Authors: Sharon Ihle
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.
"It's been quite an afternoon, hasn't it?" she said brightly. "You must be feeling overwhelmed. I know I am. Your father is possibly the most remarkable, intelligent man I've ever met in my life."
He grumbled something she couldn't understand, as he removed his jacket and hung it on the brass hat rack near the front door.
"If I were you, I think I'd be bursting inside by now." Libby continued the one-sided conversation, sure that Donovan would join in at any moment. "It must be truly wonderful to find your family after all these years, and then discover that they're waiting to meet you with open arms. I remember what you said the other night about being a bastard, and how you thought—"
"You can't possibly understand what it's like to be a bastard," he said, "or to have a family you don't know thrown at you, so stop pretending that you do."
Donovan had removed his hat and added it to the rack along with his jacket, but he remained standing in front of the tall brass tree, his back to her. Recognizing that he was bound to have a certain amount of shock over the events of the day, Libby quietly strode up behind him and slipped her hands across his shoulders. She gently rubbed Donovan's back, kneading his rigid muscles with gently probing fingertips.
"You're right, of course," she murmured dreamily, happy to be touching him, to feel the hard, angular male beneath his smooth satin vest, and to think of him as her own. "I've always had a loving family by my side, so I don't really know what it's like to wake up one day to find that I suddenly have a father. I like to think, however, that I have some idea how you're feeling right now."
Donovan turned on her so quickly and abruptly, that Libby instinctively ducked. He caught her arms and hauled her upright again. "I don't want you to know how I feel about my family, and I don't want you to know how I feel about anything else, either—can you possibly understand that?"
"I—no." Libby wasn't sure what to make of his mood now. She just knew that it wasn't good.
"Then maybe you'll understand this: I don't want you to be here anymore." In spite of the declaration, for a moment, Libby thought Donovan was going to kiss her. He hovered on the brink of indecision, his hungry gaze fastened to her mouth, but at the last moment, he gritted his teeth and went on with the ultimatum. "I want you out of here by morning."
Libby couldn't have been more stunned if he'd punched her in the gut. "But, I don't have to go home yet. I was invited to the Savage party, remember?"
"Why would you stay on for that?" His eyes were glittering like molten silver. "You got what you wanted—R. T. promised to think about easing his restrictions on your newspaper. What other reason is there for you to stay?"
Libby could think of a million reasons to stay, all of them linked in some way to Donovan, but he was so upset, so irrational, he frightened her a little. Because she couldn't think what else to say, she repeated her former excuse. "Because I want to go to the party."
"No," he shouted. Then softer. "No, Libby. I've got enough on my mind as it is. It's better all around if you go now."
"Are you telling me I
have
to leave your house? Are you throwing me out?"
For what seemed like an eternity, Donovan just stared at her, his gaze filled with something akin to longing. "Yes, Libby," he finally muttered with a certain sadness. "That's exactly what I'm saying."
"I see." Her heart, which had been racing with excitement only moments ago, skidded to a sudden halt. She felt as if it'd been torn from her chest. Had she not been flooded with sudden, suffocating pain, Libby might even have lashed out at Donovan to make him hurt the way she was hurting. But it was all she could do to look him in the eye and say, "If that's the way you want it, I'll be out of here first thing in the morning."
* * *
Donovan spent a horrid, sleepless night after the confrontation with Libby. His dreams, when he did manage to doze off, were filled with images of R. T. cracking a whip over the backs of his sons, their cowed bodies glistening with sweat as they strained against their traces. The load they pulled up the long steep inclines of Nob Hill included a throne that contained Donovan. The scene was reminiscent of the prodigal son returning home. At the top of the hill stood Libby, dressed in her long, flowing nightgown with several lengths of curly auburn hair tumbled across her shoulders. She was shouting, too, warning him about something, he thought. Before he could make out the words, though, she faded into the morning mist, along with the dream.
Feeling sluggish, Donovan finally dragged himself out of bed and headed downstairs. Even before he reached the kitchen, he could smell the mouth-watering aroma of blueberry muffins baking in the oven, and fresh-ground coffee beans percolating on the stove. So Libby hadn't taken him seriously after all, he thought, not nearly as irritated as he figured he should be to find that she'd disregarded his wishes. Still, Donovan rounded the corner preparing to do battle.
"Ah... good morning to you, Mr. Donovan." Gerda nodded toward the table. "Sit and I will feed you."
It was not Libby, after all. He blinked the grit from his eyes and yawned his disappointment away. "Isn't this Friday? What are you doing here?"
"I left a note Tuesday, saying I wouldn't be back until Friday of this week. Didn't you read it?"
He vaguely remembered something about a holy day rearranging her schedule. Nodding, he dropped into a chair. "I forgot. Is Miss Justice up yet?"
"Up and gone, to make room for more of your little piggies. She asked me to give you this." She reached into her apron and tossed a slip of paper onto the table. "Humph, and good riddance, if you ask me."
Gerda waddled over to the stove and poured a cup of coffee, giving Donovan a moment to read Libby's note.
Thanks for everything. Sorry to have been such a bother. The next time you're in Laramie, do me a favor and DON'T stop by to say hello. It was signed, Liberty Ann Justice, for herself, and no one else.