The Inconvenient Bride Series 1-3

by Sharon Ihle

  "What happened to Seamus?"

  Lil stepped deeper into the shadows, looking as if she was hiding from him. Increasingly curious about her strange behavior, Donovan turned the flame on the wall lamp up high. As his mother's image grew brighter, he was shocked to see her looking even more haggard. "What's happened?"

  She sighed wearily, giving up, it seemed. "I've been up half the day trying to take care of business. Seamus was shot last night."

  "What? How? Drunken gamblers, a fight, what?"

  "We don't know for sure. He just walked outside to go home after his shift was done, and someone shot him dead. A buggy drove off after it was done."

  "You're saying he was shot on purpose, murdered?" Donovan crossed over to where his mother stood. She looked almost fragile, a first. And secretive, as usual. "Why in God's name would anyone shoot him? What do you know you're not telling me?"

  "Nothing." But she looked away from him. "I don't know anything for sure except that Seamus is dead."

  Shoulders slumping in despair, Lil's hands drifted to her sides. The movement caused her robe to fall open at the throat, revealing several dark splotches marring her alabaster skin. Taking his mother gently by the shoulders, Donovan turned her toward the light for a better look.

  "What the hell," he muttered, angered by what were obvious bruises dotting her neck. "What has been going on around here? Who did this to you?"

  "It's taken care of," she insisted, trying to break out of his grasp and close her robe, but Donovan held her tightly. "There's nothing for you to worry about now. I'll be okay."

  "I want to know who did this. Who are you protecting?"

  "No one, Son, I swear it."

  Narrowing his gaze, he warned, "Tell me now, or I'll go downstairs and start asking questions until I get some answers. Now, who did this?"

  Looking a little ashamed, Lil hung her head. "R. T. came back to see me a couple of nights ago—thought maybe I'd want to pick up where we'd left off. I said, no." Raising her dull-eyed gaze to meet Donovan's again, she quietly added, "R. T. never did much care for that word."

  "You mean did he—"

  "No, but he tried."

  Donovan didn't spend so much as a second questioning his mother's story. She was many things to many people, but a liar to no one. He released her and raised his fists. "He's not going to get away with this. I don't give a damn who he thinks he is, he is not going to get away with this."

  "He's paid his due on my account—honest." Fear shone brightly in her eyes. "Seamus heard me scream that night, pulled him off me, and beat him to a bloody pulp."

  "Seamus beat him?" Donovan knew the ex-fighter was a master at pummeling a rowdy patron into submission without causing any permanent damage—such as broken bones. Black eyes, bloody noses, and sore ribs were his specialties, when forced into service. If he hadn't been so blinded by his father's ways, he might have noticed the Irishman's mark the moment he set eyes on R. T. His thoughts growing darker by the minute, Donovan didn't even look his mother's way as he muttered under his breath, "I have to go now. Take care of yourself, Lil. I'll be back to check on you later tonight, tomorrow at the latest."

  But Lil threw herself between him and the door. "Let well enough alone, Son. I beg you. Let well enough alone. You don't know R. T. like I do—he's evil."

  Evil—Libby's impression, too. Donovan paused, studying Lil for a long moment, and saw in her eyes all the years they'd struggled together to make a life for themselves. Something turned in his chest, knife-like, but not sharp or agonizing with its pain. It was more of an ache. Like guilt. How could he have forgotten what all they'd been to each other for so long? How could it have been so... so easy for him to turn his back on his mother?

  Giving into sudden impulse, the kind of impulse that didn't occur to him often, Donovan leaned over and tenderly kissed Lil's forehead. Then, thinking of someone else, he smiled as he said, "I'm done taking the easy way out... Mother. In fact, I'm thinking I ought to climb down off that fence I've been straddling before I get my ass stuck full of splinters. Wouldn't you agree?"

  * * *

  Six months ago, outrage would have driven Donovan immediately to his father's office where he most likely would have finished the job Seamus had started on R. T. Now that so much more than simple vengeance was at stake—his future, Libby's future, and possibly, even their future together, among other dilemmas—he forced himself to take a walk along the waterfront, in order to cool down enough to think straight.

