by Sharon Ihle
"But there's no point in even having a newspaper if I can't print the truth." There was panic in her tone, but a fair amount of outrage, too. "Surely you and your father can understand that. What do you people have against women, anyway?"
The wine arrived then, giving Donovan a moment to consider a change of subject. He wanted out of this conversation, and now. He didn't like discussing this fictional "father" of his any more than he liked being reminded that he'd never had a real father to call his own. All he'd wanted out of this evening was a quiet dinner, a few laughs, and maybe later, a friendly little game of poker at one of the many saloons he'd noticed in town.
Raising his glass toward Libby, he said, "If you're wanting to run an editorial regarding voting rights from time to time, I don't think I'll have too much trouble getting R. T. to 'turn his head' about it, but any freedoms other than that, are simply out of the question. Shall we drink to the conclusion of our business and order our suppers now?"
"No, not yet. Please?"
She hadn't so much as touched her glass, and showed no intention of doing so. He wagged an authoritative finger at her. "Sorry, but I'm hungry and this subject is closed."
Still, Libby didn't make a move toward her wine. It was then Donovan noticed the utter and dogged determination in her expression. "Tell you what," he said, looking for a more gentle way to ease out of the discussion. "What if I promise to have a long talk with R. T., when I get back to San Francisco, about giving you a little more freedom? Would that make you feel better?"
"That depends on what you're planning to say to him. Do you have the slightest idea why my editorials are so important to the women's suffrage movement?"
"They'll help gain the vote nationwide, I suppose."
"Gaining the vote is very important, and yes, my work should help in that way. But the vote is just the first step in gaining equal rights in all areas of our lives—rights you and the men in your family enjoy everyday without even appreciating them." She lightly banged her fist against the table by way of punctuation. Her bun wobbled, but held steady. "You wouldn't sit still for those injustices if they were directed at you—why should I? And why shouldn't I have the right to express these beliefs in my newspaper's editorials?"
Warmed by the wine—or maybe it was Libby's impassioned speech—Donovan reconsidered. Maybe he could help her a little more when he stopped in at Savage Publishing. "All very interesting and valid points. If that's what you want me to mention to R. T., you've got it."
"Oh, well... thanks." She finally paused long enough to take a sip of her wine. "To tell you the truth, you've always been so hard-headed in your letters, you've caught me by surprise. I didn't expect that you'd care what I thought or wanted, or that you'd agree so easily to talk to your father about it."
"I said I would, and I will." Done with the discussion for sure this time, he added, "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to order our meal."
"In a moment. I'm not quite finished. There are a couple more issues I'd like you to explain to your father."
Donovan managed to contain his exasperated sigh, but he drummed the table with his knuckles as he said, "And they are?"
"The vote is the biggest thing, of course, but gathering enough supporters for the cause is going to be difficult enough, even if I printed a feature everyday. To be tied to running an editorial from 'time to time' is simply not good enough. Next year is an election year, and we're desperate for the vote now. I must have complete freedom to print what I see fit as often as necessary."
"For heaven's sake." He laughed a little. "Working toward the vote is a noble crusade for you ladies to strive for, but don't you think you're over-dramatizing the urgency just a bit?"
"No, and for very good reasons. For example, I think it's safe to assume you're not aware that, should I happen to come into possession of the house in which I live,"—which she had actually owned for the last six months—"our government would expect me to pay taxes on it."
"So? Everyone has to pay taxes, even temporary editors like you."
"But I shouldn't have to—not as long as I have no voice in the legislation of those taxes. That would make me a victim, like many of my sisters, of taxation without representation." Libby slammed both palms flat against the table. The bun bounced a few times, then began to slide, comb and all, toward her ear. She no longer seemed to be aware of it. "It seems to me that you men pitched a fit in Boston over that same issue better than a hundred years ago. You wouldn't accept such tyranny then—why should we accept it now?"
