In Every Heartbeat

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

As soon as her classes ended Monday afternoon, Libby walked to the office of the Boone County Daily Tribune to find out whether the editor had read her article. If he didn’t plan to print it, she’d take it to the next editor, and then the next, until she found someone who would make Oscar’s situation known to the public. She also intended to suggest changing the names to protect Petey’s reputation. Surely the editor would be willing to acquiesce to her request when he understood Petey’s position as a ministry student.

  The receptionist sent her straight to Mr. Houghton’s office when she arrived, and Libby’s heart pattered hopefully as she slipped into the chair facing the man’s messy desk.

  “Miss Conley . . .” He snatched up her pages from a stack at his right elbow and tamped them together. “I’ve read your article. Four times.” He peered at her over the top of the papers. His words indicated interest, but he sounded disgruntled.

  “Oh?” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Yes. I never need to read anything more than once to form an opinion, so congratulate yourself. You’ve managed to stump me.”

  She scratched her head. “You mean my writing has confused you?” Had she not been clear in presenting the facts? She reached for her pages, but he held them out of her grasp.

  “Not so fast. I want to know what compelled you to make up this tale.”

  Libby’s jaw dropped. “I did no such thing!”

  He waved the pages, his lips forming a cynical smirk. “This isn’t the fanciful imaginings of a girl who aspires to be a world-renowned reporter?”

  Her face flaming, Libby recalled the conversation she’d had with this man shortly after arriving in Chambers. She’d obviously made an impression.

  “Because this is the kind of story that can cause an uproar. If printed on the front page, with a big bold headline reading something such as Wrongly Convicted Youth Faces Gallows, it would incite public outrage and no doubt inspire some politician to begin saying he wishes to change the laws about capital punishment.”

  Libby stared at him in amazement. Her writing held that much power?

  Mr. Houghton tossed the pages onto his desk. “So it’s too bad it’s all a bunch of fatuity.”

  Libby came out of her seat. “Every word of that article is true!” She smacked her palms on his desktop, scattering papers. “Right now, in the jail in Clayton, sixteen-year-old Oscar Leidig is counting down the days until he’ll be hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. He told me himself he’s innocent. But no one is investigating it because the businessmen in town wanted revenge enacted quickly. So this young man must pay the ultimate price for someone else’s crime!”

  Mr. Houghton stood and began scooping up the pages that had gone flying with Libby’s outburst. “I’m well aware that sixteen-year-old Oscar Leidig has been sentenced to hang. Do you think I don’t have access to a telephone?” He pushed aside the haphazard stack of collected papers and glared at Libby. “One call is all I needed to confirm you chose a real boy and a real situation to build upon. Clever . . .” He tapped his temple with one finger. “I’ll give you that—you’re clever. Had me thinking hard enough to check up on you. But the boy was found guilty by a jury in a courtroom. Your claim that he’s innocent is unfounded. And that’s the part that would incite a riot. Which is why this article won’t see publication.”

  Libby rustled through the stack and withdrew her article. “We’ll just see about that, Mr. Houghton. There are two other newspapers in this town, and countless others in the state, so—”

  “And every last one of them has been warned about you and your article.” The man settled back into his chair. “You want to be a reporter, young lady? Finish school. Pay your dues. Then stick to the facts. Don’t create drama where none exists. We have a word for that: sensationalism. And no journalist worth his salt resorts to it.” Rocking in his chair, he added, “You wanna make things up, go write fairy tales. After seeing that”—he jammed his finger at the article she clutched in both hands—“I’d say you’d be good at it.”

  Libby stared at him in silent fury, biting on the end of her tongue so hard she was surprised she hadn’t drawn blood.

  “Don’t waste any more of my time.” He waved his hand at her, shooing her away.

  Libby spun and stomped out of the office. As she clomped down the hall, every worker in the place paused to stare after her. She held her head high and refused to give any of them so much as a glance. She burst out onto the sidewalk, blinking rapidly to hold back tears of indignant fury.

