She covered her face with her hands and groaned, “But I didn’t mean Maelle.”
“Libby?” Warm hands curled over her shoulders and tried to turn her around. But Libby couldn’t face Maelle. Not now. She jerked loose and ran from the barn. Just as she careened into the yard, a fiddle’s merry tune filled the air. The dance was beginning.
How she’d looked forward to this weekend at home. To celebrating with Matt and Lorna, to dancing with Petey and Bennett, to spending time with Maelle. All of that happy anticipation now stung like salt in a wound. She’d promised Petey the first dance, but she couldn’t face him.
Maelle and Jackson stepped out of the barn. Maelle called, “Libby?”
Libby held up both hands like a shield. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Leave me alone.” Then she turned and ran.
Bennett slinked behind the crowd, working his way closer to Mr. and Mrs. Rowley. Moments ago, Maelle Harders had taken the couple aside. Judging by the worried looks on their faces, something bad had happened. And Bennett wanted to know what it was. He edged sideways, keeping his back to the three while pretending to tap his foot to the music. But his ears were tuned to their conversation.
“. . . just took off. I haven’t seen her that upset since she was a little girl.” Maelle sounded confused.
“Well, you know Libby . . .” Mrs. Rowley clicked her tongue on her teeth. “I love the girl, but she can be given to theatrical displays.”
Bennett stifled a chuckle. Mrs. Rowley knew Libby pretty well.
“I think this is more than a childish tantrum” came Maelle’s insistent voice. “You didn’t see her. Aaron, I’m going to take a lantern from the barn and go—”
“Let her be, Maelle.” Mr. Rowley sounded kind but firm.
“I can’t just—”
Mr. Rowley spoke over Maelle’s protest. “This is your brother’s wedding party. You need to be here, celebrating with Matt and Lorna, not chasing after Libby. When she calms down, she’ll return. In the meantime, why don’t you . . .”
Bennett had heard enough. Apparently Pete’s conversation with Libby had rattled her good. He worked his way to the opposite side of the dance circle, seeking Pete’s head of thick blond hair. If Pete was in the crowd, he probably didn’t know Libby was miffed enough to take off. After a few minutes of searching, Bennett located Pete leaning against the hitching rail in front of the dormitory. Which meant Libby was out there, somewhere, alone.
Bennett scratched his head, weighing his options. He could do what Mr. Rowley had advised Maelle—just let her be. Or he could tell Pete. Pete would have a good idea of where Libby would hole up, and Bennett knew Pete’d go after her no matter what the Rowleys thought. And the Rowleys would think it was fine, just ’cause he’s Pete.
No, he wouldn’t tell Pete. And he wouldn’t leave Libby out there upset and alone, either. He’d go find her himself. He had a good idea of where to look. When they were kids and Libby got her nose out of joint, she always went down to the creek and climbed a tree. Although he couldn’t imagine her climbing a tree in her best dress, she could be at the creek. He’d start there.
Hands in his pockets, he assumed a nonchalant air and sauntered past the crowd surrounding the dancers and headed behind the barn. Once out of sight, he took off at a trot. Bonfires and lanterns lit the area where the wedding party continued, hiding the fact that dusk had fallen. Evening shadows masked the landscape, and Bennett tripped over a small mound of dirt and almost fell. Why hadn’t he thought to grab a lantern? If Libby wasn’t at the creek, he’d be out of luck. Before long, it’d be too dark to look anywhere else.
He slowed his steps but continued across the gray countryside, his ears tuned to pick up the thrashing of critters in the brush. He heard the creek before he saw it, the trickling water taking him back to boyhood fishing trips with Pete and Aaron Rowley or Matt. Good memories . . .
He crested the rise leading to the creek and scanned the bank. And there she sat, curled up with her arms around her knees, facing the water. He made sure he set his feet down hard enough to be heard as he closed the distance between them. After his third step, she dropped her hands to the ground and whirled to face him. Her face looked pale in the meager light. “Who’s there?”
“Me—Bennett.” Bennett took two more wide strides and plopped down beside her. “Glad you’re here. I didn’t cotton to keep searching, as dark as it’s gotten. Sun sure dropped fast tonight.”
She hugged her knees again, staring forward. “Why’d you come anyway?”
Shrugging, he plucked a piece of dry grass and twirled it. “Dunno,” he lied. He did know. He did it because he knew Mrs. Rowley would disapprove. “But if you want me to go, I’ll . . .” He made as if to rise.
“You can stay.” She sounded more irritated than welcoming. “Just don’t talk. I’ve heard more than enough talk this evening.”
Bennett broke the piece of grass 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 passion. 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 title, 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 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 assignments, 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 . . . assignment. 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.
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 titillating 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 God’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 sexual 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 embarrassed 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 grass 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 hello. 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 int
erest, he took another forward step. “I have a special assignment 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, noble, 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 passed 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?”
Kim Sawyer Page 14
