Page 14 of For Love of Liberty

“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 issued 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.

Heat singed the back of his neck when he realized he was staring, and deeply ingrained manners launched him to his feet, forcing him to rise, along with his hackles. Blue thunder, he hadn’t even known he had hackles until that woman sailed into town. “Where’s Parks?” he said in a gruff tone far too short. At six-foot-three, he’d always been long on height, patience, and personality, but since Liberty O’Shea’s return to Virginia City, he’d been whittled down to size.

“Good evening to you, too, Mr. McShane,” she said with a professional air that got on his last nerve.

“That’s debatable. Where’s Parks?”

“He’s running late and asked that we get started.” She systematically placed her hat, reticule, and portfolio on the table and pulled out a chair, sliding in with the same grace and ease he remembered from school. The gentle scent of lilacs drifted in the air, a taunt that reminded him of the day he’d carried her to Parks’ office. Immediately his blood heated at the memory of her body against his, feather light and womanly soft. His lips went flat. Except for those blasted steel toes and iron knees.

Removing her notepad from what looked to be a brand-new leather portfolio, she positioned it just so in front of her before shimmying to the edge of her chair. She folded her hands on top. “Mr. McShane …” Her eyes actually softened, the color of trees awakening in the spring, a watercolor wash of the purest, lightest green he’d ever seen. “Finn,” she said quietly, her voice just above a whisper as her head dipped the slightest bit, allowing those deadly eyes to peek up beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “Since we’re going to be working together so closely for the next few months, I would very much like to be friends.”

“Friends.” His terse response bore the weight of his skepticism.