  That walk ultimately led him to his own house—to Libby—where Donovan was certain he'd find the answers he sought. When he got there, all he found was darkness.

  Libby had gone, not just for the evening, but as far as he could tell, forever. She'd packed up all traces of herself, save for the mangled hat he'd given her; packed and run off into the night. He knew, without even considering the possibility, that she hadn't gone to his mother's like before. The sick feeling in his gut told him there was no doubt that she'd finally boarded the train to Laramie.

  Filled with a sense of emptiness, and not just the cold isolation of his once-warm home, Donovan sat down on the edge of the bed he and Libby had occupied just last night, and took the little straw bonnet between his hands. It was stained, pummeled, smashed beyond recognition, even though Libby had tried to mend it. The hat reminded him of where his relationship with her had ended—smashed and broken, probably beyond repair.

  Try as she might, she hadn't been successful in her attempts to bring the bonnet back to its former beauty. Was he ten kinds of a fool to even think of trying to restore what they'd once had? If he went after her, would she even welcome him long enough to begin the repair work?

  Chapter 20

  Laramie, Wyoming Territory

  Two weeks later

  Libby braced her hips against the counter in the front office of the Laramie Tribune and pounded the final nail into the wooden frame she'd built to hold a copy of her favorite editorial. The piece, written early last week, was an expose of R. T. Savage and his tyrannical manipulation of Savage-owned newspapers, as well as his involvement with government lobbyists. Libby had left no stones unturned in her article, and even included "quotes" from the esteemed magnate, taken from her brief, and generally heated, conversations with him. The moment the inflammatory issue had come off the press, she'd sent it, as usual, to Savage Publishing—and to many other newspapers countrywide, especially those that leaned toward supporting equal rights.

  Because the Savage name also belonged to Donovan, Libby took no pleasure in the way she'd exposed it. In spite of everything Randolph T. Savage stood for, she'd never wanted to tarnish the family Donovan coveted so much. But she'd done what she'd had to do. Even at her own risk. And she'd done it all with the blessings of her brother.

  After she'd explained everything to Jeremy—everything except her personal involvement with Donovan—and made a point of the fact that, should she run the editorial, their affiliation with the Tribune would soon come to an end, he had agreed wholeheartedly that it was time they struck out on their own. If the Justice family had to begin by writing their newspaper in longhand, so be it. If one or both of them had to deliver newspapers for a rival publisher to make ends meet in the meantime, so be it. If they had to sell their home and live in a tent, so be it. They would stay together, and publish together a paper of which they could both be proud.

  Of course, neither Justice sibling was fool enough to think a vindictive man like R. T. Savage would take a mutiny such as this lying down. Libby had been careful to explain to Jeremy the risks they'd be facing, should they expose the man, and even hinted to him that their soon-to-be former employer might have ordered a murder done. But as before, Jeremy had been no more interested in continuing the affiliation with the Tribune than Libby.

  Of course, once the offensive edition of the Laramie Tribune had left the train station on its way to San Francisco, she'd known it was just a matter of time before R. T. closed her down—or worse.
Not that she'd thought the man would actually do her physical harm out here in her own territory. Still, to be on the safe side, Jeremy and Hymie had formed a "watch committee," where they met all incoming trains from the West to keep a lookout for strangers who could be hired guns.

  As for Donovan... Libby still couldn't think of him, not and maintain the visage of strength she needed to get herself and her brother through the trying times ahead. Not if she were to keep her fragile link to sanity.

  The frame finished, Libby positioned it on the wall facing the counter, which gave it the most exposure, then held it there with one hand as she poked around in her hair looking for a pencil to mark the spot. Since she'd pretty well destroyed the hat Donovan had loathed so, she'd taken to keeping her magnifying glass and tape measure in her pocket, and poked her pencils into her bun. She could usually find one easily, but sometimes, as now, the pencils either burrowed themselves so deeply into her thick hair that she had trouble locating them, or they simply fell out as she flitted around the pressroom. As for her glasses, Libby never knew where she might find them these days.

