The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I never meant to bring up bad memories." Lil looked as if she wanted to get off the sofa and offer a hug. She didn't, but Libby couldn't help but be touched just the same.

  "My memories are good. I just told you about my folks so you could understand why I've never had a chance to talk about these things."

  "I never had that chance either, now that you mention it." Lil's eyes glazed over as she thought back to the past. "My mother died when I was a babe, and as for my father... well, no little girl should have to learn about things the way I did."

  "Oh, Lil."

  "Don't go getting all sappy on me, dearie." Her eyes clear again, she squared her shoulders, matching the hard edge of her jaw. "I don't go in for tears over long ago, or tears caused by worries of the future. Today is about all I let myself think about, and the way I figure it, there isn't enough hours in one day to waste any of them blubbering all over hell. That said, and mind you, I don't want the details of my son's personal life, I don't mind talking with you about your troubles with him if that's what you'd like."

  "Oh, Lil, are you sure?" Libby had listened well enough to know what the woman thought of tears spilled for any reason, but in spite of that, she could feel them burning their way through her eyelids.

  "Don't make it sound like you're getting such a bargain." Laughing at herself, Lil chortled over the idea. "I never was much of a mother, but if someone like me will do as a kind of ringer for a few minutes, I'll be glad to help you if I can."

  "Thanks for offering. I think my troubles are with me, not Donovan. Other women involved in the cause talk and write about the joys of free love and taking lovers with no thought to getting married. They make it sound like that's all a woman needs from a man. I assumed I'd feel that way, too, or maybe I just convinced myself I would because I wanted Donovan so much, but it doesn't work that way for me. Now that I've... been with him, I just want him all to myself. He's all I'll ever want, and I don't know what to do about it, or how to go about making him feel that way over me."

  Lil nodded solemnly. "Is it safe to assume that you think you've fallen in love with Donovan?"

  Risking the woman's wrath, Libby raised her head and displayed what were by now, tear-stained cheeks. "I don't think that I love him, I know that I do."

  Lil didn't seem to notice the tears, but she came down hard on Libby on the other point. "Then you're a damn fool. My son is many fine things, but he is not the kind of man an intelligent woman falls in love with. I can't see where you can hope for a future with him."

  "Don't say it—I know he's not the marrying kind. He as much as told me that himself, but I don't believe it. I think Donovan hides behind that statement because he doesn't know what a good man he is. If he'll give me a chance, I'm sure I can help him see that he's wrong about that, and therefore, wrong about—"

  Lil burst into raucous laughter, interrupting Libby's impassioned speech. When she quieted, she said, "Pardon me, dear, but the next time it crosses your mind to change or 'fix' a man, any man, just forget it and remember me and Rand. I noticed the cruelty in him shortly after we met, but I was young and foolish enough to believe that my love would turn him into a cuddly little puppy. After all, most times, he was so smooth, so very nice, so stinking loving, I let myself believe I could scrub away the rough spots and live with him happily ever after. By now you know how that silly little fairy tale ends."

  Disheartened, Libby sighed. "Are you saying that I might as well go back to Laramie as fast as I can because Donovan will never be mine?"

  Lil methodically brushed the crumbs off her skirt. "I hate to say that, and I won't, but then I don't want to fill your head up with false hope either. Just understand that Donovan is the kind of man who most times won't let himself be the good man he is. I suppose he's lacking the things you need because he's never been around a decent, loving relationship. I like to think he has it inside him to love you, or someone, but that he simply doesn't know how." Lil struggled to her feet. "That's my fault, I expect, since I'm the one who raised him, but there isn't much I can do about it now. If you want the cold, hard facts, I guess maybe I raised him that way cause I'm not so sure there is such a thing as love."

  Libby thought of objecting, of making an impassioned plea in the name of love, but if she hadn't learned another thing from Lil during this discussion, she knew when to keep her thoughts to herself. The woman was done answering questions about life and her son, and she wanted to be on her way. Although she longed to give Lil a hug to show her gratitude, Libby knew instinctively that such a gesture would only make her uncomfortable. Instead of embarrassing her, she showed her gratitude with a few simple words.