  Her feet never slowed the entire way back to campus. By the time she reached her dormitory, her chest felt so tight she feared she might explode. Intending to run upstairs and hide under the covers until she regained control, she almost ignored Alice-Marie’s cheerful call. But she decided rather than hide, she’d tell Alice-Marie about Mr. Houghton’s ridiculous assertions. She needed someone to empathize with her.

  Alice-Marie’s smile dimmed when she caught up to Libby and got a look at her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what I just went through!” She opened her mouth to spout the aggravation of the past half hour, but Alice-Marie tittered.

  “Oh dear, you are quite in a dither. And of course I want to hear all about it, but I told Bennett I would meet him in the library to do our assignments together before dinner.” She hunched her shoulders and giggled again. “Of course, you know I can’t keep Bennett waiting. . . . But I collected the mail from our box. Would you like yours?”

  Libby held out her hand, and Alice-Marie dropped two envelopes onto her palm. The top letter was from Maelle. Another wave of hurt rolled over Libby. What would she give right now to be able to share all of this frustration with her long-time mentor? Maelle would know all the right things to say to ease away Libby’s ache and confusion. But Maelle was busy mothering Hannah and Hester.

  With a vicious swipe, Libby flipped Maelle’s letter to the back. The return address on the second envelope read Fiction Editor, Modern Woman’s World. Had they sent her payment for her most recent romance story? She snorted. “At least fatuity has its benefits.”

  Alice-Marie frowned. “Excuse me?”

  Libby shook her head. “Never mind. Thanks for getting the mail. I’ll talk to you later.” But she knew she wouldn’t share this frustration with Alice-Marie. Did she truly expect to receive empathy from the daughter of a man who believed to his very soul that Oscar was guilty?

  Alice-Marie turned and hurried across the yard toward the library, and Libby slowly trudged up the stairs to their room. Inside, she sat on the edge of her bed and halfheartedly released the flap on the envelope from the magazine. She removed a letter, but no check flitted out. Frowning, she stared into the empty envelope. The last thing she needed today was a rejection for her fairy tales! With a sigh, she braced herself and unfolded the letter.

  Dear Miss Conley,

  It is with great excitement I write concerning your most recent submission to Modern Woman’s World. Although we’ve yet to present your stories to our reading audience, our staff has eagerly read the stirring, passionate tales, and all agree your stories far outshine any other author currently writing for us.

  Pride filled Libby as she read the words of praise. Miss Catherine Whitford had indicated she would discover a sense of satisfaction and receive acclaim by writing works of fiction. Perhaps this letter arriving right after Mr. Houghton dismissed her attempt at writing a serious editorial was prophetic. Maybe writing romance stories was what she was meant to do, after all. She bent over the letter and resumed reading.

  Given the overwhelming response by the avid readers on our staff, I am delighted to offer you a position as romantic serial writer for Modern Woman’s World. We would ask that you sign a contract guaranteeing to sell your stories only to our publication for the period of one year. As you know, Modern Woman’s World is published semi-monthly, and beginning January of 1915, we would expect to print one story in each issue, making you acc
ountable for two stories per month. In exchange for your exclusive commitment to our publication, we would offer you a monthly salary of twelve dollars.

  Libby dropped the letter; her mind spun. Exclusive contract? Two stories a month? A twelve-dollar salary for less than a week’s work? Maybe she could give that money to Petey to help support his siblings. Heaven knew he’d need all the help he could get. As she sat, considering the blessing of this unexpected opportunity, a tap at the door intruded.

  “Come in,” she called absently.

  One of the girls pledging to Kappa Kappa Gamma with Alice-Marie peeked into the room. She held out a newspaper to Libby. “I saw Alice-Marie and Bennett in the library, and they asked me to bring this to you. There’s an editorial they thought you would find of interest. The bottom of page three.”

  Libby took the paper and thanked the girl. Her heart began to pound. Had one of the other newspaper editors chosen to run her article even after Mr. Houghton’s warnings? She opened the paper and scanned the bylines on the page the girl had mentioned. But to her surprise, not her name but Petey’s leapt from the page.