  Irritated by the delay, she whirled around, slammed the frame down on the counter, then reached back with both hands and ripped at her bun. That's when she noticed movement just outside the Tribune's offices. Still digging around in her hair for a pencil, she squinted hard as the "hitching post" out front began to walk up the steps toward the door. When the man—she could tell that much about the blurred figure—reached the porch, Libby could see that he was dressed in a fancy white shirt and dark suit, and for just a moment, she thought she glimpsed something shiny and red between the lapels of his jacket—a vest?

  For a split-second, Libby's heartbeat accelerated, then it stopped altogether. Her hands froze to the top of her head. Then the door opened, setting off the little bell, and the man strolled into the room. He was carrying a small bag, an expensive leather item with the letter S embossed in gold on the side. Time was up, as she'd expected. But why, oh, why did Donovan have to be the messenger?

  "Afternoon," he said as he approached. Never taking those silvery-blue eyes off of her, he swung the bag up on the counter between them. "Say hello, Libby—you do remember me, don't you?"

  "Y-y—" She cleared her throat and then, mercifully, her arms relaxed enough to slide down to her sides. A stubby pencil clattered down to the counter at the same time. Donovan glanced up at her hair, cocked one eyebrow, then looked back into her eyes—and smiled. Shaking inside—outside, too, she thought—Libby quickly said, "Of course I remember you. I wasn't expecting to see you again, is all."

  The smile grew into a grin, one that blinded her as much as his twinkling eyes. She found herself wanting to kiss him, but remembered that he was here on business. Then he got right to it, confirming her worst fears.

  "Surely after the less-than-flattering editorial you sent to Savage Publishing last week, you had to be expecting someone from the main offices to stop by and see you."

  She nodded numbly. "Yes, I suppose so."

  "Well, here I am." He spread his arms. "I have something here for you. If you have a minute, I'd like to get this over with as quickly as possible."

  "Please do." Libby could feel her temper rising slowly from the ashes of her heart, giving her the strength she would need to see her through this moment. Even then, she had to brace her knees against the counter to keep them from shaking. As Donovan reached into the bag and withdrew a thick packet of papers, she muttered, "I've been expecting this, but I have to say that I'm disappointed you've chosen to deliver the bad news yourself. Shall I vacate the entire building while you do your dirty work, or may I go upstairs to my room?"

  "Oh, I want you to stay right where you are for this." Still smiling, Donovan spun the papers around so she could read the one on top as he explained the contents. "This is a release you need to sign, a legally binding contract between you and Savage Publishing which gives Liberty Ann Justice full and complete control of the Laramie Tribune from here on out. That includes ownership of the press, cameras, and all the other items you ink-slingers lay claim to as part of your printing business."

  "Ownership?" She'd heard what Donovan said and followed the printed words, yet Libby couldn't quite make sense of them. "You mean the paper is mine to keep?"

  "Precisely. The only thing you can't keep is the name, Tribune. That stays with Savage Publishing, but then I didn't figure you'd want any part of my father's company anyway. Was I right?"

  What did it mean? "Er, yes, but... but—"

  "I realize this may be hard for you to grasp at first, and maybe later we can talk about it more. All I want you to understand right now is that I'm the one who went to R. T. and got this taken care of. I'm the one who kept him from sending someone out here to burn you out, or whatever it is they do when an affiliate 'goes bad.' Does that much make sense?"

  She was dizzy, numb, excited, and afraid to believe him, but everything he said was there in black and white. Libby nodded and another pencil clattered to the counter top. "I understand, but I can't say this makes any sense. Why did your father do it?"

  His gaze following the pencil as it rolled across the counter then fell to the floor, Donovan looked slightly amused. "My why's first. Why didn't you tell me what R. T. did to my mother?"