Reminded finally that he didn't have the right to debate this issue with her—not as Andrew Savage, anyway—Donovan tried to end Libby's lively, impassioned speech. "Thank you for all the fascinating information. I'll be sure to address your editorial freedom with R. T. the moment I get home. Now, if you don't mind, I've heard just about all I want to concerning women's rights. My backbone met my belly an hour ago, and if I don't eat soon, I'll fall right out of this chair."
As he waved the waitress over to the table, Libby thought of speaking up again, for she really didn't think Savage had a full grasp of what she was after, but she bit her lip. Something in his expression made her keep the rest of her thoughts to herself. He was looking at her in the oddest way, not like a man impressed with her intelligence or knowledge of the situation, but of one who was about to burst out laughing. A moment later, the comb fell out of her hair again, and this time it landed with a horrendous splash—into her glass of wine.
* * *
The following day brought warmer weather and, along with it, a sultry breeze unusual for the middle of June. It made Libby feel restless, wanting something she couldn't quite name, but wanting it badly. And her desire wasn't just to forget about last night and her idiotic attempts to impress Andrew Savage with her ladylike aplomb. She'd been struggling with her concentration all morning and bottling her frustrations until she thought she might explode from the pressure. It was the kind of day on which, had she been younger and faced with less responsibility, she'd have said, "the hell with it," grabbed her bamboo pole, and gone fishing. She closed her eyes, imagining herself lying on the grassy banks of the Laramie River, and could almost feel the sun baking the frustrations right out of her body.
Of course, imagining an afternoon like that was as close as Libby had gotten to the real thing in a long, long time. She hadn't had a moment without serious responsibility since the age of nine—the day after Jeremy came into the world, making her an instant mother to him and housekeeper for her widowed father. She gazed out her office window, wondering why she couldn't seem to allow herself to just toss everything aside for one day, and take that little fishing trip in spite of it all. Other people in business took vacations from their daily chores, but not Liberty Ann Justice—not even long enough to make a decent attempt at behaving like a lady.
Supper itself had gone fairly well after she'd pinned her hair up for a second time. It was after the long walk home that things had gone sour. She'd fluttered her perfumed handkerchief around the man's face, laughed at everything he said (the way Dell had instructed), and even swooned against his shoulder when they reached the stairs leading up above the pressroom, to the apartment she shared with Jeremy. The swooning part had been the easiest since her legs had been ready to give out anyway after walking "like a duck" all the way home.
But nothing she'd done seemed to make any impression on Savage. He'd acted as if he couldn't wait to be rid of her. And since then, she hadn't seen hide nor hair of him.
As she stared forlornly out at the wide, beckoning skies, it finally occurred to Libby that the sun was no longer rising, or even hanging high in the sky, but was on a westward journey toward home. It wasn't morning any longer—it was way past noon. Why hadn't Savage come to see her yet? Not that she was looking forward to the moment, by any means; but surely their business wasn't yet concluded to his satisfaction.
She had a few bones to pick with him. For a newspaperman, he knew precious little about new
spaper offices. It rankled her to think this spoiled son of a rich scion had such power over her, when he apparently knew so little about the working end of the business. He hadn't even realized the press was so new until she'd mentioned it.
Libby glanced around her office, noting that he'd left his satchel sitting on the floor near her desk. He was still here, or at least in town. But what if he'd slipped out of the house before she'd awakened this morning, and was now on the loose, poking his nose around and asking questions? Her position with Savage Publishing was too precarious for her to take a chance on him finding out about her father.
Libby leaped out of her chair, grabbed the satchel, and dashed out of her office, toward the back room. On the way, she collided full on with her employer, who was headed in her direction.
"Urrgh." He staggered backwards, clutching his belly and gasping for breath. "Ye Gads, Libby. Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you all right? I was worried about you since I hadn't seen you all day. Where have you been?"