  "Thank you for listening and advising me, Lil. I really do appreciate everything you had to say even if I didn't like what I heard here and there."

  "No thanks are necessary." Looking a little flustered, Lil buttoned her dress. "You know, I learned a little something here, too. Now that we've talked and I've had a chance to think about the kind of man my son is, I believe it would be a very bad idea for me or you to tell Donovan about his father—especially the part about what he did to me last night."

  "But you can't just let R. T. get away with that. It isn't fair."

  "R. T. didn't get away with much, dear, and never forget this—life isn't fair." She tapped her finger against her own chin. "It won't do a damn bit of good to try to explain to Donovan how R. T. made you feel in his office, either. If anything, it'll probably make things worse. When you're dealing with a slippery snake like Rand, I have a feeling, a person simply has to learn about him for themselves. Know what I mean?"

  Libby considered the thought, especially in relation to the way the man had mentally assaulted her right in front of his two sons. "You're absolutely right. There is no way to explain that kind of evil unless you've glimpsed it personally."

  Lil crossed the short distance between them and shook Libby's hand. "Then we're agreed. It might be best if you don't even mention I stopped by today."

  "All right." Libby was thinking of inviting Donovan's mother back again, maybe for a meal, when she noticed Lil had become distracted by something.

  Her expression flickering between horror and surprise, Lil said, "Great Caesar's ghost. What happened to the wallpaper?"

  Libby's heart lodged in her throat. How could she have forgotten about that damned wallpaper? She practically led the woman who'd put it up to the scene of the crime. "Oh, ah..." Libby stumbled around with her answer, hating to lie, afraid to tell the truth. "I think there are some mice in the house."

  "Good Lord, does Donovan know about them?"

  Libby didn't like her tone, the underlying suggestion, but she continued digging a verbal hole for herself. "Yes, he even set a few traps."

  "Did he really?" Lil pulled the curtain aside and stared down at the hard brown little lumps of macaroni and cheese. "How awful for poor Donovan. He's terrified of mice, you know."

  "He is?" Libby had noticed he was none too fond of them, but then, who was? "More than most folks, you think?"

  "Oh, definitely." As she surveyed the area, Lil briefly explained why. "He and I didn't have a pot to piss in during our early days, and we moved around a lot. We took over an abandoned miner's cabin in Jackson down in Mother Lode country one summer and found the place overrun with damn mice." She slid her fingers along the edge of the paper near the window, her brow bunched in contemplation. "The poor kid was only about five at the time. I had to leave him alone at night while I was dancing and singing to earn enough money to put food in our mouths. I didn't find out until later that every time he went to lie down on his ratty little cot, those mice would run all over him."

  A shudder of revulsion ripped through Libby. "I had no idea."

  "Donovan didn't get much sleep that summer in Jackson, but I don't think he has to worry about mice crawling through his hair here. Now that I've studied the damage a little better, I don't think he's got mice a'tall. It looks to me like someon
e ripped the damn paper right off the wall." Lil turned and headed for the door. "I think I'll go have a little talk with Gerda. She's too damned independent for her own good. Maybe it's time Donovan found himself another housekeeper."

  "No, wait." Libby caught up to her in the foyer. "I can't let you do that. I'm the one who did this."

  "You tore the frigging paper off the wall? What, if I may ask, possessed you to do a thing like that?"

  Reminding herself that brashness was Lil's way, Libby stood her ground. "I was waiting for Donovan the other night, worrying about him too, I guess, and I accidentally worked up a little tear with my fingernail. I tried to fix it, but I was so worried about Donovan that, well, I don't know exactly how it happened, but it just got bigger and bigger. I did everything I could think of to cover it up best I could, but—"

  "All right, enough. I believe it was an accident. Save the story for him." Chuckling to herself, Lil sashayed over to the door and turned the knob. Before letting herself out, she glanced at Libby, raised one eyebrow and said, "You really do care about Donovan, don't you?"

