Bennett broke the piece of gra.s.s into tiny pieces and dropped them, one by one, into the gently rolling creek. How many of those pieces, he wondered, would make it all the way to the Mississippi? One of them could even get carried all the way to the Gulf, and then to the ocean. That'd be something . . .

"Wonder what it's like to go across the ocean." He hadn't intended to share his thoughts out loud.

Libby's chin jerked, and she shot him a glare. "I thought I told you not to talk."

"Not talking. Thinkin' out loud is all."

"It's the same thing."

"No it's not. Talking is a back-and-forth exchange. Thinkin' out loud is just that-saying something out loud only meant for yourself." He raised one eyebrow at her. "You didn't have to answer."

She huffed and hunched forward. For long seconds they sat in silence. An owl hooted from the nearby tree, and a coyote answered. Libby shivered, and he started to suggest they head back to the school. But then she said, "I intend to find out."

He shook his head, confused. "Find out . . . what?"

"What it's like across the ocean." She sounded determined.

He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from chortling. She wasn't trying to be funny, but for some reason her tone tickled him. "Oh yeah? How?"

"I'll be reporting on the war. And I'm not going to wait until I graduate, either. I intend to have a position with a newspaper by this time next year. Everyone knows wars last a long time, so I'm sure it'll still be going." Her voice rose with pa.s.sion. She sat straighter, her chin jutting out stubbornly. "I'll get on a ship and sail to Europe, where I can write about what's happening over there. Every article will have 'by Elisabet Conley' printed underneath the t.i.tle, and then people, including Maelle and Petey, will finally see me as-" She clamped her lips together.

Bennett didn't ask what she'd planned to say. Her business was her business, and the less he knew the better when it came to females and their messes. He sometimes enjoyed having a pretty girl on his arm, but he sure didn't want to get too deeply tangled. Took all the fun out of things. He gave a brusque nod. "I'll look for you over there, 'cause I'll be goin', too. With a gun in my hand."

She swung to face him, her jaw dropping. "You mean to fight?"

Bennett pictured himself in a uniform, side by side with other men in uniforms. He'd fit right in-and he'd fight harder than any of them, proving his mettle to his commanders, too. He puffed his chest. "Sure, to fight."

"But the United States is remaining neutral. We aren't sending soldiers."

He snorted. "For how long? You think we can keep ignoring the scuffle over there? And do you think I could stay out of it? I'll be the first to sign up the minute Uncle Sam gives the call." There was no way Pete could step up and replace him as a soldier. Man with a peg leg on the battlefield? Laughable.

"The ship can't leave soon enough to please me." Libby's tone turned reflective, as if she'd forgotten he was there. "There's nothing here holding me back."

"Or me." He chuckled. "Looks to me, Lib, like you and I have more in common than you knew, huh?"

She didn't answer, but he didn't let that bother him. He could tell by the look on her face he'd given her something to think about. Maybe, just maybe, Pete wouldn't end up winning everything after all.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Are you still still sitting at that desk?" sitting at that desk?"

Libby jerked at the sound of Alice-Marie's cranky voice and pushed the pencil point hard against the page. The freshly sharpened point snapped. With a little huff of annoyance, she glanced up. Her roommate stood in the doorway of their room with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. "I need to finish this, Alice-Marie." Another page-maybe two-and her most recent story would be complete. In the three weeks since Matt and Lorna's wedding, she'd written and mailed out three romance stories. Some of her homework had gone undone, but she didn't care. The homework wouldn't earn her a list of writing credits. The homework wouldn't make her known to thousands of readers.

"One would think you were chained to that chair." Alice-Marie approached, her curious gaze aimed at the pad of paper. Libby covered the lines of print with her palms when Alice-Marie perched on the edge of her desk. "I've never seen anyone so diligent, and it's quite admirable. But you must do more than complete a.s.signments, Libby."