"Sleeping. I took a tour of your town last night, and had such a good time I didn't get to bed till dawn. I was looking for you just now to say good-bye." About then, Libby noticed he was carrying his traveling bag. "I also want to thank you again for your very warm hospitality. I hope I haven't been too much trouble for you."
"Oh, but you can't be leaving town already."
"Oh, but I can." His words were brisk, clipped. "I'm going to catch the train to San Francisco in a couple of hours, and I have to take care of a few business matters in town on my way out." Before she realized what he was doing, he reached down and took his satchel from her. "I was just coming to get this."
"But, but..." She had to stop him somehow. "What about my editorials and such? We never did finish our conversation or address some of the other issues that concern both the Tribune and Savage Publishing."
He paused, eyes downcast, as if weighing a very difficult decision. Then he looked her in the eye. "I might as well tell you the rest. I know about your father, and, er, that he's not really out of the country. I heard about his accident over at one of the saloons on Front Street."
"Oh... my God." What else could she say? There was no way to deny it—all the man had to do was go to the graveyard for confirmation.
"I'm sorry about your father, Libby, but surely you must have known that, sooner or later, Savage Publishing was bound to find out about his accident."
Libby's heart seized up in her chest and, although she'd filled her lungs not a moment ago, the air inside her froze, making it impossible to speak or breathe.
Donovan could hardly stand the injured look in her doe-like eyes, the terrible sense of loss it suggested. Living without a father his entire life had been tough on him—at times, a nightmare. He couldn't even imagine the pain or sense of abandonment that losing a father might bring, but he could see that her grief ran deep.
He was just this side of confessing everything, of dropping to his knees and begging her forgiveness. He realized he had to get out of town while he was still ahead, if, indeed, he still was.
"I admire what you're trying to do with the paper, Libby, and even understand why you lied about your father, but you can't go on like this forever. As I promised, I'll do what I can to make Savage Publishing understand what you want. But do yourself a favor—don't get your hopes up too high." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, then turned and walked out the door.
It's over, Libby thought, feeling sick inside as she watched the newspaperman's image blur into the other "hitching posts" outside. It really and truly was over, for she had no doubt that he had merely spared her the final indignity of padlocking the Tribune himself. Men as rich and powerful as all that didn't have to deal with the actual closing of the doors—they hired henchmen to do their dirty work for them. He'd simply come to Laramie to check things out. A hired executioner would take over from here.
Libby recalled his final words as he walked out the door, "Don't get your hopes up." She thought bitterly of all the trouble she'd gone through to impress Andrew Savage. He'd been the one ladling out the chin music all this time, not she. And now he would simply shut her down.
Libby's fingers curled into fists as she envisaged the gang of miscreants Savage Publishing would send to box up her precious Campbell County Press, their filthy, money-grubbing hands taking away everything she lived for, including the Tribune's name.
It couldn't be over yet, she thought, frantically searching for a way to keep the man from boarding the train to San Francisco. It just couldn't be. Libby didn't know how she could prevent Savage's departure, or even what she would do with him should she manage the task, but she had to try. After all, what did she have to lose at this point?
She'd vowed at her father's graveside, had she not, that she'd hang onto the Tribune as long as possible? And hadn't she promised her mother she'd do anything to help fight for equal rights—anything at all?
Then for what, Libby had to ask herself, was she standing around waiting?
Chapter 3
Several hours later, as the train roared on toward Utah and beyond to California, Donovan strolled up to a small counter at the south end of the drawing-room car that served as a bar, and ordered himself a tall shot of Irish whiskey. Glancing behind him as he waited for his drink, he briefly studied the few men occupying plush leather chairs and tables that lined the windows on both sides of the car. Most were enjoying an after-dinner cigar and a brandy, he noted, but none looked particularly interesting or well-fixed enough for him to consider approaching for a friendly little game.