  Petey published? In delightful anticipation, she settled at her desk. But as she read Petey’s strongly worded essay, every vestige of gratification inspired by the magazine editor’s complimentary words was chiseled away from her heart.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Bennett leaned against the rough exterior of the administration building and chewed a piece of dried grass while keeping his prey in his sights. A long shadow shielded him from view, but the object of his attention waited right where he had directed—in full sun on the lawn outside the library.

  Bennett had chosen the spot carefully. Classes dismissed at four o’clock on Wednesday afternoons—an hour earlier than other days. Students always gathered to chat before returning to their rooms or heading to the library to study. There would be enough witnesses to ensure intense and lasting humiliation. Oh yes. The trap was set. And it had all come together with incredible ease.

  Smiling, Bennett observed his target’s carefree actions, evidence of his complete ignorance of the peril about to befall him. Roy Daley punched a buddy’s shoulder then tossed back his head and laughed. He whirled to stick out his foot and trip an underclassman passing by on the sidewalk. The hapless lad went face-first into the dirt, and Roy slapped his knee and laughed uproariously. When the boy tried to rise, Roy gave him a kick in the seat of his pants that sent him scuttling forward several feet. His maniacal laughter reached Bennett from forty feet away.

  Bennett tossed the blade of grass aside, chuckling to himself. Oh, what pleasure he’d take in seeing the great and mighty Roy Daley dethroned. When this day was over, Roy would not only turn his attentions away from Libby, he’d be a much more subdued and humble Roy.

  He checked his pocket watch. Just a few more minutes . . .

  “Hey, Bennett.” The whisper came from Bennett’s left. He shifted to find one of Beta Theta Pi’s most recent pledges peeking out from behind an overgrown evergreen tree. Bennett had been instructed to trim the tree’s bushy lower branches a week ago, but he’d put it off. Now he was glad he’d delayed. The spot made a perfect hiding spot.

  “You ready?” Bennett whispered, keeping his gaze pinned to Roy.

  “We’re all ready.” A muffled guffaw sounded. “We can’t wait.”

  Bennett hadn’t been terribly surprised to learn many of the Beta Theta Pi brothers disliked Roy. They went along with him to avoid being one of his targets, but most were counting down the days until his graduation so they’d be rid of him as fraternity leader. Roy’s pleasure in hazing new recruits had gone well beyond boyish pranks, and at least eight Beta members professed a desire for revenge. Bennett had found it amazingly easy to recruit help when they were assured Roy would never be able to figure out who was involved. As long as they kept silent, they’d be safe.

  He just hoped Libby would forgive him when it was all over.

  Libby sat at her desk, a blank sheet of paper in front of her. For as long as she could remember, she’d been able to lose herself in a fantasy world of her own making, but the ability seemed to have fled. No characters whispered to her imagination. No story flowed from her fingertips. Blowing out a breath of irritation, she threw her pencil aside. It rolled across the smooth wooden desktop and came to rest against the newspaper lying on the corner of her desk.

  Her gaze fell on the newspaper, folded to reveal Petey’s editorial. Pain stabbed. How could she have forgotten Petey’s plan to bring an end to the writing of romance stories? If only she’d remembered, the letter to the editor wouldn’t have taken her so by surprise. Wouldn’t have cut her so deeply . . .

  She covered her face with her hands and groaned. Oh, how she wanted to take pride in the magazine editor’s comments about her writing ability! How many young women her age had been given the opportunity to be an exclusive writer for a major magazine? Signing a contract with Modern Woman’s World could give her exactly what she’d longed for—fame, admiration, and financial independence. But instead of pride, shame filled her. She wished she’d never seen Petey’s article.

  Yanking open her desk drawer, she started to fling the newspaper where she wouldn’t have to look at it, but a tap at the door pulled her attention elsewhere. She crossed to the door and opened it quickly. A mousy-looking girl waited in the hallway. Libby pressed her memory for the girl’s name and finally retrieved it. “Hello, Caroline. Can I help you?”

  “Pardon me for intruding . . .” Caroline offered a shy smile. “But I have a message for you.” She hunched her shoulders and glanced furtively up and down the hallway. “Do you know . . . Roy Daley?”

