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