The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  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 h
is mother, grabbed the balustrade, and hoisted herself up on the first step.

  "I don't have time for this, Libby," Donovan shouted, as she started 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.

  Libby was thinking of asking him if she'd be better off bareheaded, when R. T.'s secretary approached, smiling warmly as she said to him, "Mr. Savage will see you now, Mr. Donovan."

  Under his breath, he whispered to Libby, "Wait here."

  Then he rose and followed the attractive young woman down the hall toward the impressive double doors. So did Libby. "Don't forget to introduce me to him," she whispered, taking up residence at his side by slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  "You'll pay for this," he muttered. By then, the secretary had bowed out and closed the doors.

  R. T. rose from his chair. "Donovan, my boy, it's good to see you again." He beckoned him toward the desk, then gestured toward Libby. "And who is this?"

  Left with no choice, Donovan presented her to the publishing magnate. "This is Liberty Justice from the Laramie Tribune, sir. She's been wanting to meet with you for several days now."

  "Is that a fact?" Circling the desk, R. T. shook Donovan's hand, then turned to Libby. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my dear."

  Libby opened her mouth to respond in kind, but suddenly, she couldn't move or speak. She'd been planning this visit since making the decision to board the train in Laramie, dreamed even before that about someday meeting this vastly important man. Now that she was finally here, standing before Randolph Thaddeous Savage himself, she was too bowled over to greet him properly!

  Donovan must have realized her quandary, for he reached around behind her and poked her in the ribs, jolting her into action. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Savage." Libby giggled as she spoke—not laughed, but giggled like a little girl, and then, because she couldn't think what else to do, dropped into an awkward curtsy. "It's a pure and special honor to make your acquaintance, sir."

  R. T. chuckled deeply, but Donovan took her by the elbow and raised her up, whispering so only she could hear, "He's not the king of England. Get hold of yourself."

  "Why don't you two have a seat and make yourselves comfortable?"

  Once they'd taken up residence in their plush leather seats in front of his desk, the publisher propped his hip against the corner of the desk, gave Libby's hat a long look, then said, "Justice, hum? You wouldn't happen to be related to Jeremiah Justice, would you?"

  "Oh, yes, sir. I'm his daughter."

  "And you've been wanting to talk with me, have you?"

  "Yes, sir. It's about—"

  "Let me guess." R. T. brought his thumb and forefinger to his chin, as if contemplating a major dilemma, making it easy for her to see where Donovan got his swarthy good looks and commanding presence. If the son hadn't already robbed her of her ability to think straight, she was quite sure that R. T. would have stolen her breath away. "...and I suppose you're naturally concerned over the letters you've received about the content of your newspaper's editorials. Correct?"

  Aware she'd lost part of what he'd said while studying him, Libby stumbled with her reply. "Ah, yes, sir, I'm concerned about a lot of things, but the editorials are of major importance."

  "Well, you don't need to worry your pretty little head about them anymore." Savage paused to glance at her hat again, looking as if he were thinking of amending the part about her pretty little head, but then went on. "When your father returns from his trip abroad, I'm sure he and I can get this straightened out to everyone's satisfaction. In the meantime, how are you enjoying your visit to San Francisco?"

  "Oh, ah, fine, sir, but, Mr. Savage... my father is dead, sir." Libby could hardly believe she'd come right out with the truth. Even to herself, she hadn't completely admitted that Jeremiah Justice would never return to Laramie again, that he was gone forever. But she couldn't lie to this man.

  His gaze jumping to Donovan for a moment, then back to Libby, R. T. said, "I'm terribly sorry to hear that, young lady. Would you like me to send a new editor to Laramie? I believe my son Francis may have a man here who could fill that position nicely."

  "Oh, no." She hadn't meant to speak out so sharply, but she hadn't come all this way just to turn over the helm of the family newspaper so easily. "I feel that I'm quite capable of running the Tribune by myself, Mr. Savage. In fact, that's exactly what I've been doing for the last six months. I was hoping that you'd see your way clear to give me a little more freedom with my editorials." She decided not to mention the camera or extra funds.

  Again R. T. looked to Donovan, this time shaking his head a little. "In that case, I'll have to give the matter some more thought and let you know my decision later. For now, Donovan, I'd like to address the reason I asked you to come here on such short notice."

  Libby had been dismissed, she knew that, but she could hardly find fault with the man. He hadn't been aware of her presence in San Francisco, much less of her desire to see him on business. Far from distressed, Libby was fascinated with the scion, awed to think that Donovan was his son—his son. She couldn't even begin to imagine having someone like R. T. Savage as a father. What, she wondered, did Donovan think of his new circumstances? Was he as overwhelmed?

  R. T. continued, addressing his son, "I won't be coming to the office tomorrow, and I wanted to personally invite you to my home on Saturday."

  Donovan, who was sitting stiffly on the edge of his chair, felt the collar of his crisp new shirt tighten around his throat. "I appreciate the invitation, sir. What's the occasion?"

  "It's a family gathering of sorts, a wake for your brother Andrew, of course, but also a celebration. I may have lost a son this week, but I also found one. I intend to present you to the others so that you can take your rightful place in the family. Will you join us?"

  Stunned beyond words, Donovan couldn't speak or move at first. What he'd give to have known this man some twenty years ago, especially as he recalled the nights he'
d lain awake dreaming of a moment such as this. A father, a real father to call his own—and brothers, too. Was there a coppery-haired sister to go with them? he wondered recklessly.

  Or was he even sure he still wanted that elusive dream? He'd grown fond of his independence and used to the fact that he never had to answer to anyone, not even to Lil. Having an honest-to-God family would surely change all that.

  "To tell you the truth," he said finally, "I don't think I'd be much good at being a member of the Savage family—or of any family, for that matter. It sounds like too much responsibility for a maverick like me. Frankly, sir, in spite of your claims, I can't imagine that the rest of the family is going to be any too thrilled when they find out about me."

  R. T. laughed. "They weren't, but they do know about you now, and have decided to accept you as one of their own. You only need to accept us. Will you?"

  Donovan was incredulous. "Mrs. Savage, too?"

  "If you're referring to the mother of my children—excuse me, my other children, that is—I lost her to pneumonia some years ago. The new Mrs. Savage is looking forward to meeting you, as are your two brothers and your sister, Susan."

  He did have a sister. Speechless again, Donovan sat there staring up at the man who openly called him, Son. To his right, he could feel Libby gently prodding his ribs with her elbow. When he turned and saw her bright-eyed, eager expression that seemed to be urging him to accept, Donovan had a sudden feeling that he'd shown too much of himself, exposed a need he usually kept buried deep inside.

  He glanced back up at his father. "What time do you want me to be there?"

  R. T. smiled again, more warmly than before. "Four in the afternoon, but be prepared to stay a while. We'll have some drinks, a little supper, a lot of entertainment, and more." His smile became victorious as he favored Libby with another glance. "And please, Miss Justice, do come along with Donovan."

  * * *

  It wasn't until they were safely back at his house that Libby dared to intrude upon Donovan's privacy. When they'd left the publisher's office, he'd been excited, though not as excited as she'd been. Since then, he'd slipped deep into a brooding, detached mood. Maybe, she thought, he just needed a little cheering up.