  "Oh, that..." Obviously he knew what had happened. She could see the pain in his eyes. "Lil made me promise not to. I figured it was her story and her right to decide when and how it got told, so I agreed to keep quiet about it. Didn't she tell you that?"

  "No, but then, I didn't ask. I was in too big a hurry to have a little talk with my father."

  "Oh." Had Donovan blackmailed the man into giving her the Tribune?

  "R. T. didn't deny hurting my mother," he continued, "but he claimed he had nothing to do with Seamus's death. I admit I haven't been a very good judge of the man, but I tend to believe him—at least, I'd like to believe that of him." He looked enormously sad for a moment, making Libby wonder if he hadn't caught at least a glimpse of the evil in his father. She decided that maybe he had.

  Catching her speculative gaze, Donovan produced a bright smile. "At any rate, I do know R. T. won't be bothering my mother again. In fact, after the threats I made, I expect he'll be hiring a bodyguard to make sure nothing happens to her—ever again."

  Wondering now about those threats, certain they weren't of a physical nature, but more likely of a "social" nature, Libby caught sight of another moving "hitching post" outside. Squinting, she could see that a woman—a very well-dressed woman, at that—had reached the porch. The door opened, and she stepped inside, looking more familiar by the minute.

  "Hello, Libby," she said, approaching the counter. "Is everything between you two..."—she glanced up at Donovan expectantly—"...all right?"

  "Susan?" Libby could hardly believe her eyes, but her vision was clear now, and there was no mistaking her visitor—Susan Savage. "What are you doing here?"

  "Making things difficult for me," said Donovan, delivering an angry scowl to his sister. "I thought you had some shopping to do."

  "That's what I thought I'd do to keep myself entertained, but I can't seem to find a decent store." She turned back to Libby. "Tell me there's at least one dress shop in this town."

  "What are you doing here?" Libby repeated, stunned.

  "Donovan brought me with him. I thought I might enjoy a little visit out here for a while, before heading to the Capital City in Washington."

  "Washington? Why are you going there?"

  Susan practically busted her buttons as she said, "I have a job. You're looking at the fully enrolled member of the NWSA who's going to be assisting Belva Lockwood in her presidential campaign—by next year, we could have a female president."

  "But what about your duke?"

  "Oh, him." Susan shrugged. "It turns out he did mind my joining the cause." She leaned forward and chuckled. "He only minded, of course, because father minded. It seems anything that affected my dowry, affected
Henry. He was especially affected when I told him to take his titledom and go to hell."

  "And that," said Donovan, gripping Susan's elbow, "is just where I was thinking of sending you if you don't leave Libby and me alone to talk."

  After peeling her brother's fingers off her arm, Susan turned back to Libby. "I guess I'd better run along, but I'll be back soon."

  "Wait." Libby reached across the counter and captured Susan's hand. "What about your father? Surely he hasn't given his approval for your trip to Washington."

  The bright smile disappeared and, in its place, came a thoughtful expression, not quite a frown. "He definitely did not approve, but I want to live my own life. Father knows, if he wants to see me again, that he's going to have to accept that about me. It will take some time, but I think he'll forgive me someday." She giggled. "I've always been his special little angel—how can he not?"

  "Su-san," came Donovan's voice, a clear warning.

  "Well, good-bye for now," she said, giving Libby a knowing glance and little wave. Then, bustles bouncing, she scurried out of the office.

  Donovan's narrow gaze followed his sister's departure. When he was sure Susan was out of earshot, he turned back to Libby and said, "She's a cutie, that one, and smarter than I first thought, too. I really enjoy having Susan as a sister, but her sense of timing is lousy. Oh, and speaking of sisters—" He reached into the satchel and drew out a magazine. He turned to a page bearing a woman's photograph. Holding it next to his profile, he said, "What do you think? Do you see the likeness?"

  Libby squinted, but did see a certain resemblance. "I guess. Who is she?"

  "Lillibeth Jones. She's a shadowcatcher in Pasadena who got an award of some kind for her photographs—that's why she was in this magazine. Don't you think she could be my missing sister?"