Just as well, he thought, turning back to the bar to find his drink sitting there on the glass top. He wasn't really in the mood for poker, or games of any kind, now that he thought about it. Not after the way his little "game" with Liberty Ann Justice had turned out. When he walked out of the Tribune's office, her ashen features and stricken expression had nearly undone him. Since he'd boarded the train, he'd been thinking about her almost constantly. He felt sorry for her one minute, full of admiration for her the next, and every blasted second of those minutes he also felt guilty as hell for running out on her. Before he'd left town, he even thought of telling the truth—again. He'd strongly considered informing her who he really was, complete with a guarantee that he wouldn't breathe a word of what he'd learned about her father to anyone in San Francisco. But at the last minute, he'd changed his mind. What the hell good would it have done anyway? Gritty or not, Libby couldn't hope to fool Savage Publishing forever. His confession would only have delayed the inevitable—and made him look like an idiot.
Hell, she hadn't even been able to fool him, Donovan thought, recalling the way she'd carried on after supper last night. On the walk home, she'd abruptly turned into a fluttering female, acting as if Cupid had suddenly fired an arrow into her conniving little heart. He'd been amused at first by Libby's awkward, hesitant gestures, and damned if he didn't have to admit that he'd been a little inflamed by them, too. But those amateurish efforts to sway him to her side also irritated him. She hadn't been trying to impress William Donovan. Her act had been for another man: rich, powerful—dead—Andrew Savage.
Donovan sighed with regret, or something akin to it, then picked up his drink. He was definitely in a rare mood, one he figured would probably require at least a full week's intake of Irish whiskey—all in one night. He tossed down the liquor in one gulp, shuddered from his teeth to his toes, then gripped the edge of the bar.
"Damn, that's good," he muttered. "Fix me up another one, would you?"
The bartender just smiled and spun a quarter on the counter in front of Donovan. Waiting until the coin had worn itself out and clattered noisily to the glass, he finally said, "I'll bet you that next drink it's a woman."
Puzzled, Donovan glanced up at the man. "A woman?"
"You, sitting there laughing one minute, scowling at your own reflection on the bar the next. Got to be a woman, right?"
With a
lusty chuckle, Donovan nodded. "Probably not the way you're thinking, but yes, it's a woman, all right. Isn't it always?" He tossed two coins onto the glass, paying for his drink and the barkeep's. "You an expert on the subject are you, or just a lucky guesser?"
"An expert, friend." He poured two tall shots and shoved one Donovan's way. "I've known and loved them all, the short, the fat, and the tall. There isn't a thing that surprises me about women anymore. To yours," he said, raising his glass, "whoever the little darlin' might be."
"To little darlin's everywhere." Donovan bumped his glass against the barkeep's in salute, and took a sip, even though he didn't have a "little darlin'" to call his own, and never would—if fortune kept smiling on him. He was quite sure, in any case, that his little darlin' wouldn't be coming to him in the guise of one Liberty Ann Justice. Feeling a sudden need to drink to that, too, Donovan slammed down the rest of his whiskey and took a deep, relaxing breath.
"This little gal that's got you all tangled-up—she your wife?" asked the bartender, taking a pull of his drink. "Or just the gal that wants to be your wife?"
Donovan laughed again, roaring this time. "Hell no on both counts. This gal is... let me put it this way: she'd even surprise an expert like you."
The barkeep shook his head, his slicked-down hair reflecting the light from the small chandelier above. "I don't believe the woman's been born could surprise me."
"Would you care to make a little wager on that?"
The barkeep's eyes glittered. "I've been known to take a bet or two. What do you have in mind?"
"Where do you live when you're not on this train?"
"San Francisco."
"Then here's the bet." Donovan reached into his vest pocket and withdrew his lucky ten dollar gold piece. He tapped his foot against the railing, rattling the even luckier penny he kept in a hollowed-out section of his boot heel. Then he held the gold coin before the bartender's eyes. "I'll wager my favorite betting piece that you've never laid eyes on a gal like this one—not in San Francisco for sure—and what's more, I'll bet you never will."