Alice-Marie put her hand on Libby's arm. "You didn't join a sorority; you've shunned every club on campus. All you do is write, write, write. I talked to Mother about you when I spoke with her over the telephone yesterday, and she said to remind you that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

The reference to "Mother" pierced Libby's heart. Might Maelle, right now, be encouraging Hannah and Hester to throw off their somber countenance, to play games and laugh? She yanked her arm free of Alice-Marie's hand and gave the girl's hip a sharp jab with her elbow. Alice-Marie squawked and jumped up.

"I'm not a boy named Jack," Libby said through clenched teeth, "and how I spend my time is not your mother's concern." She grabbed the little penknife she used to sharpen her pencils and flicked tiny shavings onto the floor.

Alice-Marie's chin began to quiver. "Why are you being so mean?"

Libby closed her eyes and stilled her hands. It wasn't her roommate's fault that Maelle and Petey had both rejected her. Drawing in a deep breath, she tipped her face to meet Alice-Marie's gaze. "I'm sorry. I'm just very overwhelmed right now, trying to finish this . . . a.s.signment. Would you please let me be? When I'm finished, I'll get up and do something fun." She resumed sharpening the pencil.

"You promise?"

Libby resisted rolling her eyes. "I promise."

Alice-Marie immediately brightened. "Oh, I hoped you'd say that. Because I'd like you to come home with me this weekend. Mother is having several of her society ladies over, and it would be ever so much fun to join them."

Spending a weekend with Alice-Marie's mother and her society friends sounded like as much fun as a toothache. She dropped the penknife into her desk drawer and fiddled with the drawer handle. "I don't know, Alice-Marie . . ."

"Please come. Mother's hosting a lady author from the East, and the lady will be sharing her experiences in publishing with Mother's group." Alice-Marie affected a little pout. "I felt certain you'd be interested in hearing her, since you're in the journalism program."

Libby's heart skipped a beat. She slammed the desk drawer shut and spun to face Alice-Marie. "I would find that very interesting."

"Then you'll come?"

Libby nodded. "Yes. I'd love to. Thank you for inviting me."

"It's my pleasure. Now . . ." Alice-Marie backed toward the door. "I'll let you finish your work in peace. Meet me for dinner?"

Although Libby preferred to eat alone so she could finish quickly and return to her writing, she gave a quick nod. "Yes. At six." She nibbled the end of the pencil as she contemplated the unique opportunity Alice-Marie had just offered. To be able to talk to a real published writer! Might this woman be willing to look at some of Libby's writings and advise her?

She'd already sent off her other stories, but she had this one. Although she'd intended to mail it out the moment she finished it, she changed her mind. She would take this story along to Alice-Marie's house. And, somehow, she would find a way to steal a few minutes of time with the visiting lady author.

[image]

Pete dropped his pencil and leaned back, releasing a sigh. He kneaded the back of his neck with one hand. The muscles were as tight as knots in wet rope, but that shouldn't have surprised him, considering how long he'd been sitting at his desk.

He looked down at the neat stack of letters ready to be mailed. Although he'd never written a letter to an editor of a newspaper before, he had no apprehension about doing so now. His strategy to bring an end to the morally degenerative practice of publishing and reading t.i.tillating stories was ready for dispatch, and these letters to each of the area editors was one part of his intensive battle plan.

Pastor Hines had acquired the addresses of each newspaper within a hundred-mile radius for Pete. He dutifully picked up his pencil again to address more envelopes. His pulse sped as he thought about his letter appearing in the newspapers. People would read his opinion. Maybe their opinions would change as a result of reading his carefully worded letter, which his instructor had wholeheartedly approved. Pete's chest had expanded when Pastor Hines praised his use of Scripture-"Excellent, Mr. Leidig. It is always best to quote G.o.d's words rather than depending your own; His carry the power."

