by Sharon Ihle
Libby tried to turn away, but Donovan could see how much that statement stung her. He gripped her shoulders, keeping her in place, and made her listen to the rest of his argument. "What I'm not," he maintained, "is the sort who trifles with virginal types like you—in short, the kind of woman who'll want something from me in the morning that I simply can't give."
"Can't?" she asked. "Or won't?"
In this, Donovan refused to be baited. "Can't, which means I'm not even close to what you're looking for, Miss Justice. And I'm sure as hell not what you need."
She stood silent a long moment, her dark eyes impassive. When she finally spoke, her words were equally distant. "Thank you for being so candid. You're absolutely right—you're not the kind of man I'm looking for at all."
Libby tried to say this as if she believed it; but her gut kept insisting that he hadn't been entirely truthful with her—and that Donovan Savage was exactly what she needed.
* * *
Donovan's argument—especially the part about not being particular about who shared his bed—stayed with Libby for the next two days, grating like a dull saw on her already ragged nerves. Like it or not, however, she did understand why he might be reluctant to court a woman like her. Other than making sure her clothes were clean and pressed and that she was properly groomed, she'd never bothered too much with her appearance, and certainly not just to impress anyone of the male species. The night in Laramie when she'd borrowed Dell's dress didn't count since she hadn't been thinking of Donovan as a male, but simply as an employer she had to impress.
She thought of him as a male now. One, much to her chagrin, with whom she suspected she'd fallen a little bit in love. Thinking of doing more than impressing him—of attracting him—Libby dressed the she had the day he'd "set her straight." She donned the new suit he'd purchased for her, and then struggled to twist her hair into a rather attractive bun at the top of her head. She'd gone to a lot of trouble to present herself as femininely as possible that day, but the effort had turned out to have been a miserable waste of time. Donovan had hardly even glanced at her when he'd come downstairs, and then, instead of dining with her, had tossed off a flimsy excuse for leaving her alone and taken off into the night.
Today, she'd awakened in a foul mood, one that had made her feel so ornery, she'd donned her comfortable buckskins and rawhide boots. There'd been no point in bothering to primp for a man who showed no inclination to acknowledge her efforts. She'd even defiantly plaited her hair into a pair of braids, and let them hang down the front of her blouse—something she hadn't done in years. Then she'd gone to work. She had articles to write, and a plan to work out with regard to R. T. Savage and his rigid editorial rules. Never again would she allow anything, not even love, if that's what she felt for Donovan, to keep her from remembering the vow she'd made to her mother.
Dressed in that manner and sprawled in the middle of the living room rug with her pencils and writing pads, Libby spent the better part of the afternoon writing an article about the history of the cable railway for Jeremy and the Laramie Tribune. As she worked her way through the second revision of the piece, a knock sounded at the front door. At first, Libby wasn't inclined to answer the summons since it wasn't her house and she didn't know how Donovan would react to being disturbed during his rest. He'd slammed through the door a couple of hours ago, while she was in the kitchen, and dashed upstairs before she could make it down the hallway to stop him.
The knock sounded again, this time loud enough to rattle the glass in the bay window. Against her better judgment, Libby leaped to her feet and went to open the door.
Donovan's partner stood on the stoop, impatiently tapping her foot. For a moment, the woman looked stunned, as if lost. Then she leaned back, read the numbers nailed to the doorjamb, and looked inside the house again.
Eyeing Libby suspiciously, she asked, "Who the hell are you?"
Libby's first impulse was to slam the door in the redhead's face. Instead she responded in kind to the woman for whom she'd taken an instant dislike. "I'm Liberty Justice. Who the hell are you?"
Lil, although she'd yet to introduce herself, seemed taken aback for a moment. Then, with a toss of her vermilion curls and the bright yellow ostrich tips poking up from them, she boldly entered the house, the frilly skirts of her lemon-colored dress swishing against Libby's worn buckskin trousers as she brushed past her.
"Donovan?" she called, ignoring Libby entirely. She glanced inside the living room and then down the hallway. "Donovan, where are you?"
