Page 10 of For Love of Liberty

“You want us to avoid killing each other,” she said, finishing his thought.

A boyish smile slid across his face. “Something like that.”

Her ruffled bodice expanded with air, and she expelled it again in one, arduous exhale. “All right, Mr. Parks, you have my word I will do everything in my power to get along with Mr. McVain.” Smile flat, she studied the contract in its entirety before scrawling her name across the bottom line. Laying the pen aside, she pushed the paper forward, lips in a twist. “After all, shouldn’t be too hard if I stay as far away from him as humanly possible, right?”

“Yeah, well, about that …” Milo cocked his head, brows dipped as he drew air through clenched teeth.

The smile froze on her face.

“The Enterprise is one of the biggest sponsors for the annual Fourth of July Festival as you know …”

“Yesssss …” she said slowly, her vision thinning significantly.

“Well, I’m the co-chairman of the planning committee, so we’re going to need your help. Figured I’d have you co-chair with me as your first assignment.”

“Okay …” The breath she’d been holding slowly seeped out. “That doesn’t sound too bad so far, if writing’s still involved.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Milo assured her with a forceful nod of his head. “Anything you care to contribute that factors into the patriotic theme of our fair city or state—features, editorials, newsy updates, whatever. As long as the festival planning doesn’t suffer, the sky’s the limit.”

A grin pulled at her lips. “You know, this could actually be fun—getting paid to chair the festival. I mean, I’ve always loved it—the booths, the baking contest, the dance, the parade.”

“And don’t forget the fireworks,” Milo said with a smile, folding her signed contract and tucking it in his pocket.

Liberty clasped her hands together, suddenly as giddy as a toddler staring at spider flashes of fire in a dark and smoky sky. “Oh, yes, the fireworks,” she breathed, heart near bursting like the gunpowder rockets that would spiral to the stars. “There are few things I love more than fireworks.”

A lazy grin tipped Milo’s mouth as he handed her several more sheets. “That’s good. Here’s the lead on a story I’d like you to tackle, along with the festival notes Viola typed up for this year and last. You know, just to give you ideas before the meeting at City Hall tonight at seven.”

Liberty jumped to her feet and took the sheets before extending her hand across the desk. “Thank you so much, Mr. Parks, for entrusting me with such an exciting project.”

Milo pumped her hand with gusto, the glimmer in his eye no doubt matching the sparkle in her own. “My pleasure, Liberty—I think you’re the perfect person for the job, especially given your love of fireworks.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” she agreed with matched enthusiasm, “fireworks are one of my most favorite things in the whole, wide world.”

“That’s real good to hear,” he said with a broad grin that was instantly followed by a wink. “’Cause I guarantee you, Miss O’Shea—you’re going to see plenty.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Whoa, boy.” Finn slowed his horse’s brisk gait as they neared City Hall, his painted palomino obviously intent on barreling through town to Finn’s acreage instead. Couldn’t blame him, though—Finn spent every free moment working on his land, clearing trees or building his cabin. Reining Lightning in, he slid off the saddle and tied him to the post outside of City Hall, a small but impressive brick building at the edge of town where all city business was conducted. Lightning nickered as light peeked out of a bank of windows on either side, illuminating scrubby-looking bushes and a wagon wheel crawling with trumpet vine.

With a click of his tongue, Finn fished two apple cores from his pocket and fed it to his best buddy, the remains of a rushed dinner after working his land for several hours. Returning home at dusk, he’d barely had time for a quick washup and shave before bolting out again, stomach rumbling over the smell of pot roast his mother had made. “Save me a plate,” he’d said on his way out the door, bussing his mother’s cheek along with his sister’s. Following a quick tousle of both his little brothers’ shaggy hair, he’d grabbed two apples on the way. “And don’t wait up—Milo and I have a lot of planning to do after the meeting.”

Looking for more handouts, Lightning nudged Finn’s chambray shirt, which was thankfully free of the awful tie he was forced to wear during the day as a representative of the V&T. He was a simple man with simple tastes, one who preferred faded denim and dusty cowhide boots to fancy suits and spit-polished shoes. But he’d learned to bite the bullet and dress the part of a dandy if he wanted to own his land free and clear sooner rather than later. During the day, that is. The nights were all his to dress and live as he liked, chipping away at all that stood in the path of his dream to own the largest cattle spread in Nevada.

“Don’t worry, little buddy,” he said softly, as much to himself as the fawn-and-white-colored animal he’d trained from a colt, “patience is a silver mine all its own, so there’s more treats ahead.” With one final scratch behind Lightning’s ear, Finn slowly mounted the wooden steps to the fancy double doors the mayor’s wife just had to have. Passing a hand through his damp hair, he reached for the brass knob, lips tipping in a smile at the sound of Miss Willoughby’s good-natured bickering with Deputy Poke.

The squabbling filtered down a narrow hall from the back of the building, their long-standing feud always reminding him of a married couple. He grinned and shook his head as he made his way to the public meeting room. Leroy Poke needed to wake up and court the schoolteacher good and proper, even if it meant the end of her teaching career.

“Well, it’s about bloomin’ time one of the co-chairs showed up,” Harvey Sullivan groused, the barrel-chested sawmill owner who was always thirty minutes early everywhere he went. “Thought I had the wrong blasted night.”

“Oh, frog spit, Harvey Sullivan,” Mrs. Poppy said with a heft of a chubby chin, silver and snow-white hair piled high in a donut bun as lopsided as her sweet smile. Married to Pastor Horace Poppy for over fifty years, Clara Poppy was as eccentric—and outspoken—as they came, but a mainstay in Virginia City. And one of the few who could put “Sully” in his place. Her knitting needles were flying, clacking right along with Harvey’s ill-fitting dentures, a clicking habit old Harv had whenever he was impatient. Which was pretty much all of the time.

“Meetings start at eight,” she said, “and Griffin is ten minutes early, so just button up, young man.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she flashed a bright smile at Finn, her moon face so full, there was nary a wrinkle despite her seventy-five years. “Evenin’ Griffin. You got that land cleared yet?” she said with a sassy wink. “Kinda hankerin’ for a wedding, young man, so it may as well be you.” A twinkle lit her rheumy blue eyes as she peeked up from her knitting. “Been praying real hard one of you young bucks would get a move on and settle down.”

Finn laughed, the sound bouncing off the plastered walls along with several male chuckles, including Pastor Poppy’s, who patted his wife’s arm. “Better run for your life, son. When Mrs. Poppy puts her mind to prayer, there’s no stopping her or the Almighty.”

Tossing his Stetson on the empty seat beside him, Finn shifted one of the chairs in the first row and straddled it, grinning ear to ear. “That’s okay, Pastor. Gotta feeling those prayers are gonna be answered by old Milo soon enough.”

“Well, pop another pearl onto St. Peter’s Gate,” Mrs. Poppy said with a girlish giggle, “he did seem to be awfully cozy with Bettie Boswell at the ice cream social, as I recall.”