Page 5 of For Love of Liberty

“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.