Part 20 (2/2)

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 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. 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. ”h.e.l.lo, 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?” 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 fetched. Especially not for him 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? Antic.i.p.ating the sweet release, she charged across the patch of gra.s.s 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 p.r.i.c.kled 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 m.u.f.fled 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 slos.h.i.+ng with foamy white liquid. One stood to the side, using his arm as a lever, and chanted, ”One, two, now 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 coc.o.o.n.

While Roy bobbled in place, waving his hands and yelling to be released, two more pillowcase-covered men approached. Rather than buckets, they held plump pillows. Libby gasped as she realized what they planned. She clapped her hands over her mouth to m.u.f.fle her cry when the men slashed the pillows with pocketknives and began shaking out the contents over Roy's head. The yard took on the appearance of a snowstorm with downy feathers filling the air. They stuck in the goo on Roy's body. In school she'd read about people being tarred and feathered and had thought it a terrible way to punish someone. Seeing it played out, with Roy as the victim, proved its capacity for humiliation. Roy howled in protest.

Students-men and women alike-raced forward to grab handfuls of feathers from the ground and slap them onto the gooey mess still dripping from Roy's body. Alice-Marie was in the midst of it, her giggles rising over the cheers and laughter of the crowd. When they'd finished, Roy resembled a half-plucked headless chicken.

A man emerged from behind the library, pus.h.i.+ng a wheelbarrow. He forced his way to the center of the crowd and circled Roy three times while taunting him, earning a fresh round of cheers. Then, veering the wheelbarrow in a tight curve, he jammed it against the backs of Roy's knees. Roy let out a startled yelp and tumbled backward, landing on his rump in the wheelbarrow's bed. The wheelbarrow's driver jumped up and down, socking the air with both fists in a sign of victory. He bowed to the cheering crowd, then s.n.a.t.c.hed up the handles to take Roy on a b.u.mpy ride around the yard while students continued to laugh and shout their approval.

Alice-Marie ran up to Libby, tears trailing down her flushed cheeks. ”Oh my, have you ever seen anything so funny in all your life?”

”He's your cousin! How can you laugh?”

Alice-Marie's jaw dropped. ”You don't think he deserves it?”

Libby couldn't form an honest answer. Yes, Roy deserved to have the tables turned, but this public humiliation seemed beyond justice. It bordered on vengeful. What would Petey do if he were there?

She watched the wheelbarrow driver zigzag across the gra.s.s, forcing Roy to roll from side to side. Feathers flew, and Roy's hands continued to flop uselessly above his head. ”Whoever planned this has a very sick sense of humor.”

Alice-Marie leaned close. ”It was Bennett! And he isn't finished yet!” Her eyes sparkled.

Libby caught Alice-Marie's arm. ”Bennett is responsible for this? What else does he have planned?” is responsible for this? What else does he have planned?”

Instead of answering, Alice-Marie pointed. Libby followed the line of her finger to see the wheelbarrow heading straight for the library porch. ”Stay here!” Alice-Marie squealed before scampering back to the gra.s.s. Students cleared a path, creating a tunnel with their bodies, and the driver careened the wheelbarrow right up to the edge of the porch. The tire banged against the edge of a foot-high concrete slab and the bed flew upward, spilling Roy at Libby's feet. Then the driver bounded onto the porch and gave Roy's sweater a yank, revealing his red, angry face.

Propping his hands on his knees, the driver bent down to Roy's level. ”There you are, Daley.” From behind his pillowcase mask, his voice rang gleefully, revealing his ident.i.ty. ”Here's Elisabet Conley, just like you wanted.”

Libby smoldered as the driver-Bennett in disguise-flung both arms toward her, as if presenting her to the court.

”Now ask if she'll go out with you!” ask if she'll go out with you!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

Pete, I'm not going to ask you again.” Jackson's tone turned stern. He placed his hand against Pete's chest. ”Stay here with your mother and the kids. Let me talk to your father alone.”

Pete glanced over his shoulder. His mother stood beneath the canopy of Branson's Market. She held Lorenzo close to her side, and the other children crowded around her. Did they huddle near to be close to their ma, or were they merely trying to avoid the chilly rain?

He turned back to Jackson. ”I don't think it's wise for you to talk with him alone. If what you suspect is true, he's bound to be defensive and dangerous.” Pete swallowed. ”A gun was used on that clerk, Jackson. How would I live with myself if-”

”Don't even think that way,” Jackson said. ”I encountered plenty of unsavory characters in my battle to end child labor. I faced the barrel of a gun on more than one occasion, and I always emerged unscathed. I don't intend to change that now.”

”But-”

”Trust me, Pete-I'll stay safe. I've got a wife and two daughters at home who need me. I won't do anything foolish. Now, stay here.” Jackson gave Pete a gentle push toward the canopy. Then he hunched his shoulders and trotted across the street, dodging raindrops. Moments later, he disappeared inside the apartment building.

Pete moved closer to his family. His brothers and sister stared up at him with wide, apprehensive eyes. His mother looked as worried as he'd ever seen her. For so many years, Pete had harbored resentful anger toward his parents-both of his parents. But looking into his ma's tired, sad face, he wondered if she was just as much a victim of Pa's apathetic selfishness as he had been. She certainly didn't resemble the monster of his imaginings with her fingers combing gently through Lorenzo's tousled hair.

Pete let his gaze drift from Lorenzo to Dennis to the older boys. What would become of his siblings if their home situation didn't change? Jackson's inquiries to remove the Leidig children from their parents and give Pete guardians.h.i.+p had gone no farther than a snail could race. He supposed he couldn't blame the judge-he was a one-legged eighteen-year-old without a full-time job or a home to call his own. In the judge's eyes, he couldn't offer anything better than they were already receiving.

Yet Pete still wanted them. Desperately.

The market door squeaked open and the owner, Keith Branson, stepped out. ”What're you folks doin', all standin' out here?”

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