Pete had drawn from the book of Acts, in which Luke had admonished followers to abstain from things polluted by s.e.xual immorality. His face had grown hot while he penned the words, but he hadn't sugarcoated his view of the damage that could be caused by reading inappropriate material.

He finished addressing the last of the envelopes, slid one of the neatly written letters inside each, and then glued the flaps shut. He glanced at his watch. He had time to purchase stamps and get the letters in the post box before dinner. By Monday, his letters would be on editors' desks.

After donning his jacket, he left Landry Hall and headed for the main building, where the campus post office was located. A cool breeze, scented of rain, slapped his face. He slipped the letters into his jacket pocket as he headed down the sidewalk past the women's hall, and his heart skipped a beat when he spotted Libby charging out the dormitory doors. Since they'd returned from Matt's wedding, their paths had crossed numerous times, but they hadn't spoken a word to each other. Pete sensed Libby was embarra.s.sed by her admission after the wedding and was deliberately keeping her distance.

He'd prayed repeatedly for a way to put her at ease again so they could maintain the comfortable friendship of their childhoods. His fingers curled over the letters in his pocket. Libby was a writer. Perhaps his efforts to have his letters printed in the paper would give them a reason to talk a bit. He waved the envelopes over his head and called, "Libby!"

She paused in her pell-mell dash across the gra.s.s and turned to face him. The tip of her tongue sneaked out to lick her lips, and she watched him unsmilingly as he closed the gap between them. "Yes?"

She sounded so formal. So unlike the Libby he'd always known. His chest ached. He and Libby were changing. Growing up. But did growing up have to mean growing apart? "I . . . I just wanted to say h.e.l.lo. Are you going to dinner now?"

She nodded. "Alice-Marie is waiting."

He caught the implication, but he chose to ignore it. "I'll be going to the dining hall in a few minutes, too. After I mail my letters to the editors of the area newspapers." He waited for an answering spark of interest in her eyes. He wasn't disappointed.

"You're writing to the editors?" Her gaze dropped to the envelopes in his hand. "About what?"

Encouraged by her interest, he took another forward step. "I have a special a.s.signment from one of my professors." He briefly explained the project. "I've chosen magazine stories that present an improper view of the relationship between men and women. I hope to prevent young women, such as yourself, from being unduly influenced by the morally obstructive stories being printed in-"

"Why?"

He jolted at her angry, defensive query. "Why . . . what?"

"Why did you choose magazine stories?" Libby folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.

Pete hesitated. She reminded him of a cornered alley cat. "Because . . . because I believe it's something that needs to change. The Bible is very clear in instructing us to think about things that are pure, n.o.ble, and right. How can stories intended to-" he swallowed, his face heating-"physically arouse be considered pure?"

Libby laughed, but it sounded brittle. "What difference does it make to you if people want to entertain themselves by reading a story in a magazine? The last I knew, our country still includes freedom of the press in the Bill of Rights. Why should you decide what kind of reading material is appropriate for me, or for her, or for him?" She pointed at other students who pa.s.sed by.

Pete fidgeted as her voice rose with fervor and people glanced inquisitively in their direction. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted to tell you-"

"I'm not upset!" Her flushed face and high pitch belied the statement.

He chuckled softly. "I must have been mistaken about you yelling at me. Excuse my confusion."

For the first time he could remember, his gentle teasing did nothing to appease her. She continued to glare at him, her lips set in an angry line. He tried for a low, reasonable tone. "Libby, I believe, as a minister of the gospel, my responsibility is to prevent people from making mistakes that could impact their spiritual lives. That's why I want people to consider how reading overly descriptive stories could lead to immoral thoughts. Do you understand?"

He held his breath, waiting and hoping her expression would soften. That she would smile and agree that he should continue this fight. He needed support and encouragement from this young woman he considered his best friend.

