The Marrying Kind (5 page)

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 newspaper 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."

After glancing over Donovan's shoulder, the barkeep smiled, his expression too smug, too knowing, somehow. "Tell me a little about this gal first."

Donovan leaned forward for more privacy, aware that another customer had approached the bar from behind him, and quickly described Libby. "Well, let's see—she dresses like Calamity Jane, has the face of an angel, and she's bolder than hell—you know, talks straightforward, kind of like men do but her voice is breathless and feminine, husky too, if you get what I'm—"

"Excuse me," a woman interrupted from behind him, "but you wouldn't happen to have any cherry brandy back there, would you?"

At the sound of that voice—one suspiciously like the voice he'd just described—Donovan's tongue felt as if it'd swelled in his throat, choking him. It couldn't be her—not here, not riding the damn train to San Francisco.

The bartender, still smiling, whispered, "I'll take that bet." Then he turned to check his stock behind the counter as Donovan frantically pointed to his glass for a refill.

"Sorry, ma'am," said the barkeep. "The only flavored brandy I have is peach."

"Oh, fudge," she said rather impatiently. "Well, I guess that'll have to do. Give me one, and why don't you pour one for Mr. Savage, here, too. I think he's going to be needing it."

It
was
her. Donovan whipped around and practically bumped into Miss Liberty Ann Justice. "Libby. What a surprise." And God help him if she wasn't wearing her buckskin trousers and that horrible storage-bin of a hat. "What the—ah, what in the world are you doing here?"