Libby wrinkled her nose. That wouldn't give her much time in town. "I'll try, but no promises." She lifted her hand in a wave. "See you later! Wish me luck!" She whirled and took off running for the walkway that led to the street.

"Luck? Luck for what?"

Bennett's voice followed her, but she ignored him and continued on her pell-mell dash. Before coming to Chambers, she'd written to the town's a.s.sociation of Commerce and requested the names and addresses of every newspaper in town. She intended to inquire at all three for a position.

Certainly with everything heating up across the ocean, there would be a need for journalists to record the events as they unfolded. Libby had heard Aaron Rowley and Jackson Harders praise President Wilson's calm demeanor in light of Germany's aggression-the men seemed certain the president would work to keep America out of the conflict. Thankfully, Petey and Bennett were enrolled in college and were therefore safe from fighting in a war. But if she had her way, she'd be in the thick of it, pad of paper and pencil in hand, reporting every detail of the skirmish. To do that, she had to have a job with a newspaper.

She stopped first at the Chambers Courier Chambers Courier. To her delight, she was ushered in to the editor's office, but her elation quickly dimmed when the man openly laughed at her desire to write news stories.

"You're too cute, honey," the man said, giving a brazen wink. "Better suited for a drugstore clerk. Why don't you check next door-they might be hiring."

Libby marched right past the drugstore and made her way to the second paper on her list, the Weekly Dispatch Weekly Dispatch. The editor took the time to glance at a few of her writing samples before telling her he didn't need any other reporters-but was she any good at mopping? He could use a reliable cleaning woman.

Libby reined in her frustration and replied in an even voice. "Sir, I have no desire to clean for your newspaper. I wish to write."

"Sorry." He pushed her stack of sample stories across the desk. "I don't think I'll ever hire a female to do reporting. As a whole, females are too moody."

Libby almost proved him right by flying into a temper, but she bit down on the end of her tongue. She gathered her stories, tucked them neatly into her satchel, and charged outside before the angry thoughts filling her head found their way out of her mouth.

On the sidewalk, she looked at the final name on the list and muttered, "My last hope . . ." Sucking in a breath of fortification, she turned on her heel and headed for the red brick building on the corner of Second and Ash. When she reached the gla.s.s doors, she raised her chin and marched in, her satchel held in the crook of her arm. She moved directly to the receptionist's desk and spoke with as much confidence as she could muster. "I'd like a few minutes with the editor-in-chief, please."

The woman peered at her from behind thick round spectacles. "Do you have an appointment with Mr. Houghton?"

Libby didn't bat an eye. "No, ma'am, but I promise not to take a great deal of his time. Would you please tell him Miss Elisabet Conley from the University of Southern Missouri is here to see him?"

The eyes behind the spectacles narrowed. "You aren't here to sell him an ad for the yearbook, are you? He already purchased all his ads for this year."

"Oh no, ma'am." Libby released a soft laugh, giving the woman a smile. "I a.s.sure you, I'm not here to sell him anything." Except myself . . . Except myself . . .

"Well . . ." The woman tapped her pencil against a pad of paper on her desk, scowling. "I suppose it won't hurt to ask. You stay here." She screeched her chair legs against the wooden floor, unfolded herself from the seat, and waddled around a corner. Libby waited, battling the urge to tap her toe in impatience. Moments later, the woman returned, followed by a tall, gray-haired man with his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows. Black ink stained the tips of the fingers on his left hand.

"Miss Conley, I'm Fenton Houghton. How may I help you?"

Libby flashed her brightest smile. "Actually, sir, I'm here to help you. Could we possibly retire to your office for a few minutes?"

His lips quirked briefly. "As long as it is just a few minutes."

Although he maintained a friendly expression, Libby caught the subtle warning in his words. She tipped her head. "Five at most?"

"That I can spare." He gestured toward the hallway, and Libby clipped behind him. The clack of typewriter keys rang over the mumble of voices, making Libby's pulse race in curiosity. What stories were being created by the fingers tapping those keys right now? She breathed in the enticing scents of ink and paper, the combination more heady than perfume. This is where I belong! This is where I belong!

Mr. Houghton ushered her in to a large cluttered office and pointed to a ladder-back chair. "Have a seat." He sank into the leather chair behind the desk and leaned back, linking his hands over his stomach. "Don't tell me-you want to be a reporter."

Libby's jaw dropped. "How did you know?"

He waved his hand as if shooing a fly. "I get at least a dozen prospective reporters a year through here. Most of them are . . ." He cleared his throat. "Of the male persuasion, however."

Of course. "Well, I have no intention of letting my gender interfere with my becoming a top-notch reporter." Libby flopped her satchel open and withdrew a few neatly written pages. "As you can see from my work, I-"

Again, Mr. Houghton put a hand in the air. "Hold it right there, young lady." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk. "How old are you?"