"He's upstairs resting... ma'am."
Libby addressed Lil by that term, not out of respect, but due to the age difference between them. This was the first time Libby was seeing the woman up close, let alone in the daylight. She clearly had at least fifteen years on Donovan. Why in the hell was he so attracted to this older woman? she wondered. Not that Lil wasn't pretty in a cheap sort of way, and she supposed, appealing enough to the opposite sex. Then Libby remembered Donovan's remark about not being terribly particular about his lady friends and the next thing she knew, Libby was boiling inside.
Gesturing to the still open door, she snapped, "I don't think Donovan wants to be disturbed. Why don't you come back later?"
"Humph. Fat chance, dearie." Apparently amused by something, Lil looked up and down the length of Libby's trousers, then noticed her pigtails. "Just exactly what are you doing here?" she asked, her voice sounding even more amused. "Are you filling in for Gerda? The newsboy? Or are you the gardener?"
Having the sudden urge to hit something, Libby turned and punched the door with her palm. Then she whirled back around toward Lil, forced a smile, and said, "No, ma'am, I happen to be the managing editor of the Laramie Tribune, a newspaper which is owned by Savage Publishing."
"Savage?" In the time it took her to repeat the name, Lil's cheeks flushed, almost matching her hair. "Did R. T. send you here to snoop around?"
As unsettled now by the overbearing woman as she was piqued, Libby started for the foot of the stairs. "I don't have to answer that, nor do I want to hear any more of your questions. I'll go see if Donovan's awake. Maybe he'll feel like talking to you about Savage Publishing—but I rather doubt it."
As she started up the stairs, Libby heard stiff petticoats and silk undergarments rustling like the feathers of a fighting cock. By the time the significance of that sound occurred to her, not to mention its growing loudness, it was too late.
Lil had already grabbed a handful of Libby's vest and blouse at the nape of her neck. Then she dragged her backwards down the stairs.
Chapter 8
Rudely awakened by a woman's scream, Donovan lurched out of bed, and promptly fell to the floor.
He was just getting his bearings, when a second scream roared down the hallway, and this time, the voice sounded terribly familiar. Libby? Who else could it be? She was the only one staying at his place, other than himself. He scrambled for a pair of trousers and hopped into them on the run, too concerned about what might be happening downstairs to worry about modesty. Although he hadn't time to fasten the buttons, he somehow managed to cover himself decently by the time he reached the top of the stairs.
The scene below on the tiled floor of the foyer—his mother on her knees, her right arm twisted and held painfully behind her back by Libby's vicious grasp—surprised and horrified Donovan so, he let go of his waistband.
His trousers slid down his legs at the exact moment that Libby glanced up to find him standing there. She gasped when she saw him gracing the top step in all his glory, but did not look away. Then, her gaze still pinned to him and her mouth opened in a perfect circle, she released her hold on Lil and slowly backed away from her.
Donovan quickly tugged his trousers up over his hips and set to buttoning them as he descended the stairs. "Lord Almighty, what in hell is going on down here?"
Lil, still on her knees with her back to her son, moaned as she rubbed her shoulder. "Oh, Donovan, thank God you're home. This—this hoodlum
here attacked me."
"I did not." Libby pressed herself flat against the wallpaper, looking as if she were trying to hide among the trellises and grapevines pictured there. "She attacked me as I was coming upstairs to get you, Donovan."
He glanced from her to Lil, and then shook his head. He hadn't thought the person existed—man nor woman—who could get the drop on his mother. Resisting the urge to congratulate Libby on her prowess, Donovan went to Lil's aid. Taking both her hands in his, he lifted her up off the floor, then studied her carefully. She was flushed, disheveled, and out of breath, but she looked more angry than injured. "Are you all right?" he asked, just to be sure.
Lil adjusted the bodice and skirts of her gown, then checked her coif, which was in a state of disarray. Frowning she said, "I think my shoulder's sprained, but other than that, I'm just a little shaken up, is all." She turned to glare at Libby. "No thanks to that crazy street urchin."
