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.