  She gulped, but proudly admitted, "As I said before, I love him. In fact, I'm thinking of telling him so tonight, right after I explain about the wallpaper."

  Lil wagged her index finger. "Tell him there are no mice, dearie, please do, but take my advice on the rest—don't tell him you love him. Not unless you're fixing to run him off for good."

  * * *

  Late that afternoon at Savage Publishing, Donovan whistled as he strolled into his brother's office and dropped on the desk the names of the new accounts he'd solicited. "There you have it, Francis. Ten new advertisers for the Tribune—count 'em—ten."

  Whistling his appreciation, Francis looked over the new accounts. "It looks like most of them are located around the Barbary Coast."

  "That's right, an area which, until now, has been a relatively untapped source of working capital, I might add."

  Francis laughed. "R. T. will be very pleased, I'm sure."

  Thinking of paying his father a visit, and not incidentally, gathering a little of his praise in the bargain, Donovan asked, "Did he ever come in today? I thought I'd stop by and say hello before I go on home."

  "No, I'm afraid he didn't make it in at all." Francis ran his hand across his high forehead. "He sent a messenger instead, to inform us that he'd been beaten and robbed last night while he was out shopping for Olivina's anniversary gift."

  "Beaten? Is he badly hurt?"

  "He's at home and, according to the message, only damaged cosmetically. There's a black eye, a swollen, bloodied nose, and some sore ribs, but nothing broken, as far as the doctor could tell."

  "Damn." Donovan kicked the edge of the desk. "What's this town coming to when a decent man like R. T. can't walk the streets without getting attacked by hoodlums? Did they catch them yet?"

  "I don't have any more details than what I told you. Maybe you ought to stop by the house tonight and at least say hello. We might have more details by then."

  Nodding thoughtfully, Donovan said, "I have a few more things to do around here, and I need to stop by my own place first. If you see R. T. before I get there, be sure to tell him that I..."—he paused, not exactly sure how to express the sentiment—"...hope he feels better real soon."

  "I will." Francis shook his hand, adding, "If I miss you tonight, I'll see you again first thing tomorrow morning, fireball."

  Although that statement coming from the brother he respected so much had gone a long way in lifting Donovan's spirits, he was still concerned and about half-mad as he strolled in through the door of his home that evening. Finding the house as dark as his mood, he called, "Libby? Where are you?"

  "In here."

  Her voice sounded flat and emotionless coming out of the darkened living room, and her tone raised the hairs at the back of his neck, but Donovan was not about to step foot into that particular room unless it was well lit. "It's too dark in there. Either light the lamps or come out here."

  He could hear her heavy sigh, but also the squeak of her chair as she rose from it, and assumed she was headed to the foyer where the lamp atop the credenza illuminated the surroundings. A moment later, almost like an apparition, Libby suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  Her sad brown eyes looking much too large for her drawn face, she said, "Your sister went to work for the cause today by sending some inquiries about Savage operations." Libby waved some papers toward him—telegrams, he thought. "I think we'd better have a little talk."

  Chapter 18

  As he settled down at the kitchen table with a cup of warmed-over coffee, Donovan chuckled over the information Libby had just given him. "And you're sure Eldorado Distilleries is owned by my father?"

  "It's owned by S and S Enterprises, which also owns Savage Publishing."

  "I wonder what Lil will think of that. We've been buying our whiskey from Eldorado for years now."

  "My guess," Libby said carefully, "is that she'll change liquor companies, but this isn't about Lucky Lil's. This is about the equal rights movement and the part your father plays in keeping the suffrage amendment off the ballot."

  "Aw, come on, Libby." Donovan sounded weary. "I thought we had all that female suffragist talk behind us. R. T. is dead set against women voting, and there isn't a damn thing either one of us can do to change his mind about it. I thought you'd decided to accept that, and just let it be." She made a point of looking him right in the eye, primarily to make sure he understood how serious she was, but also to gauge his reaction. "I've quit trying to change his mind, but now that I know he isn't just against the idea of the women's vote, but fighting it, I can never accept what he's doing."

