Authors: Sharon Ihle
Inside R. T. 's massive office, Donovan lounged, across the desk from his father. It felt good to be here this time, even right, regardless of the fact that he hadn't exactly been "to the manor born." As an added bonus, he'd discovered now that he'd gotten to know the man better, he actually
liked him. A lot.
Donovan felt pretty much the same way about Francis, the brother he'd once dreamed of having. In fact, he not only accepted the hardworking newspaperman as family, but found in him a great deal to respect, too. Following instincts he'd honed through years of gambling with just about every kind of crook on the face of the earth—including a female sharper dressed as a nun, who kept a spring-loaded card holdout up her voluminous sleeve—Donovan had no doubt that Francis was, above all else, an honest, decent man.
Brother Thomas, of course, was another matter entirely. Maybe later as he became more integrated into the family, Donovan would stand to be near the foul-tempered oaf long enough to find something about him he liked. Next time they met, he vowed, he'd at least give it a try. As for Susan... Donovan couldn't even think about her without also thinking of his lost sister, a reality so fresh and painful he simply wasn't up to facing it yet.
"Enough business for a while," said R. T., breaking into Donovan's thoughts. "Tell me a little more about this Liberty Justice you brought home with you from Wyoming. I have the definite impression she's more than just a cute little reporter to you. Is there something serious going on there?"
"Aw, hell, R. T. I don't think so—at least, I hope not." Sinking back against the plush leather chair, he rolled his eyes. If the truth were known, Donovan would have to admit that even though he'd never known the meaning of "serious" where a woman was concerned, Libby had managed to shake him up a little. Enough so that he continually caught himself thinking of ways to keep her around a little longer. He doubted such thoughts qualified as "serious" feelings for her, but even if it were true, he was not about to discuss such unnerving emotions with his father, in spite of his new, rather comfortable relationship with him.
Thinking the better move would be to brush the subject off entirely, he laughed and said, "Libby's bright, she's good-looking, and she needed a little help. So I helped her. That's really all there is between us. I guess I'm nothing but a rounder who happens to be a sucker for a damsel in distress."
R. T. laughed along with him, making light of the situation, as Donovan hoped he would. "I'm glad to hear you're not seriously involved with a woman like that."
Donovan didn't care for what that remark suggested. "Don't let Libby's buckskins and men's boots fool you. As far as I can tell, she doesn't pack a gun or a knife."
"Not even strapped to her thigh?"
Donovan shook his head before he realized he'd inadvertently admitted something he normally would have kept to himself.
Looking more thoughtful now, concerned perhaps, R. T. adopted a surprisingly breezy tone, considering his grim expression. "Physical damage isn't what concerns me. If you're not careful, her kind can do much worse than leave a few scars. Believe me when I say that she and all her spinster friends usually have ulterior motives for just about everything they do. As the publisher of this newspaper, I know more about suffragists than I ever cared to know."
Donovan's fingers tightened around the arms of his chair. He did
not
want to discuss his feelings for Libby, and yet he could hardly sit here and allow his father to go on about her as if she were beneath contempt. Just as he was thinking of speaking up, someone knocked on one of the doors and slipped inside the room.
"Excuse me, Mr. Savage," R. T.'s secretary said, pushing the doors shut behind her, "but Francis and Miss Justice have finished their tour. Shall I send them in?"
After exchanging a fast glance with Donovan, R. T. sighed. "I guess you might as well. And Grace—-bring us all some refreshments, too. The best."
After his secretary left, R. T. leaned across the desk and spoke in low, rapid tones. "Just remember what I was saying about your little playmate. Go ahead and have some fun with her, but watch your back, Son. In fact watch your front and every little piece of your business right along with it. Mark my words on this—that girl's nothing but trouble, the kind of trouble that can make things very uncomfortable not just for you, but for our entire family."
Those remarks so shocked Donovan that he could hardly make sense of them. He had no chance to figure out how to respond to such a statement before Libby and Francis waltzed into the office with R. T.'s secretary trailing behind them.