Too stunned to do otherwise, Libby answered automatically.

"Eighteen, sir."

"Have any training?"

"No, but I am enrolled in the university."

"First-year student?"

"Yes."

"In the journalism program?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mm-hmm." He stroked his upper lip with his finger. "Enrolling more females all the time . . ." He lowered his hand and gazed seriously across the desk. "Miss Conley, let me give you some advice. I can see you're a determined young woman. I even admire your desire to become-as you put it-a top-notch reporter. But it takes more than drive and determination. It takes experience. And that's something you don't have."

Libby, remembering the morning's many rejections, blew out an aggravated breath. This man couldn't reject her, too! "And how am I to get experience if no one gives me a chance?"

Mr. Houghton laughed. "Miss Conley, you'll have your chance at the university. The journalism program publishes two newspapers right there on campus. You'll be involved in the production of those publications. There's your opportunity to build experience."

But Libby didn't want her name in a college newspaper; she aspired to greater things. She scooted to the edge of the seat and rested her fingertips on the editor's desk. "But what if I want something more? Won't you just look at my writings? My teacher from Shay's Ford a.s.sured me I had a gift."

"Writers with a gift are a dime a dozen," the man said with a wave of his hand. "What counts is can-you-do-the-job." He punched out each word with as much force as a boxer. He pointed at her. "And that a.s.surance comes from building a resume of writings with an established, recognized publication, such as the newspapers on campus." He started to rise. "So-"

Libby grabbed the seat of the chair with both hands, holding herself in place. "Mr. Houghton?"

He paused, his lips twitching. "Yes, Miss Conley?"

"I would very much like to build a resume, but not with a college newspaper. I prefer a more well-read publication. If you aren't willing to hire me as a part of your staff, do you have any recommendations?"

The man plopped back into his chair. He rocked for a few seconds, scowling across the desk at Libby. Then he sighed. "Try magazines. From the looks of you, I would imagine you have the makings of a fine romance novelist. Maybe you could write some serials-build a resume that way."

Romance novels? Libby wanted to do serious reporting! Stung by his cavalier att.i.tude toward her dream, Libby ducked her head. "I . . . I see."

"Best I can do for you, I'm afraid." His chair squeaked as he pushed to his feet. "But in a couple of years, when you've built that resume, come back and see me again."

Slowly, Libby raised her head to meet his gaze. "Really?"

"Sure. If I like your samples, and if you've proved you can handle meeting deadlines, I might be willing to give you a chance." He smiled. "The newspaper can always use a good homemaking or gossip column."

Libby nearly leapt out of the chair. She grabbed up her satchel and whirled toward the door. She would most definitely not not return to this office. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to remember the manners Isabelle Rowley had taught her. Turning back, she said stiffly, "I thank you for your time, Mr. Houghton. Have a good day." return to this office. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to remember the manners Isabelle Rowley had taught her. Turning back, she said stiffly, "I thank you for your time, Mr. Houghton. Have a good day."

She fled, not even glancing at the receptionist on her way out. She charged down the sidewalk, her feet clip-clipping in angry little stomps. Homemaking? Gossip column? Romances? Mr. Houghton would never have made those suggestions to a man seeking employment.

How unfair to be seen as less than able just because she wore a dress rather than trousers. Little wonder Maelle had worn trousers for so many years. Perhaps Libby would throw convention aside and purchase a few pairs of britches for herself! She kicked viciously at an empty can lying in the gutter. It clattered and bounced ahead several feet, coming to rest next to a small, dingy, flat disk. Curious, Libby bent over and pinched the disk between her thumb and finger. Her heart leapt in delight. A nickel! She looked around at the other people traveling the sidewalk; no one seemed to be seeking a lost coin.

The unexpected windfall lifted her spirits. She could use this nickel a dozen different ways. The drugstore waited just ahead. With a little skip, she darted forward and entered the store. A long, high counter ran along the right-hand side of the store, but all of the black iron stools were filled with customers enjoying a soda or a sandwich.

Libby's mouth watered as the smell of grilled onions reached her nose, bringing a memory to the surface. Her parents had taken her to St. Louis to the World's Fair two years before their death. They'd eaten a delicious sandwich-a hamburger, they'd called it-of cooked beef on toast with pickles and grilled onions. After her sad breakfast and unsuccessful job search, she deserved a special treat. Might she be able to buy a hamburger with her nickel?

She inched forward, peeking between shoulders to read the sandwich list and prices listed on a cardboard placard behind the counter. To her disappointment, the only offerings listed were egg salad on white, ham and cheese on rye, or a frankfurter on a roll. Fingering the nickel, she looked for something else. A milk shake, a bowl of ice cream, a large dill pickle . . . After having her taste buds set for a hamburger, nothing else appealed. With a sigh, she turned toward the doors to leave, but a display in the corner caught her attention.