Libby bristled, not so much over those words, as over Donovan's attentions to the woman. He'd hardly even looked Libby's way since coming downstairs, what with all his sympathy and understanding going out to Lil and her dramatic explanation for their little fray. She didn't like the woman one bit, nor did she care in the least for the sight of a half-naked Donovan standing there with her, patting her shoulder. He should have been checking to see if she were all right, too. Jealousy—and Libby did recognize it as just that—reared up in her, making her forget what little training she'd received as a proper lady.
"I realize this woman is your partner, Donovan," she said, stamping her foot to make sure she had his attention, "but you must surely know that this painted-up saloon tart of yours is lying."
Donovan whipped his head toward her, as Lil did hers. "My what?" he asked, an odd, almost amused expression replacing his concern.
"Your sleazy little saloon tart," she repeated, happy to do so. "She's putting on an act. She attacked me by grabbing the back of my neck as I went upstairs, and then she tried to strangle me. I was only defending myself by the time you got downstairs. That's the truth."
For the life of her, Libby couldn't see anything funny about the incident, but Donovan looked as if he were suddenly amused. He glanced at his partner and asked, "Now, why would you attack poor Libby, here?"
"Come on, Donovan. Don't listen to her. She's full of crap." Lil flipped her fingers toward Libby, as if the gesture might make Libby disappear. "I just stopped her from disturbing you. I don't know who this little hoyden is, and frankly, I don't care right about now. I just know I've heard and seen about all I want to of her. Do us both a favor and toss her out on her scrawny little ass."
Libby raised her fists and planted her feet. "Go ahead. Try it."
"All right." Donovan held his hands up. "That's enough from the both of you."
Lil looked up at him and grumbled, but said nothing. It did Libby's heart good to see the woman checked that way, made her feel vindicated, even victorious.
"I have a feeling a little of this is my fault," he went on to say. "Maybe if I introduce you two properly, we can get this mess straightened up without any more fisticuffs."
"I'd much prefer," said Lil, "that you introduced Calamity Jane here to your front porch."
"No more of that talk," he said sharply. "This charming young woman is Liberty Justice, a house guest here at my invitation." Cocking one eyebrow in Libby's direction, he added, "At least, I think it was my invitation."
Almost certain he'd taken her side, Libby managed a shy smile.
"I'm sure Lil didn't mean anything by the things she may have said or done to you," he went on, "but as my mother, I guess she figures she has a right to protect my interests—even when they don't need protecting."
Mother? Had Donovan referred to the woman as his mother? Horror-stricken, Libby prayed that she hadn't heard him correctly. He couldn't have said that—anything but that. Her voice sounding squeaky, as if it belonged to someone else, she asked for a repeat. "Did you say that this... this lovely woman is your mother?"
Donovan nodded grimly. "That's right."
Libby pushed her back and bottom harder against the wallpaper, wishing in earnest now that she could become part of the scenery depicted there. Oh, God, how could this be happening—especially on the very same day she'd realized that she was falling in love with the man? And what had she called his mother? A sleazy, painted-up saloon tart? She closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. Oh, no. No!
"Now that we've got that straightened out, Son"—Lil's voice, sarcastic and unforgiving, settled around Libby's throat like a noose—"do you think we can have a private talk? I don't have much time this morning, but there are a few things I need to go over with you."
"I don't think Libby will mind. Do you?"
The silence following Donovan's question was awful. Libby knew both he and his mother were looking at her, waiting for her to answer. As much as she wished otherwise, there was nothing to do but face them. She opened her eyes and said, "Oh, no, of course not. Please go ahead. And, er, take your time."
Donovan returned her smile, his expression a lot warmer and more understanding than she would have expected, and then he glanced down at himself. "Why don't you go into the kitchen, Lil. I think I'd better get back upstairs and get dressed before we talk."
Before he could leave the room, someone knocked on the front door. Libby did everything she could to avoid looking at or speaking with his mother while he went to check on his visitor. By the time he'd shut the door and returned to the area, Libby's nerves were taut to the point of snapping.