But Libby tossed her head, making her hair flow in a wild wave. "I don't understand, Petey. If you don't want to read pa.s.sionate stories, then fine-that's your choice. But trying to encourage others to avoid them is hurtful to those who write the stories, and I-" She bit down on her lower lip. "I need to go. Alice-Marie is waiting." She turned and ran across the gra.s.s.

Pete watched her go, confused and heartsore. He'd intended to patch things up between Libby and himself, but somehow he'd made things worse. Her refusal to understand his point of view reminded him of Bennett's refusal to listen to anything that smacked of spirituality. If he couldn't convince his two best friends of what was right according to the Word of G.o.d, how could he expect to successfully minister to a congregation?

His head low, he continued his progress toward the post boxes. The chill wind reached beneath his jacket, and he shivered. His traitorous leg, always sensitive to the cold, set up a fierce ache. He tapped his peg against the floor while he purchased two-cent stamps, affixed them to the envelopes, and dropped the envelopes in the mailing tray. He started to turn toward the dining hall, but then he paused. He hadn't retrieved his mail for a couple of days. He should check his box while he was there.

To his delight, two letters awaited him, one from Aaron and Isabelle, and one from Jackson Harders. Pete frowned, puzzled. Jackson had never written to him before. Then a sizzle shot through Pete's chest, as if a falling star had zinged from the sky and struck him. Could it be . . . ?

His hands shaking, he pocketed the letter from Aaron and Isabelle and ripped open the envelope from Jackson. He pulled out a single sheet of paper and unfolded it. The brief message made Pete's temples pound. Jackson had located Gunter and Berta Leidig.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Libby held the fine china saucer on her palm, lifted the teacup to her lips, and sipped daintily. Although she'd balked against Mrs. Rowley's etiquette lessons at the orphans' school, she now appreciated the woman's insistence that she learn proper manners. She knew how to conduct herself appropriately in Alice-Marie's family parlor. And after meeting Alice-Marie's mother, she was certain she'd have been put in the kitchen with the servants if she'd proven incapable of following the dictates of polite society.

Throughout the ostentatiously decorated parlor, women, all topped by oversized feathered, flowered, and beribboned millinery, perched straight-spined on the edges of chairs. They sipped tea, pinky fingers high, and engaged in quiet conversation. Alice-Marie had been put to work refilling cups from a silver footed teapot, so Libby sat alone in the corner, waiting for the author to speak. On her right, two women discussed the memorial fountain being erected at the United States Barge Office in New York. She listened, trying not to giggle, as the conversation became heated.

"I simply think the money could have been put to better use. Perhaps as educational funds for the children of the operators," the one with an ostrich-plumed hat said. The feather bobbed, nearly dipping into the woman's teacup.

"I'm sure the owners of the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic are providing for any survivors of those lost at sea," the second responded, her lips pursed so tightly Libby was amazed any sound managed to squeeze out. "But this fountain's funding was provided by wireless operators to recognize one of their own. I see it as quite a complimentary gesture." are providing for any survivors of those lost at sea," the second responded, her lips pursed so tightly Libby was amazed any sound managed to squeeze out. "But this fountain's funding was provided by wireless operators to recognize one of their own. I see it as quite a complimentary gesture."

"A gesture gesture? Gracious, Myrtle, they're erecting a twelve-ton white granite fountain!" The ostrich plume quivered indignantly as the woman tsk-tsked. "Isn't that a bit . . . well, excessive?"

"I hardly see that it's your concern. Did you contribute to the funding?" The second woman's tone became severe, and the ostrich-plumed woman squirmed. "I personally think it's lovely that a memorial is being established. The loss of the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic was such a tragedy." Suddenly she leaned forward and pinned Libby with a penetrating look. "What do you think, young woman? I'm certain you heard every word of our exchange." was such a tragedy." Suddenly she leaned forward and pinned Libby with a penetrating look. "What do you think, young woman? I'm certain you heard every word of our exchange."

Heat flooded Libby's face. Had she been so obvious in her eavesdropping? "I . . . um . . ."