"Ah, there you two are," said R. T., his glib tongue so smooth, Donovan wasn't even sure he'd heard right when listening to R. T. just a moment ago. "Take a seat. Donovan and I were just going over the type of position he might be best suited to here at the newspaper. What do you think he'd be good at, Francis?"
"I really wouldn't know without interviewing him, Father." Francis helped Libby into the chair beside Donovan, then sat down on the seat to her left. "I suppose a lot depends on the positions you've opened up for him. One of them wouldn't be managing editor, by any chance?"
The Savage men laughed together over that remark, but Donovan had an idea that, to Francis, it really wasn't a laughing matter. This was the one area concerning R. T. with which he was a little ill-at-ease. The old man seemed to take great delight in teasing others, especially his sons, making Donovan wonder if he didn't possess a usually concealed streak of cruelty.
All but confirming that theory, R. T. waited an uncomfortably long moment before saying, "No, Francis. I'm not looking to replace you. We're all in agreement that you've done a fine job as managing editor of this newspaper."
Grace returned and immediately approached the desk to serve each of the men a snifter of brandy. Only then did she turn to Libby. "May I get you a cup of tea, Miss Justice? Or perhaps you'd prefer something cool."
"Oh, no thanks. I'm fine."
Donovan caught R. T. studying Libby, and noted his frown. Although their recent conversation was still fresh in his mind, he thought his father's expression may have been prompted more by Libby's "hat" than Libby herself. She'd taken her work bonnet apart, removing all the little odds and ends adorning it, cut the brim down, and then covered the whole thing with her black lace scarf. It looked better than before, and was a definite improvement over the mangled hat he'd bought, but still... it looked a little odd.
"A toast to my boys?" said R. T.
While the men "cheered" one another, Libby slipped on her glasses and took the opportunity to glance around the office. The entire interior—the displays of fine leather, expensive furnishings, and dramatic bay view windows—positively reeked with the scent of power. Each carefully selected item pointed to Savage as a person of great power, from his fancy desk to the gilt-framed photograph of himself with President Garfield. Beside that hung another equally impressive photo of him with then newly appointed President Arthur. Again, Libby had to marvel over what heaven it must be to claim an important man such as this as a father.
Turning back to R. T., Libby listened in as the Savage men bantered about what positions Donovan would and would not be qualified to handle. At last, R. T. made a suggestion which made the most sense to her.
"What would you say to joining the staff as an advertising solicitor, Son?"
Libby exchanged a fast glance with Donovan, who was already looking her way with an approving and rather conspiratorial expression. With a triumphant smile, she said, "That's exactly what I suggested for him this morning. It takes an inordinate amount of charm, something Donovan is not lacking, in order to sling the kind of bull necessary to attract new advertisers."
Beside her, Francis dissolved into muffled laughter. To her right, Donovan just sat there grinning at her, looking like his usual amused self. But R. T., she couldn't help but notice, did not seem to be as tickled by her blunt, if accurate, account of what a job in advertising entailed. She blushed, cursing her impulsive tongue, and hoped that she hadn't put herself in too bad a light.
Raising one eyebrow, R. T. continued the conversation with his son. "As your friend so candidly and succinctly put it, I think you could do an excellent job of "slinging the bull." Would you like to start in the advertising department tomorrow?"
He shrugged. "I suppose selling advertising space is as good a way as any to learn this business. I'll be here first thing in the morning."
"Good, then. It's done." R. T. settled back against his chair and eyed Libby. "I imagine your business in San Francisco must be about concluded by now. Do you expect to return to Laramie soon?"
Libby made sure she gave herself plenty of time to formulate her answer without making a fool of herself or jeopardizing Donovan's newfound happiness. Until sitting here watching him interact with his father and brother, she hadn't realized how much becoming a part of this family actually meant to him. Still, she wasn't planning to be so considerate of his feelings as to concede the fight for editorial rights without at least launching one more plea for the cause.
