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For Love of Liberty

By Julie Lessman

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It is for liberty that Christ has set us free.
—Galatians 5:1


PROLOGUE

Virginia City, 1860

“Abominable.”
Miss Willoughby’s voice rang clear and concise from the back of the schoolroom, spelling primer in hand as she offered fourteen-year-old Liberty “Libby” O’Shea an encouraging smile. “Since everyone has been eliminated from the spelling bee except you and Mr. McShane, Miss O’Shea, we’ll need both the definition and usage of the word in a sentence in addition to the spelling, all right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Libby’s smile tightened, the presence of seventeen-year-old Griffin McShane a few feet away girding her with the resolve to put the cocky know-it-all in his place. “Abominable,” she repeated in a loud voice, her mind immediately tracking to the most appropriate definition: Griffin McVain.
She cleared her throat. “A-b-o-m-i-n-a-b-l-e. Definition: something unpleasant, disagreeable, repulsive, disgusting, loathsome, nauseating, insufferable, despicable, and horrible. Sentence usage …” She bit back the squirm of a smile. Griffin McShane is an abominable rogue. Shoulders square, she notched her chin up. “Spilling ink on a classmate’s term paper is an abominable thing to do.”
Snickers filtered throughout the room, and Libby hoped he was as embarrassed as she always was when he taunted her, but she doubted it. He seemed to thrive on attention, good or bad, and trying to upstage Libby whenever he could. Ever since she’d moved here from New York a year ago, he’d been the proverbial thorn in her side—taunting her, pranking her, challenging her.
Back in New York, she’d always been the top student with little or no effort, the teacher’s favorite and a shining star in every school she’d ever attended. Until her father was transferred to Virginia City to open a bank on the heels of the gold rush and the subsequent Comstock Lode, the first major silver discovery in the United States. Overnight, Libby found herself playing second fiddle to the most obnoxious boy in town, dirt poor in both wealth and manners.
But filthy rich in pride.
And, unfortunately, good looks, which only riled Libby all the more.
“Correct,” Miss Willoughby said with approval, the twinkle in her eyes the only indication she understood the pointed meaning of Libby’s sentence. With a perfunctory clear of her throat, the teacher averted her attention to the “abominable” class rake who excelled in everything from academics to emotional harassment. “Mr. McShane, your word is ‘irascibility.’”
“Irascibility.” The baritone voice that always carried a hint of a smile rang through the classroom with that same annoying confidence that managed to charm the socks off every female within a 5-mile radius. Whether teacher, parent, or child, it didn’t matter. If Griffin McShane smiled at them, there seemed to be a collective sigh of approval, especially from the teen-aged girls in town. Libby’s lids narrowed as she chanced a peek out of the corner of her eye.
All except the smart ones …
“I-r-a-s-c-i-b-i-l-i-t-y,” he said with a leisurely slack of his hip, thumbs nonchalantly tucked into the faded suspenders of patched and dusty trousers. His manner was casual, almost like he was chewing the fat with friends rather than competing for the honor of Virginia City’s scholar of the year. “Definition: behavior that is short-tempered, testy, touchy, petulant, waspish, prickly, or snippy.”
Libby’s lips compressed as she studied his sculpted face shadowed with stubble way too pronounced for seventeen years. His carefree manner never failed to unnerve her, as if everything came so easily for him—the grades, the athletic skills, the popularity. It just wasn’t fair, especially since the only effort he seemed to put forth was in goading her. Easily one of the tallest boys in town, he filled out the worn linsey-woolsey shirt with a brawn that defied his age, honed from afternoons working at the lumber mill, no doubt. Which irked Libby all the more since she attended school full-time to his mere mornings, yet still struggled to best him in class.
“Sentence usage,” he continued with that trademark trace of tease, “The mare’s irascibility confirmed that what she lacked in patience, she made up for in temper.”
Titters circled the class as Libby’s cheeks bloomed bright red, well aware that Griffin McPain intended to win the war of words as well as the spelling bee.
Miss Willoughby’s smile crooked. “Correct, Mr. McShane, although I’m sure the mare would disagree.” Her gaze flicked back to Libby, the encouraging sparkle in her eyes lending support. “Miss O’Shea, your word is supersede.”
Adrenaline pulsed through Libby’s veins, the thrill of victory surging along with it. “Supersede,” she said with certainty, “s-u-p-e-r-c-e-d-e. Definition: replace, take the place of, succeed, supplant, displace, oust, overthrow, remove, or unseat.” Like I am going to do to you, Mr. McShame. “Sentence usage: The brightest and best will always supersede those who think they are.” Unable to resist a satisfied glance in McShane’s direction, Libby returned her attention to Miss Willoughby.
Right before her body went stone cold.
The sympathetic crimp of Miss Willoughby’s brows confirmed Libby’s greatest fear. “I’m sorry, Miss O’Shea, but your spelling is incorrect,” the teacher said with a compassionate smile before she turned her attention to Griffin. “Mr. McShane, please spell supersede.”
“With pleasure, Miss Willoughby,” Griffin’s answer came, the air of self-assurance in his voice infusing Libby’s pale cheeks with an embarrassing whoosh of heat. “Supersede. S-u-p-e-r-s-e-d-e.”
Silence hung thick in the air as Libby’s lungs refused to work, stomach contracting at the slow nod of Miss Willoughby’s head. “Absolutely correct, Mr. McShane. It’s been a tight race between you and Miss O’Shea, but you have emerged as Virginia City’s Scholar of the Year, young man, so congratulations!”
“Yay, Griff!” his buddies shouted around the room, vaulting up with whoops and hollers while his best friend, Milo Parks, hoisted him in the air, the two of them carrying on like they were eight instead of almost eighteen.
Libby’s best friends, Kitty Jones and Martha Artyomenko, surrounded her with sympathetic hugs that matched the kind understanding in Miss Willoughby’s eyes. “Excellent job as well, Miss O’Shea,” her teacher said with a soft smile, “and there’s always next year, young lady.”
Yes, next year. Libby offered her teacher a grateful smile. When Griffin McBlame would be graduated and long gone. Her frustration drifted out on a gentle sigh of resignation as she squeezed her best friends’ hands. Perhaps it was just as well that he won Scholar of the Year. After all, as the sole support of his mother and younger siblings, she supposed he needed all the success he could get, no matter how awful he was to her.
Gulping in a deep draw of air, she turned to offer him a stiff handshake, her smile bright if somewhat forced. “Congratulations, Griffin. You are a formidable foe.”
His hand swallowed hers, and it galled her to no end that her stomach fluttered when he gave her that slow, easy grin. “Why, thank you, Liberty Bell,” he said, drawling out that annoying nickname he always used just to get on her nerves. “I may have gotten the spelling right, but don’t forget that you got a lot right too.”
She blinked, not used to compliments from her nemesis. “Why … thank you, Griffin,” she said with a wide expanse of eyes, cheeks heating when his firm grasp lingered, his smile as warm as the hand holding hers.
“You bet.” His thumb gently grazed the top of her wrist, sending shivers all the way up her arm. “After all, Miss Bell,” he said in a soft voice that belied the twinkle in his eye, “you’re right on the mark more than you know, especially today.” Flashing his trademark smile, he turned and strolled away, tossing the final word over his shoulder along with a saucy wink. “‘The brightest and best will always supersede those who think they are.’”