Magazines.

Mr. Houghton had suggested she build a resume by writing magazine stories. Although the thought of writing romance serials didn't appeal to her, maybe the magazine editor would allow her to write articles instead. She inched her way to the display of magazines and pulled a volume of Carter's Home Journal Carter's Home Journal from the shelf. She flipped through it. No articles of a serious nature-mostly recipes and gardening or homemaking tips. She put it back. from the shelf. She flipped through it. No articles of a serious nature-mostly recipes and gardening or homemaking tips. She put it back.

Looking down the line of options, her gaze settled on a copy of Modern Woman's World Modern Woman's World. A sarcastic thought filled her mind: Maybe the magazine would show her how to fit in as a woman in this world. She removed the magazine from its spot and let it flop open in her hand. A brazen headline-"A Kiss at Midnight"-leapt off the page and made her stomach flutter in an unfamiliar way. After flicking a glance over her shoulder, she began reading.

The opening paragraphs left no question in Libby's mind that this was one of the romance stories Mr. Houghton had referenced. By the end of the first column, she knew she could write something just as good. Or even better. Mrs. Rowley had often chided Libby for her overactive imagination, encouraging her to stay in the present rather than escaping to make-believe worlds in her head. But for the first time, Libby wondered if her imagination might be able to work for her instead of against her.

Mr. Houghton indicated she needed to build a writing resume. Without question, she would be able to concoct stories such as this one. If a magazine purchased her stories, she could build a resume quickly, proving her ability to meet deadlines, and then she could turn to more serious writing.

She flipped the magazine closed. The price stared up her, and she nearly laughed out loud. Five cents Five cents. Surely it was providential that she'd found the nickel immediately after her meeting with the newspaper editor. Magazine in hand, she hurried to the counter and held up her nickel.

The soda jerk bustled over and pocketed her nickel. He tipped his funny little paper hat and grinned. "Happy reading."

Libby grinned back. "You mean, happy writing!"

CHAPTER SIX.

Bennett glanced at his pocket watch-a special gift from the staff at the orphans' home-and let out a little growl of aggravation. Five after twelve and still no Libby. He grabbed up his plate, sauntered to the serving line, and filled the white ceramic plate for the third time. Would he ever feel as if he got enough food? Those early days of hunger, although long past, still haunted him. He plopped two slices of bread on the plate and pocketed two more for later, then chose a seat facing the doors so he could watch for Libby.

He sprinkled salt and pepper over the meatloaf, boiled potatoes, and corn before stabbing the meat with his fork. Conversations buzzed around him, and he listened, always aware of his surroundings.

"Yes, well, I still say America can't stay out of it," a male voice barked from behind Bennett, "and it's a fool who thinks otherwise. Too much commerce goes on between the different countries. If there's money at stake, we can't ignore what's happening over there."

The reply was buried under raucous laughter blasting from Bennett's left. He scowled in the direction of the merrymakers, but he didn't need to hear the answer. He agreed with whomever made the comment. Things had been cooking overseas for months, with Germany declaring war on nearly every European country. Bennett released a soft snort. Maybe the U.S. ought to declare war on Germany and see how they liked having the tables turned. His aggressive spirit rose to the fore with the thought. The minute the U.S. was ready, he'd be ready. Wasn't he always up for a good brawl?

A flurry of activity at the dining hall doors captured his attention, and his fork paused between his plate and his mouth. But when he didn't see Libby in the cl.u.s.ter of students entering the room, he jabbed the bite into his mouth and chewed with a vengeance. Where was she?

Two young men stopped across the table from Bennett and pointed at the empty chairs. "Taken?"

Bennett considered telling them to go away-they'd block his view of the door and he might miss seeing Libby. But what difference would it make? Obviously she wasn't coming. He shrugged. "Have a seat." They slid out the chairs, metal legs screeching in unison against the floor, and they sat.

One of them bowed his head to pray, reminding Bennett that he hadn't offered thanks for his meal before eating. Guilt whispered at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away. So what if they'd always prayed before eating at the orphans' home? As much as he'd appreciated the good meals and the warm bed, he'd never taken to all of the rules. Now that he was on his own again, he could do as he pleased. And he preferred to leave the praying to Pete.

As soon as the man raised his head, he said, "I'm Jim." He pointed at his buddy. "This's Ted."

"Bennett Martin." Bennett forked up another monstrous bite and pointed at the jackets the pair wore. "You two in one of those fraternity groups?"

Jim grinned. "That's right. Delta Tau Delta. You planning to pledge? Ours is a good one."

Bennett mopped at the grease on his plate with a folded slice of bread. "Probably. But not sure which one. Gotta do some thinking on it."

