“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.
“Mrs. Poppy! Yes, I arrived just yesterday,” Libby called as Finn continued his rampage down the wooden walkway, picking up speed, “so I’ll come see you soon, I promise.”
“Good girl,” the old woman returned, her full rosy cheeks a familiar complement to an off-kilter silver topknot bouncing on her head. She waved as she continued on her merry way while a wagon passed with a blinding roll of dust and a cheer for Finn.
Somehow Libby managed a boot to his knee. “Finn McShane, if you don’t put me down this instant …”
“With pleasure,” he said with a growl, mauling the knob of the newspaper office before kicking the door open. The receptionist froze, along with a patron who was apparently placing an ad. “Excuse me, ladies, but I have a message for Mr. Parks—won’t take a moment.”
“What-are-you-doing?” Libby whispered harshly, thrashing all the more at the prospect of making a scene at the place she hoped to work.
Completely ignoring her, he strode down the hall and kicked another door open, instantly paralyzing Milo Parks, who gaped with a pen in his hand. “Inter-view o-ver, Miss O’Shea,” he snapped, dumping her on Milo’s desk without ceremony. He aimed a thick finger, glaring at the man who’d been—until today—his best friend. “And so help me, Parks, if you send this woman down to my office ever again, our friendship is over, got it?” Without another word, he barreled out and slammed the door, rattling both it and the windows of Milo’s office.
Sliding off the front of Milo’s desk as discreetly as possible, Libby bit her lip while she straightened her dress with shaky fingers, throat dry at the prospect of turning around to see the horror on her prospective employer’s face.
A throaty chuckle rumbled while she repinned her hat, and whirling around, her jaw swagged low at the look of utter delight on Milo Park’s face. “Well, I’ll be!” the assistant editor said with a clasp of hands behind his neck, slanting back in his chair with a bona fide grin. Despite Milo’s amber hair to Finn’s deep chestnut and his sky-blue eyes to Finn’s whiskey brown, the two had always seemed like siblings to Libby, twins really, whose carefree attitudes bonded them like brothers. Only Milo had mostly been the nice brother, rarely taunting her except when his mule-headed friend had egged him on. “Haven’t seen our boy that stirred up since you fleeced him in the science fair our senior year, Libs, so good job.”
Her fingers froze on the pin in her hat. “You mean … you’re not mad?”
“Shoot, no,” Milo said with a cross of his legs on a desk scattered with galleys. “Truth be told, he’s had me a mite worried lately with all the hours he’s been clockin’, both for the railroad during the day and then clearing his land at night. Turned into a regular workhorse when he hired on with V&T. Cuttin’ way back on socializing with me or the ladies, which doesn’t set well with me or them, I can tell you that.” He sighed and scratched the back of his neck, eyes narrowed in thought. “It’s almost like he’s lost his fire, you know? So darn worried about that dad-burned land of his and the vein of silver he found, his sparkle has sorta fizzled right out.” A twinkle lit in his eyes as he gave her a wink. “Till you.”
Libby blinked. “I don’t understand. He’s a mule of a bully with a hair-trigger temper, who just kicked me out of his office and dumped me on your desk. How is that a good thing?”
Milo chuckled. “Well actually that ‘mule of a bully’ is one of the most mild-mannered men I know—calm, rational, steady as a rock.” He flashed a grin, the glint in his eye matching the one in his teeth. “Except around you.”
His smile suddenly sobered, transforming him into the professional editor she’d begged for a job mere hours ago. “Which is a good thing because he’s my best friend, Libby, and frankly I’m worried about him. He doesn’t smile as much as he used to and he’s too blasted complacent to suit.” His lips curved into a slow smile. “So I’d like to light a fire under him, and you’re just the stick of dynamite I need because nobody trips his wire like you, Liberty O’Shea, nobody.”
Head in a tilt, she studied him through slatted eyes, almost suspicious that this was some sort of trick. “Does that mean I have the job?”
He grinned. “As long as you write one heck of an editorial that stokes the logs in that boy’s stove and you put that impressive resumé and Vassar degree to good use stirring up circulation for the Enterprise.”
Liberty squealed and circled Milo’s desk to give him a tight hug. “Oh, Milo, thank you sooooo much, and I promise you won’t regret this.”
He gave her an awkward pat on the back while a ruddy shade of red bled up the length of his neck. “Nope, with your spunk and brains, Libs, I don’t think I will, not even a little.” The twinkle was back in his eyes as he assessed her with a pensive cock of his head. “Now our ‘mule of a bully with a hair-trigger temper’?” He grinned as he picked up his pen, pausing to give her a wink. “I’m countin’ on it.”