The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  Over her plain white blouse, she wore a buckskin vest with a matching skirt which wasn't a skirt at all, but wide-legged trousers. And they barely reached her ankles. She looked more suited to the range than the offices of a newspaper. Even though the lower part of her legs were decently hidden from view by her footgear, he'd noticed as she whisked into the back room that she wore boots fashioned of rough rawhide like an area cowboy might wear. On top of all that, she'd covered her head and a good deal of her face with the most ungodly hat Donovan had ever seen in his life.

  Made of straw, the bonnet was plainly decorated with only a butter-colored ribbon circling the crown and a single sunflower at the center. The hat's wide, curving brim, however, had become a storage bin for a tape measure, a magnifying glass, an assortment of pencils, and a pair of spectacles, if memory served. It also sported a couple of scorch-marks—cigarette burns? Whatever, she was an original, one of a kind gal, for sure.

  The funniest thing was that, had she let him get a word in edgewise, she would have realized that he was not Andrew Savage, but William Donovan—known, at his own insistence, simply as Donovan.

  Instead of worrying about losing her newspaper, as she undoubtedly was doing at this very moment, "Lippy," as he'd begun to think of her, would then also have known that he'd only stopped by the Tribune to inform the editor that Andrew Savage had been killed on his way to Laramie. And, although he was none too proud of himself, Donovan had to admit that she probably would have made yet another discovery on the heels of learning his true identity—that he'd taken it upon himself to deliver this news in the hopes of receiving some kind of reward for returning the dead man's personal belongings. Something in the neighborhood of the three hundred dollars he figured the Savage family still owed him.

  Since it didn't take a genius to figure out that a reward, if indeed he was entitled to one, wouldn't be coming from this end of Savage Publishing, Donovan decided that he couldn't let the young woman go on thinking he'd come to ruin her. Lifting the pass-through in the counter, he started for the curtains leading to the back room when a triangular block of wood caught his eye, delaying him. He picked up the item, read the name and title burned into the pine, then, chuckling to himself, tucked it into his jacket pocket.

  Letting the sassy newspaperwoman off the hook didn't mean he couldn't tweak her nose a time or two.

  Chapter 2

  Back in the pressroom, Libby had just finished cleaning up the spare room and was fluttering around the shelves and machinery, slapping at every exposed surface she passed with her feather duster. More likely than not, Andrew Savage would expect a tour of the newspaper offices, and she didn't want even so much as a speck of lint to weaken her cause. All she wanted to do was impress him with the way she ran the paper. She'd just dropped to her knees to check the underside of the press, when his silken voice reached her from behind.

  "Why, my dear Miss Justice, I hope you're not going to all this trouble on my account."

  On hands and knees, Libby spun around in the direction of his voice and promptly banged the side of her head against the press. Her hat went flying, spilling her pencils and, she noticed as they skipped across the floor lens-side down, her blasted missing spectacles.

  Ignoring them and the other scattered items, she scrambled to her feet and turned to him. "Oh, Mr.Savage—it's you." She quickly reminded herself to keep her temper under control, as she brushed a few lengths of tousled hair from her eyes. "You startled me."

  "Sorry, ma'am." A sense of guilt prodding him, Donovan joined her by the press and studied her as she caught her breath. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you."

  She blushed, looking vulnerable for a moment, even attractive. He'd pretty much dismissed the newspaperwoman as a spinsterish, bookish type—a female who dressed in buckskins simply because she didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of catching a man, no matter what she wore. But now that he'd taken a good look at her without that outrageous hat covering up most of her face, Donovan had to admit that she wasn't quite as homely as he'd assumed. Her dark eyes were bigger somehow, doe-like and naive—a direct contrast to her runaway tongue. The hair that he'd mistakenly assumed was brown, turned out to be auburn, the color you might see reflected off the back of a sleek chestnut colt at sundown. Although she was still pretty rough around the edges, the sight of that burnished curl caressing her smooth though freckled cheek was an unexpected display of femininity. And it made Donovan's pulse leap.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, clearing his suddenly husky throat. "It sounded like you rapped the side of your head pretty hard."