"Don't think too long," Ted advised. "The fraternities only accept so many pledges. If you put it off, you might miss getting the one you really want."

Bennett shrugged again even though the idea of being in one of the groups appealed to him. He'd been alone until Aaron Rowley convinced him to leave the streets and live at the orphans' school. There, he'd formed a friendship with Pete and Libby, but even with them, he sometimes felt as if he didn't quite fit. What would it be like to join a fraternity and really belong?

The two fraternity members put their heads together and talked quietly while Bennett continued to eat. He gulped the last bite, patted his stomach, and rose. "Well, fellas, I'm done, so-"

The pair leapt up. "Hold on there."

Bennett curled his hands around his tray. "Why?"

A sly grin crept up Ted's cheek. "Wondered if you'd made up your mind yet about pledging. You gonna consider Delta Tau Delta?"

"Maybe." Out of the corner of his eye, Bennett observed Jim inching around the table.

"Well, since you're thinking about it, we need to find out a few things." Ted folded his arms over his chest. "We like singers in our fraternity. Can you sing, Martin?"

Chairs squeaked as people turned to watch. The noisy banter of moments ago hushed as whispers and m.u.f.fled laughter rolled across the dining hall. The hair on the back of Bennett's neck p.r.i.c.kled. He hadn't minded being the center of attention on the lawn because he'd been playing offense. But he didn't care for defense. "I'm not much of a singer. So I probably wouldn't be a good fit for the Delta Tau Delta."

"Let us decide that." Jim took the tray from Bennett's hands. "Climb on the table there and give us a little concert." He swung around, grinning at the others in the room. "How 'bout some encouragement? Martin here's gonna sing for us."

A cheer rose. Bennett stood stiff-legged, his hands clenched into fists. He had two choices: let them control him or take control. His cheeks twitched as he fought a grin. Had anyone ever forced him to do anything he didn't want to do? He leapt onto the table. It wobbled, and he made a show of catching his balance, earning a round of laughter. Then, his balance restored, he held his arms wide.

"All right, I'll sing a song. But first, is there a Caroline in the dining hall?"

High-pitched giggles erupted from a corner table. Two girls pointed to a third girl-timid-looking with straggly wisps of brown hair hanging around her thin face. She covered her cheeks with both hands. Bennett grinned and crooked his finger at the girl. "C'mon over, honey. Can't sing this song without you."

The girl's dining mates pulled her from her chair. Pink-faced, she resisted, digging in her heels and shaking her head wildly. But the other two propelled her across the floor to the edge of Bennett's table.

He crouched down and gave her his most disarming grin. "So you're Caroline, huh?"

"Y-yes." The girl strained against her friends' hold, her brown eyes wide.

Bennett nearly rolled his eyes. Silly girl-she wasn't being dragged to the gallows. He placed his hand on her skinny shoulder. "I'm not out to hurt you. I just need a pretty Caroline to serenade. Will you help me?"

Truthfully, Bennett had seen prettier girls than this one. But his words had the desired effect. Her pink cheeks deepened to a blazing red, and she stopped trying to escape. She offered a timorous nod. Her friends fell back, and Bennett gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. "That's a good sport." He winked. "Now just stand right there and keep smilin' at me, honey-that'll give me the encouragement I need to get these fellas off my back."

He stretched to his feet. With his eyes pinned to Caroline's face, he belted out the words to "Can't You Hear Me Callin', Caroline?" Bennett had been told he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but he didn't let it stop him. He sang at full lung. While he sang, he gestured broadly, occasionally going down on one knee to brush Caroline's cheek with his knuckles or smooth his hand over her frizzy brown hair. The red in her cheeks spread until her face was mottled with color from neck to hairline, yet she stayed pressed to the edge of the table, her face upturned.

He couldn't remember all the words-he'd only heard the song a few times on the radio-but he subst.i.tuted with la-la-la la-la-la where needed. Laughter and cheers rang throughout the entire performance, and by the time he finished, Caroline was gazing at him in rapture, completely besotted. where needed. Laughter and cheers rang throughout the entire performance, and by the time he finished, Caroline was gazing at him in rapture, completely besotted.

When the song reached the last line, he jumped to the floor, cupped Caroline's cheeks with both hands, and held the final syllable on "Caroline . . ." until he ran out of breath. He faked a cough, winning more laughter and a spatter of applause. Then he lifted Caroline's bony hand and pressed a kiss to its back. Finally, he bowed to the cheering audience. Jim and Ted pounded him on the back as wild clapping and foot stomping made his ears ring. Bennett stepped away from the two men and slipped his arm around Caroline's waist.

"C'mon, honey, let's get you back to your lunch."

Caroline hunched her shoulders, holding her clasped hands to her heart. "Yes. Please."