 
CHAPTER ONE

Virginia City, Nevada, May 1868

Okay, just breathe … in, out, in, out. Twenty-two-year-old Liberty O’Shea swallowed hard, her throat as dry as the clouds of dust whirling behind her from wagon wheels on F Street at noon. Sucking in a shallow breath ripe with the smell of horse manure and tobacco, she gripped the brass doorknob of the Virginia & Truckee Railroad office, knuckles pinched whiter than the lacey gloves on her hand. “I can do this,” she whispered.
If I don’t throw up first.
Shoulders back, she pushed the door open, determined to conquer the task at hand—a newspaper interview with the V&T director about a 21-mile railroad line from Virginia City to Carson City. An interview that could very well secure a spot on one of Virginia City’s most prestigious newspapers where Mark Twain himself was once an editor—the Territorial Enterprise. Libby reminded herself to exhale. Or at least that’s what Milo Parks had promised when he’d given her this trial assignment. Her mouth veered sideways as she quietly closed the door. That is, if one can trust a boy who’d once bolted her in the school outhouse.
With a skunk.
“Can I help you, miss?” A young woman glanced up from a battered oak desk, her faded maroon silk dress so tight, she could have been waiting tables at the Brass Rail Saloon. In reflex, Libby glanced down at her own expensive House of Worth walking suit. Its butternut silk was the perfect complement to her flaming auburn hair, which now peeked out beneath the latest feathered straw hat from Paris. For one brief moment, she felt horribly extravagant next to this poor working woman attired in no more than a shabby barroom dress. Summoning a smile, she quickly shook it off, reminding herself that in a man’s world, she needed to be at her very best in order to further the cause of women everywhere, including the poor soul before her.
“Yes, thank you.” Libby hugged a pad of paper to her ruffled white bodice, gaze flicking to the wood-slatted wall behind the young woman, its knotted pine emblazoned with a map of Nevada. Her lips instinctively pursed over the dotted line that connected Virginia City with Carson City, reminding her of her disdain for railroads. Tucking her reticule behind the pad, she worked hard to convey her most confident smile. “Mr. Milo Parks suggested I interview Director Finn for a feature article in the Territorial Enterprise. Is he in?”
A ghost of a smile flickered across the woman’s rouged lips as she shuffled papers into a neat stack and laid them aside. “Yes, Director Finn is in today, but I’m afraid he just stepped out for lunch and a few errands, so I’m not exactly sure when he’ll be back.”
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.

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