  "It's nothing." Laughing, she touched the bruise he'd noticed earlier. "As you can see, I'm always banging into something around here."

  Donovan thought of pointing out the obvious: If she were actually to wear the glasses now lying on the floor a few feet away, she could probably cut her "accidents" down at least by half. But he abandoned the subject, figuring female vanity might have something to do with her not wearing the glasses.

  Instead, he gave into the urge to tease her a little.

  Reaching for the item in his pocket, he held it up between them, and asked, "Is this you?"

  Libby glanced at the nameplate—the one that proclaimed her as the editor of the Laramie Tribune. "Oh, yes, it is, but as I mentioned earlier, I'm just substituting for my father."

  "I understand that, but your name—is it Liberty Ann Justice?" She nodded, and he laughed out loud. "Does that mean you're Liberty Ann Justice for all, ma'am, or just for a special few?"

  Libby's mouth dropped open. "A few? Why, Mr. Savage—I don't know what to say."

  "A rarity for you, I'm sure." His smirk as wry as the words, Donovan set the nameplate down on the shiny surface of the press and offered a half-hearted apology. "I guess a cheeky comment like that could be taken a lot of ways, ma'am. Pardon my missing manners. I must have left them back in San Francisco."

  "Yes, well, you're excused... I guess." She paused to give a little, nervous laugh. "You know, I have to be honest. You sure aren't what I was expecting, not coming from the esteemed Savage family and all."

  If not for that remark, and what it implied about his breeding—or lack of it—Donovan might have cleared the air right then and there, told her his real name and occupation, and gotten the hell out of town. If not for that remark, Miss Liberty Ann Justice might have gone on about her business with hardly a dent put into her day. As it was, she'd inadvertently given him a reason to tease her a little longer—and something to occupy his time until the next train to San Francisco came by.

  "I'd like to know just what you mean by that, my dear Miss Justice," he began sternly. "Or may I call you Libby?"

  "Libby is fine. Just fine." She gulped. "And I didn't mean a thing, really I didn't."

  "Yes, well..." Donovan gripped his hands behind his back, as if deep in thought. "If you've any hope of keeping this paper open, you're going to have to change your rather impudent attitude. I will not tolerate sass from one of my employees."

  "Of course not, nor should you," she said quickly, tossing in just the hint of a curtsy. "I don't know what's come over me today. Please forgive me if I've been rude."

  Suddenly she seemed so small and fragile standing there that Donovan almost had a change of heart. But then he saw the fires burning in her dark, dark eyes, a fighting spirit—that and a haughty glare she couldn't quite hide. Libby Justice wasn't humbled or even sorry for insulting him. If anything, she was laughing behind his back. Looking forward to the battle, he not only went ahead with the charade, but thought of a way to improve upon the previous plan.

  Leaning in close, but not touching any part of her, Donovan captured her in his gaze. "I'm having a hard time believing that was a sincere apology. I'm thinking that maybe you're just teasing me a little, and that you don't really care what happens to the Tribune."

  "Oh, but I do care, I do. I'll do anything to keep this paper going. I swear I will."

  "Anything?" Donovan
made a purposefully lazy perusal of her mouth before adding in a deep voice, "Just exactly what do you have in mind?"

  Although her eyes widened for just a second, making him wonder if she didn't know exactly what he'd been suggesting, Libby wasted no time showing him what she had in mind. Either she was a most rare creature, indeed—a female impervious to his charms—or she hadn't the first idea what he'd been insinuating. In any case, the moment the words were out of his mouth, she launched an all out effort to see that his needs were met. Most of them, anyway.