The woman with the ostrich-feather hat put her glove-covered hand on Libby's knee. "Oh, ignore Myrtle. She's a rabble-rouser. Always has been." She bobbed her head up and down, tickling Libby's cheek with the tips of the feather.

The purse-lipped woman leaned in, her eyes sparking. "And just ignore Stella. Everyone knows her entire family pinches a penny until Lincoln howls. Besides that, she'd argue with a table leg."

Libby decided she preferred to ignore both of them. "Excuse me, please." She rose and weaved her way through the room, searching for another empty seat. The only open chair sat beside a tall, thin woman with a very long, thin nose. Her features might have appeared less austere had she not parted her hair down the center and combed it smooth over her ears to the nape of her neck, where a tightly twisted bun stuck out like a doork.n.o.b. The austerity ended at her neck, however, where the high ruffled collar of her suit touched the underside of her pointy chin.

Libby couldn't help staring at the woman's suit; she'd never seen so many ruffles. Layers of ruffles marched from the woman's chin past her narrow shoulders to her hips. The suit gave way to an expanse of smooth fabric that fit closely to her thighs and then exploded in a second abundance of wider ruffles from knee to ankle. If the ruffles weren't enough to call attention, the color- bold turquoise-seemed to pulsate. A peac.o.c.k would have been less noticeable.

Even though Libby wanted to sit rather than stand in the midst of the group, she hesitated at joining the flamboyantly dressed, dour-faced woman. While she stood, contemplating what to do, the woman in the peac.o.c.k suit raised her hand and quirked her fingers at Libby.

Libby placed her hand against her chest, raising her eyebrows in silent query. The woman smiled and nodded, then patted the empty seat beside her. To refuse now would be rude, which would certainly displease her hostess. She crossed the room and sat gingerly on the edge of the embroidered chair seat.

"I don't believe we've met." The woman held out a startlingly slender hand. Libby hardly dared take it, the fingers looked so fragile. "I'm Catherine Whitford. And you are . . . ?"

Libby gasped, jerking her hand free. She nearly tipped her teacup. Carefully, she set the cup and saucer on the closest table and stared into the woman's plain, impa.s.sive face. "You're the author!"

Catherine Whitford laughed, showing small, straight teeth. "Yes, I am. And I must also be a pariah." Her gaze swept the room, and she released a soft, throaty laugh. "You're the first person who's had enough courage to approach me since I arrived and Mrs. Daley placed me in this inconspicuous corner."

Libby gulped. Had she known this woman was the author invited to share her experiences with Mrs. Daley's society friends, she would have waited for Mrs. Daley to introduce her. She searched her memory for the etiquette rules concerning introducing oneself to a celebrity, but she couldn't recall Mrs. Rowley covering the topic. She gulped and scrambled for a way to appear self-a.s.sured. "It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Whitford."

"Miss." The woman raised her chin. "I've never had the pleasure of matrimony, and at my age it's unlikely."

Libby studied the woman's face and tried to determine how old she might be. Silvery strands lay amongst her otherwise brown hair, and fine lines feathered from her eyes; Libby believed Miss Whitford might have been anywhere from forty to sixty. She almost seemed ageless with her Spartan hairstyle and outlandish suit. Uncertain how to respond, Libby offered, "Perhaps you'll still marry one day."

Miss Whitford raised one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "Oh, it hardly matters. I have my career, and I find it very satisfying."

Libby licked her lips and let her excitement surface. "Truly?"

"Truly." Miss Whitford's eyes crinkled at the corners. "But you haven't yet told me your name, young woman."

"Oh!" Libby swiped her palm along her skirt and offered her hand. "I'm Lib-Elisabet Conley. And . . ." Her breath caught in her throat. "I'm a writer, too."

Miss Whitford tipped her head, her gaze penetrating. "What is it you write, Miss Conley?"

"Stories. For magazines. I've sold two so far."