  With one swift and completely unexpected movement, Donovan swept his cup and saucer off the table. Amid the racket of shattering china, he banged his fist down on the hardwood top and declared, "Dammit—I've had enough of this. I'm beginning to think you're trying to turn me against my family. Why? Are you so jealous of them?"

  Afraid of what she saw in his expression—a hint of R. T. Savage—Libby couldn't help but recoil a little. But she would not back down from her ideals ever again. "I'm happy you found your family, really I am, and I actually like most of them. But I can't accept your father's position when it means I have to turn my back on what I believe in—especially not now that I have a few more facts."

  Donovan muttered something she didn't understand and then said, "Other than the fact you found out we own a distillery, what's so damning about your new 'facts'?"

  "Plenty." Libby thought she saw him flinch, a gesture she likened to donning armor. Nor had she missed the way he'd referred to the Savage family as "we." The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Donovan or cast stones at the family he so obviously embraced as his own, but she could not ignore her own principles any longer.

  Trying to be as diplomatic as possible, she explained her position. "I thought your father was just being bull-headed by choosing to ignore the movement—and he might have continued to fool me into believing that for a good long while, if I hadn't found out how deeply he's involved himself against the cause. I could almost turn my back on his indifference or dislike, but I cannot walk away from the information Susan gathered today. Not when the man in question has the means to do such serious damage to the cause."

  Donovan waved impatiently. "Forget the dramatics, Libby, and get on with it. And speaking of Susan, I'm none too pleased about you dragging her into this women's rights business, or with the fact that you seem to be trying to turn your cause into some kind of family war. Just what is this damning evidence Susan turned up about R. T.?"

  Her own anger simmering, Libby had to will herself to calm down in order to offer a lucid explanation of R. T.'s activities. If she didn't, Donovan wouldn't even listen, much less believe her. "There are many and varied reasons as to why women are having difficulty gaining the vote, but highly visible among them, are the liquor and textile industries."

  "Textiles? You're o
ut to hang harmless old dressmakers, too?"

  Hating his sarcasm, the side of him which most closely resembled his father, Libby rose to the challenge and fired a salvo of her own. "Those harmless dressmakers, as you call them, oppose passage of the suffragist act because the minute women get the vote, they'll be slapping restrictions on the horrid way the textile industry abuses child labor in this country. Am I to assume that you're for an industry that works eight-year-old children to the bone, fifteen hours a day, and doesn't even bother to feed them?"

  Donovan plowed his fingers through the thick bank of hair at his forehead, looking almost apologetic. "Of course not. I didn't mean to sound like I'm making fun of you and what you believe in, but when it comes to my family, you seem to be trying to force something down my throat, I just can't swallow."

  "I'm sorry it comes across to you that way because I'm only trying to provide you with a clear picture of what we're up against, not forcing you to believe anything. With that in mind, please accept the fact that the liquor industry, which is probably even more powerful than clothing manufacturers, fears something worse than a loss of revenues—complete closure. If the suffrage act were to pass, it's entirely possible the female vote would bring about prohibition. While I don't personally believe in the temperance movement, and I would never vote for it, I understand it's gaining quite a lot of support."

  Looking thoughtful, Donovan drummed his knuckles against the tabletop. "If that was your best argument for swaying me away from my family, it didn't work. In fact, I believe I finally see why R. T. gets so upset about all this suffragist talk. I doubt he wants his distillery closed any more than I want to see Lucky Lil's shut down. Or haven't you thought of that?"

  Overwhelmed by the magnitude of what she was facing, Libby hadn't even considered the impact the temperance movement could make on Donovan's and Lil's business. Troubled as she was by the idea, she couldn't let even that concern stop her. "No, I'm sorry to say, I didn't think of that. Even if I had, it wouldn't change what your father's doing—or what I have to do to fight him."