"Actually, sir," she began, her voice carefully modulated to show respect, "most of my business here in San Francisco is concluded, but I simply can't leave without a little more discussion about my editorials. Since both you and Francis have expressed rigid opinions about my so much as mentioning women's rights, I was hoping you might at least tell me why. Maybe we have nothing more than a small misunderstanding."
R. T. didn't answer her at first, but silently studied her from across his elaborate desk instead. She tried not to flinch under his scrutiny, and yet she thought she detected a certain malignancy in his gaze she'd never seen before. Stealing a fast glance at Donovan to determine if he'd noticed the rancor in his father's expression, she realized that he was watching her too, apparently unaware anything was amiss. Libby immediately turned to Francis, hoping to find some confirmation from him, but he was tossing back the rest of his brandy, as oblivious as his brother to the tension radiating across the vast desk.
At last, R. T. broke the strained silence. "All right, Miss Justice, if whys are what you want, then you shall have them. Before you hear what I have to say, I'll apologize in advance, should I inadvertently offend you in any way. That is certainly not my purpose."
"Oh, don't worry, sir." At least he was willing to talk. "I promise not to take offense at your remarks."
"Hey, wait a minute here." Donovan leaned forward in his chair. "You two sound like you're choosing weapons. Can't this editorial problem be settled without what sounds like the beginnings of a big argument?"
R. T. laughed pleasantly. "Now, Son, I don't plan to lynch your friend. She gave me the impression that she wanted the cold, hard facts."
"And I do." Libby turned to Donovan, placing her hand on his forearm. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I cannot leave this town without knowing why the newspaper my family has worked for all these years refuses to give me so much as an inch of the freedom I'm begging for. My mother wouldn't have backed away from this situation, and for that matter, neither would've my father. I can do no less."
Her eyes met his and held for what seemed like several minutes, then Donovan finally shook his head and turned away. "If this is what you feel you have to do, then have at it."
"Thanks." Libby met R. T.'s hard-eyed stare. "You were saying?"
"That I really have no intention of offending you, and I sincerely hope that I won't. And by the way, Donovan—I'd like for you to pay close attention to what I'm about to say, as well. This is an area of the newspaper business we haven't discussed yet, but you should understand our position a little better."
Pulling his chair as far forward as it would go, R. T. propped his elbows on the desk and favored Libby with a warm smile. "A friend of mine likens the woman's movement to his cable railway business, so I think I'll explain our position in those terms. The drive for equal rights, especially in regard to the vote, is kind of like asking the men of this nation to board a cable car with a new brakeman at the controls—a female. She doesn't know the stops, hasn't the foggiest notion of how steep the hills in these parts can be, and her tiny little hands are too small to fit around the brake. If all that isn't dangerous enough, she's not even physically strong enough to wrestle the car's brake to a stop in the event of trouble. Are you following me here?"
Libby was appalled. Didn't the man hear his own words? "Oh, but Mr. Savage, I don't see what your cable railway system has to do with—"
"Allow me to finish my story, then let me know if you fail to see my point. But please, dear, do keep in mind that there's absolutely nothing personal in anything I'm saying here. All right?"
The things he was saying and the way he was saying them were very personal, indeed, but as far as Libby could tell, she was the only one who noticed. Left with no choice, she settled back in her chair. "Please," she muttered, "do go on."
"Thank you. Most female suffragists would have us change the way this country is run from management to maintenance, even though we've managed to do a very nice job of running it so far." He looked to his sons now, avoiding Libby's gaze entirely. "Now I ask you two—do you see any reason to support a movement which threatens to derail our nation by putting female superintendents in charge and a posse of giddy girls at the brakes?"
Staring down at her own hands, her cheeks aflame, Libby waited for Donovan to reply. He didn't utter a word. To her right, Francis fidgeted in his chair, but like his brother, kept his thoughts to himself. And from across the desk, she could swear she almost heard snickering.
"I thought not," R. T. said, obviously pleased that no one had challenged his stand. "If we at Savage Publishing were to condone this silliness for even one editorial, we'd be opening the door to more of this tripe being splashed across our country's newspapers, until finally, all our fine cable cars were destroyed or driven into the Bay."