  All spunk and fire, the sassy newspaperwoman whisked him through a surprisingly interesting tour of the pressroom, showed him her outdated photography equipment, and then ushered him into the private editor's office, where he now sat with his feet propped up high on the desk. He was smoking a cheroot she'd dug up from God knew where—it tasted old and looked like a piece of dried-up buffalo flop—and sipping from a bottle of cherry brandy Libby had pulled out of the desk drawer. Her father's favorite, she'd said. Any minute now, he expected her to return to the office, drop to her knees and insist on shining his shoes. At which time, Donovan thought, settling into the role of a publishing scion with relative ease, he would probably take her up on the offer.

  Being a "member" of the wealthy Savage clan had its rewards beyond the comforts he was already enjoying. Libby had even insisted that he spend the night at her home in the spare room, a gesture which had touched him so, he'd impulsively asked her to join him for supper this evening. Considering that he usually got out of the game while he was still ahead, no matter what the stakes, Donovan wasn't so sure the invitation wasn't more reckless than impulsive, but he shrugged his doubts away.

  It was, after all, merely an innocent meal with a small town ink-slinger. Other than the fact her tongue was set on swivels at both ends, what possible harm could there be in spending the evening in such a manner? Besides, if anyone had to be on their toes tonight, it was Liberty Ann Justice, not him. Pleased with himself for slipping so easily into the well-heeled shoes of Andrew Savage, even if it was just for this short time, Donovan snubbed out the cheroot against the sole of his boot, and then poured himself another brandy.

  * * *

  Libby had never cared what the men of Wyoming thought of her, or if she never got married. While Lucy Stone and Libby's own mother had proved nearly thirty years ago that a woman could be happily wed without compromising her position on equal rights, many more suffragists, including the indomitable Susan B. Anthony, felt that a woman dividing her loyalties between a marriage and the cause diluted the strength of both.

  Libby tended to agree with the latter theory, at least, given the choice of the marriageable men in Laramie. She couldn't think of a suitable bachelor offhand who would agree that she was entitled to as many rights as he was. Just because Wyoming Territory was the first to grant women the vote, didn't mean all of its menfolk agreed with passage of the bill. And as far as Libby was concerned, if a man didn't believe as she did in that respect, he wasn't even worth pinching her cheeks over.

  She was sure, however, that a man of the Savage family, especially a dandy like Andrew Donovan Savage, would expect any woman he escorted to a restaurant to do much more by way of grooming herself than simply pinching her cheeks. From what little she knew of them, the entire bunch, led by their imperious father Randolph Thaddeous, was socially correct right down to their custom-made shoelaces. How was she to complete the transformation necessary to impress a snobbish, arrogant man like that, and in less than an hour? There was only one thing to do—and that was enlist the aid of an expert, her friend Adelia "Dell" Hight.

  It had proven to be a miserable waste of time, Libby decided an hour later, as she sat across the table from Andrew Savage. She had an idea that if she and Dell had spent the entire night trying to put her together, the result probably wouldn't have been any better. She felt like a sideshow freak, and if the way her escort tried to hide the horror in his expression every time he glanced at her counted for anything, she looked like one, too.

  Even though she was taller and bigger around than Dell, Libby was wearing one of Dell's dresses—a gown which didn't have a clearly defined waist, but sported frilly draperies at the back and an abbreviated train. The color of the dress, a pattern of sprigged, red rosebuds, clashed with Libby's auburn hair; so, instead of using the hat which matched the gown, Dell had fashioned a quick bun at the crown of Libby's head and topped it with an engraved silver comb. Hardly the fashion of the day.

  Savage cleared his throat, drawing her attention. "Are you feeling all right, Libby?"

  "Excuse me?"

  He grinned. "I couldn't help but notice that you were walking like a duck all the way over here. Did you hurt your back, or something?"

  "Oh... ah, not really." God, how embarrassing to think he'd noticed her odd gait. Her feet were, like the rest of her, bigger than Dell's, and since she didn't own a ladylike pair of shoes, Libby had worn her usual boots, and walked slightly bent over to hide them beneath the hem of her too-short dress. "I, er, twisted my ankle a little earlier today. It's nothing."