"That was a messenger from Savage Publishing," Donovan explained, displaying a crisp white envelope with the crimson letter S embossed at its center. "R. T. wants me to come to his office in one hour."
Lil brushed past Libby as if she weren't even there. "What else does he have to say?"
While mother and son discussed the missive, Libby glanced between the two several times, amazed she hadn't noticed the resemblance before, especially around the eyes. While not the same silvery blue hue as her son's, Lil's eyes were shaped very much like Donovan's, with gentle upward slopes at the corners and enviable banks of thick lashes on both upper and lower lids, though hers were tawny, not black. His mother. Lord, she still couldn't believe she'd gotten into such a tussle with the woman, especially one in which she'd damn near broken the "saloon tart's" arm.
When he finished examining the paper, Donovan folded it and stuck it into his trouser pocket. "I'll need at least an hour to get myself presentable and make the trip, so why don't you go on back to the theatre, Lil. I'll catch up with you there later."
"Please, don't go." His mother said the words quietly and without the commanding tone she'd used earlier, but Libby could hear the desperation in her plea.
Donovan took her shoulders between his hands. "Sorry, but I have several questions for R. T., and I think I'm entitled to the answers."
"But I told you everything you need to know. Why must—" Lil cut herself off, glancing at Libby, as if suddenly remembering she was in the room.
"I'm going," Donovan said. "And nothing you say is going to stop me, so you might as well save your breath."
There was an almost lethal silence as mother and son stared at each other, testing, daring, pushing. Libby, who couldn't even imagine such a battle of wills between herself and her mother, or her father, couldn't stand the tension a moment longer. "I'm going with you," she announced, surprising herself even more than them.
Donovan turned a stern expression on her. "Oh, no, you're not. This is one trip I'm making alone."
"You've already had your solo trip to see R. T.—twice now." Libby started for the stairs. "If you'll recall, one reason you saw him the first time was because I had business with him. This time, I'm going to talk to that man if I have to break down his door." She whisked past him and his mother, grabbed the balustrade, and hoisted herself up on the first step.
"I don't have time for this, Libby," Donovan shouted, as she star
ted up the stairs. "You can't possibly put yourself together in less than thirty minutes, and I'm not going to wait for you."
Halfway up, Libby turned and looked down to where Donovan stood on the landing. His mother stood directly behind him, looking considerably less formidable than she had earlier. For some reason, this gave Libby an extra dose of courage. "I'll be ready before you are," she warned. "Even if you do leave without me, I'll find my way there. Wait, or don't wait. It doesn't make a damn bit of difference to me."
She started to go back up the stairs, but paused, thinking she really owed Donovan's mother some sort of apology. "Sorry if I was a little rough on you before, ma'am. It was... a pleasure to meet you."
Lil frowned, but finally said, "Charmed, I'm sure."
Then, feeling at least a little vindicated, Libby turned and bounded up the rest of the stairs, two at a time.
* * *
Because she really didn't want to have to make the trip back to Savage Publishing alone, Libby hurriedly threw on the new suit Donovan had purchased for her and struggled to button her boots. Running short of time, she simply wound the braids she'd already plaited into a pair of flat spirals and pinned them just above her ears. Then came the hard part: settling on a suitable excuse for a bonnet. After several trips to the downtown area, she knew better than to go bareheaded. Which was the lesser of two evils—her work bonnet, with its broad, scorch-marked brim, or the adorable straw hat Donovan had bought for her, now crushed beyond recognition?
Later as she sat on the plush leather sofa in R. T.'s waiting room again, she had the dreadful feeling she'd made the wrong choice. She'd reshaped the new hat as best she could, removed the ruined roses and ostrich plume, and replaced them with the sunflower from her work bonnet. Then, because she couldn't rub out the tracks left in the straw by the carriage wheels, she'd covered the thing with the black lace scarf. Donovan, who'd been in too much of a rush when they'd left even to glance her way, kept sneaking quick peeks at her now that they were at the publishing house. Every time he did, his beautiful eyes either rolled or popped out in astonishment.