  Libby bristled. She wished she didn’t know Roy Daley! “Unfortunately, yes.”

  The girl gave a quick nod. “He said you did. Well, I’m to fetch you for him.”

  “Fetch me?” Libby put her hand on her hip and glared at the girl. Could this week possibly get any worse? “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

  Holding up both hands defensively, Caroline shook her head. Fuzzy brown hair bobbed around her thin cheeks. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘Don’t shoot the messenger’? I’m only doing what I’m told.”

  Libby tapped her foot. “You can just march right back to Roy Daley and tell him I am not one to be fetched. Especially not for him.” She started to close the door.

  “Wait!” Caroline sounded frantic.

  Libby paused.

  “If you don’t come, he’ll be all upset with me. And . . . and . . .”

  Libby rolled her eyes. “All right. I won’t put you in the middle of this.” She grabbed her coat from the hook beside the door and pulled it on as she followed Caroline down the stairs and out into the yard.

  “Roy will be outside the library. He said he’d be waiting.” Caroline blurted the final message, then spun and ran around the corner of the dormitory. Her giggles carried on the breeze.

  Scowling, Libby headed for the library. With every step, her irritation grew. Who did Roy think he was, summoning her and expecting her to come at his command? She might go to save the piteous Caroline from being tongue-lashed, but he’d regret his decision to “fetch” her as soon as she reached him!

  She spotted him waiting on the lawn outside the library with a couple of his buddies, just as Caroline had indicated. Lately, he’d taken to wearing a snug-fitting sweater with a large fraternity emblem embroidered on the chest. He stood with his feet widespread and shoulders back, shamelessly showcasing his physique—an arrogant, self-centered pose. A smug grin creased his face as he watched her approach.

  Her footsteps slowed, her frustration mounting. All of the worries and disappointments of the past few days rose up and filled Libby with an indignation that couldn’t be corralled. Perhaps Roy had given her a gift by sending for her. She didn’t care a whit about Roy Daley, so what would it matter if she used him as a battering ram for her pent-up emotions? Anticipating the sweet release, she charged across th
e patch of grass like a bull pursuing a waving red flag.

  Before she could reach Roy, however, someone let out a whoop akin to an Indian war cry, and Libby came to a startled halt. The fine hairs on her neck prickled when men wearing head coverings made of pillowcases with eyeholes came running from every direction. Libby got a glimpse of Roy’s surprised face before someone swooped her off the ground and took off running with her. She held to the man’s neck, screeching to be released, but he ignored her until he reached the porch of the library. He set her down, and a gruff voice from behind the pillowcase ordered, “Don’t move! Watch the show!” Then he spun to join the others.

  From her vantage point, Libby had a perfect view of Roy in the center of a whooping, dancing throng of masked hoodlums. Someone had pulled the hem of his sweater up, the snug-fitting fabric creating a sheath for his head and arms. His hands flapped in the air as he fought to free himself, but to no avail. He staggered in a circle, his muffled voice demanding that someone let him loose. But instead, two men circled him with a length of rope. Libby covered her mouth with her hands, appalled, as the men tied his knees together. He couldn’t possibly escape now.

  With Roy sufficiently trapped in place, the men’s triumphant whoops filled the air. Four others ran up, each carrying a bucket sloshing with foamy white liquid. One stood to the side, using his arm as a lever, and chanted, “One, two, now!” On cue, the men flung the contents of their buckets over Roy. White goo ran in thick rivulets down his body to puddle on the ground at his feet. Cheers and applause erupted from the watching crowd, which grew larger and more boisterous by the second.

  Libby remained on her perch, repulsed by what was taking place, yet also oddly drawn to watch. She bounced this way and that to peer over the heads of students who spilled across the yard. They pointed, laughed, and called out comments—the gathering more raucous than any sporting event. With Roy caught in the ropes, his arms trapped and face covered, he couldn’t retaliate, and everyone seemed ready to make the most of the moment. Even though she’d often called the man despicable, she felt a rush of sympathy for how he must be feeling now—as blind and helpless as a caterpillar in a cocoon.