  Instead of commiserating with her, he laughed. "You seem to have a lot of accidents."

  "Yes, I suppose that I do." What had she been thinking to have accepted a dinner invitation from a polished society-type like Andrew Savage? Even with all Dell's fussing, Libby was still nothing more than a painted up hoyden. All she wanted to do now was run out of the restaurant as fast as her legs could carry her. Maybe she could come up with some kind of bogus emergency and skip out on the meal before she made matters worse.

  Donovan, who'd been watching the panic build in Libby's expression until she looked away, assumed she was still worried about his shutting down the paper. After he ordered a bottle of wine, he decided to set her mind at ease. "Why don't we get our business out of the way first so we can enjoy our meal?"

  Libby whipped her head toward him, sending the silver comb that held her hair in place tumbling across the table. It landed in the center of his china dinner plate, making a terrible racket.

  Reacting as though such occurrences were commonplace, Donovan simply lifted the comb from his plate and, repeating his previous question, passed it across the table. "As I was saying, shall we proceed with our business discussion?"

  "Oh, sure." As she spoke, Libby wrestled with the length of hair that tumbled down her back when the comb fell out. "Where, ah, were we?"

  Although Donovan thought he was finally ready to tell Libby that he was not in any way related to the Savage family, he found himself hesitating. She was obviously nervous about this meeting, and had gone to a lot of trouble to fix herself up tonight—if the uneven face powder and cherry-red lips meant anything. Her make-up looked as if it were wearing her, instead of the other way around. And where had she picked up that ill-fitting dress? Not only was the style dated, but it looked very uncomfortable on her, as if it were too small in the few areas where it clung to her body.

  Donovan sighed. He couldn't just pull the rug out from under her after she'd gone to so much trouble to impress him. And there was the matter of pride, hers, certainly, but his, too, for having let the charade go on for so long. Besides, what real harm could there be if he were to continue as the newspaper baron until he'd left town? Anyway, he planned to stop by the offices of R. T. Savage the minute he returned to San Francisco, to offer information about Andrew's sudden "accident," return the dead man's belongings, and try to collect a reward. It wouldn't cost him a thing to plead a case for the Laramie Tribune while he was there. And Miss "Lippy" Justice might even come out of the ordeal learning a lesson or two about how to behave around her superiors.

  Feeling magnanimous now instead of guilty, Donovan forged ahead with the new plan. He glanced across the table, trying hard not to stare at Libby's hair—her refreshed bun was listing badly to the left, defying gravity—and said, "Let's see. If I remember correctly, all you want is a little more freedom with your editorials, right?"

 
"Yes. That and some new photographic equipment." She held her head unnaturally still, as if very aware of her precariously perched bun. "I'm not much good at measuring the right amount of powder for the flash bar we have now. I've singed my hair and set fire to my working hat a couple of times of late. But even worse, since the flash occasionally makes quite an explosion, I can't find many folks in town who'll let me get close enough to them to take their photos anymore. It would be a good investment for Savage Publishing, I think, if they were to send me some new equipment."

  "Certainly sounds reasonable to me." Donovan couldn't help but chuckle as he remembered the scorched smudges on the brim of her bonnet. "I don't see why I can't get 'dear old dad' to send you a new camera. Anything else you need?"

  "Not as far as equipment is concerned. In fact, I'd give up the new camera if I had to, just for permission to write the Tribune's editorials my way—no censorship, even when the subject is equal rights."

  "I see." Donovan brought his index finger to his chin, as if in deep contemplation, though he didn't need to do much thinking on the matter. After reading the letters from the home office to the Tribune, he knew that R. T. Savage demanded complete and utter acquiescence from the editor of his Laramie affiliate. While he didn't want to dash the glimmer of hope in Libby's dark eyes, he couldn't very well make promises he had no way of keeping. "I'm afraid what you're asking for is not going to be possible. You'll have to follow Savage guidelines for your editorials, at least until your father returns. Maybe he can take it up with R. T. then."