t be having words with Him in the hereafter, as to the wisdom of surrounding me with stubborn females.”

  “If you go to the right hereafter, darling,” her mother said with a squirm of a smile.

  “I’ll second that.” Their beloved cook and housekeeper, Gertie, barreled into the elegant dining room with a tray of her famous lemon meringue pie, her look as sour as the dessert. She clunked plates down in front of everyone at the table, a tossup as to which slid more lopsided—the meringue on the pie or the silver bun atop her head. The new French maid uniform Papa insisted she wear seemed out of place on her tall lanky frame, especially given the insult of cowboy boots she wore just to get Papa’s goat. “Specially after the sin of forcing me to wear this high-falutin’ Frenchie getup.” Gertie sloshed coffee in Papa’s cup with her usual
crabby air, her trademark since Mama had begged Papa to hire her as their housekeeper years ago, insisting that being a chuck-wagon cook for uncouth cowboys was no place for a lady.

  A point on which both Mama and Papa strongly disagreed.

  Ignoring Gertie’s mood, her father refocused on Kitty, lifting a cup that dripped coffee from the pool of liquid in his saucer, compliments of his disgruntled cook. “Please tell me, Kitty, that you’ve volunteered for something more feminine than trying to push your way into a man’s world like my suffragette daughter.”

  “Unfortunately for me, Papa,” Liberty said with a resigned sigh, “Kitty’s father feels the way you do about females in leadership roles, so all he’ll allow Kitty to do is help me with my booth.”

  “Humpf.” Papa unbuttoned his pinstriped vest to make room for Gertie’s pie. “At least somebody has control of his daughter.” He glanced up as Gertie headed to the kitchen. “Gertie, I’ll have a touch of whiskey in my—” The swinging door whooshed closed, deflating his gruff manner in a weary expulsion of air. “And hopefully control of their maid.”

  “What booth?” Mama wanted to know, quickly sidetracking Papa’s request for alcohol, something she had secretly instructed Gertie to ignore.

  Liberty proceeded to expound on the ideas she’d suggested to the festival committee, their enthusiastic response, and her vision for a booth of her own.

  “Why, darling, that sounds wonderful!” The flush of pride in Mama’s face was evident in the glow of her green eyes and the eager press of her palms, dessert all but forgotten. “And I’m so grateful Mr. Parks is allowing time on your new job to work on the festival, because you certainly have a lot to do.”

  “No business working a job in the first place,” Papa grumbled, gouging his pie.

  “So, Libby, hear tell Finn McShane is one of your co-chairs.” Kitty spooned a bite of dessert in her mouth with a secret smile. “That alone should be good for a fair share of the fireworks, don’t you think?”

  “What?” Papa’s spoon froze mid-air, jaw distended. “You mean to tell me you’ll be working with that McShane hoodlum?” He slammed his fork to his plate, cheeks ruddy above lips now compressed to near white.

  “Now, Aiden—” Mama’s tone reverted to soothing mode.

  “Don’t ‘now, Aiden’ me, Maeve—I don’t want that scalawag around my daughter. The boy’s not from good stock, I tell you. His father was nothing but a drunk with a powder-keg temper who took it out on his family, then picked a fight with pert near every man in this town.” He jabbed a fork into his pie, his scowl deepening considerably. “Blasted Irish Protestant. Nothing but a low-life lush, I tell you, who up and ran away with a saloon girl, leaving his family to wallow like pigs in poverty.”

  “All the more reason to respect the boy, Aiden,” Mama said softly, “because he’s made something of himself despite his tragic upbringing. And Protestant or Catholic, darling—the good Lord loves us all.”

  Papa slammed a palm on the table. “He’s nothing but a womanizer and fortune hunter, I tell you. Selling his soul to George Templeton, no doubt sealing the deal by courting his daughter. Just like he tried to do with Liberty, but I was too smart for him.”

  “He’s courting Jo Beth?” Libby blinked several times, unpleasantly surprised at the sudden cramp in her chest. She’d seen them together at Flo’s, of course, but she hadn’t realized they were an actual couple. Her mood suddenly turned as acidic as Gertie’s lemon meringue pie.

  “Not according to Finn,” Kitty said, gulping down more dessert, “and he makes no bones about it. But I will say he steps out with Jo Beth more than any other girl in town, so I guarantee both Jo Beth and her father have high expectations. Especially since Mr. Templeton loaned Finn the money for his land.”

  “They’re all in cahoots,” Papa said with a growl, pushing his empty plate away to level a finger at Libby. “First that no-good scoundrel gives the V&T’s business to Templeton, then he ups and buys Lester Calloway’s prime land across the river, which everyone knows I’ve had my eye on forever.”

  Mama took a sip of her coffee. “Really, Aiden, it’s common knowledge the V&T loan decision was based on George’s connections with V&T brass, so I don’t know how you can blame poor Finn—”

  “Poor Finn?” Papa’s eyes bulged in shock. “For the love of decency, woman, he’s courting the daughter of the man who gave him that blasted loan.”

  Mama’s smile hardened a hair, a sure sign Papa was beginning to ruffle her ire. “As Kitty reminded us and as everyone in town knows, Finn is not courting Jo Beth. And might I remind you that Finn came to you for that loan first? A loan on which you turned him down, if you recall, Aiden O’Shea, so that boy had no choice but to go to George Templeton’s bank.”

  Her chin notched up as she stirred more cream in her coffee. “And as far as that prime land ‘everyone’ knows you’ve had your eye on, everyone also knows you lost that land through your own bullheaded pride, always trying to bully poor Lester into a sale for less than the land was worth. So don’t be pinning that on Finn McShane either. Besides,” she said with a tight smile, a subtle indication she was reaching her limit with Papa’s vendetta against Finn McShane. “I always liked the boy when he visited Marge’s son Milo during our quilting bees. So personable and polite to everyone, although I know he did pick on Libby a time or two.”

  “A time or two?” Libby gaped at her mother, hardly able to believe she was siding with Finn McPain. “Papa’s right—he’s a hooligan who made my life miserable in school, and you’re defending him?”

  “So, Liberty darling,” Mama said with a pleasant smile, apparently anxious to steer the conversation as far away from Finn McShane as possible. “Have you come up with a theme for your booth?”

  Expelling a noisy sigh, Libby was grateful for the change of subject. In no time, her excitement bubbled back up as she shared her plans for an “education” booth that she hoped would educate Virginia City on women’s rights as well as other subjects of interest. “And Miss Willoughby is helping us with the booth,” Libby finished with a contented sigh, “by lending her portable chalkboard, books, and bookcases, so we can decorate it like a real school.”

  “And don’t forget about the apple-bobbing game,” Kitty said with a proud lift of her chin, “since every booth is required to have a game to draw parents and children alike.”

  Mama clapped her hands, Libby’s and Kitty’s enthusiasm obviously catching. “Girls, that sounds wonderful! If Papa or I can help in any way, just let us know.” She allowed a conciliatory smile in Papa’s direction. “Before Papa made his fortune in banking, you know, he was fairly handy with tools, so I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige if you need him to hammer anything.”

  “Especially if it’s Finn McShane,” Papa muttered, earning a stiff arch of Mama’s brow.

  “Speaking of which …” Kitty leaned in, arms crossed on the table as she eyed Libby with a glint of trouble. “I’m guessing Finn’s theme will be “transportation,” which certainly fits given his job with the V&T. Heaven knows he’s been able to railroad anybody and anything with that smile since he was knee-high to a toadstool.” Mischief curled on her lips. “Especially Jo Beth.”

  Papa rose and tossed his napkin on his plate, his scowl a mirror image of Libby’s.

  “Mmm …” Tempering her smile, Mama patted the napkin to her mouth, the barest hint of tease in her tone as she pushed back her chair. “Looks like you’ll be butting heads with that boy one last time, Liberty darling, so hopefully when it comes to the education booth, some of the tutelage will be his.”

  Kitty’s throaty chuckle echoed as she shoveled in the last of her dessert, licking the spoon with a definite twinkle in her eye. “If he doesn’t ‘railroad’ her first.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Parks, you are in a heap of horse biscuits! Finn ripped his copy of the Territorial Enterprise in two and then again, crumpling the pieces into a wad big enough to choke his best friend. He issue
d a grunt. Not to mention his brand-new “assistant,” who’d just tarred and feathered him on the editorial page of Virginia City’s most prestigious newspaper. Jaw grinding, he hurled the paper ball across the meeting room in City Hall, missing the wastebasket in the corner by a mile.

  And I’m supposed to co-chair a committee with these people?

  His stomach growled as he glanced at the clock on the wall, wishing he’d had time to go home for dinner first or grab a quick meal at Flo’s before the weekly festival meeting. But the bigwigs from V&T had been in today, so there’d been no time to eat anything but an apple and peruse the paper while he waited for his co-chairs.

  No … make that co-enemies.

  Slander and starvation. Not a good combination for a guy whose almost nonexistent temper had been doused with kerosene by a traitorous best friend and a sassy suffragist. Determined to remain calm, he stood and retrieved the crumpled paper, absently lobbing it back and forth while he sauntered to his seat, derailing his frustration by thinking of his land instead. He was almost done clearing the section for the house and could start building a small cabin soon before plotting out the split-rail fence he planned to build in the west pasture.

  The front door of City Hall opened and closed.

  “Finally,” Finn muttered, tossing the paper ball onto the table before pulling his notes and a pad of paper from his satchel. The hard click of heels echoed down the hallway, and he glanced up to see Liberty march into the room like she owned it. The full skirt of her green silk dress swished with authority and pert near more ribbons, bows, and fringe than the ladies’ department of Mort’s Mercantile.

  Mouth suddenly dry, Finn’s renegade gaze betrayed him with a slow body scan of the girl who wreaked havoc with his pulse. From the rich auburn curls piled at the back of her head to the creamy complexion that reminded him of his mama’s buttermilk roses, she was a true beauty. His eyes skimmed down the shapely bodice that narrowed into a tiny waist, only to swell again into generous hips a mite fuller than the scrawny girl he used to taunt.