The Marrying Kind (7 page)

"But, I thought you worked at Savage Publishing."

He decided to duck the issue. "A man can wear more than one hat, can't he? My interests happen to be varied. And what business is my business to you, anyway?"

"I guess I made it my business after Joy barged into my room."

"I see," he said sarcastically. "Waltzing uninvited into a woman's—or a man's—room does seem a little rude, now that I think of it, not to mention, improper."

"Oh, well, of course—oh, excuse me. I only followed her, not realizing, of course, that you'd be, you know..."

She waved apologetically toward the bed, but Donovan was tickled by Libby's suddenly anxious gaze as it trailed along his naked chest to where the sheet was draped dangerously low on his hips. With a wry grin, he said, "That's right, Miss Justice. I sleep in the raw."

"But, I wouldn't normally walk in on you this way. Since I knew that Joy had come in here, and I didn't think..."

Libby's voice faded away, along with her excuses, but the flush on her face roared to life, her cheeks turning a brighter shade of red than a barmaid's dress. Careful to keep his amusement to himself, Donovan made a great show of scanning her nightgown, particularly the little peaks jutting out just below the squared yoke.

"Why did you really come to my room, hm?" he asked in a low, suggestive voice. "Looking for a little insurance that I'll be sure to bend R. T.'s ear in your direction, by any chance?"

"Oh, goodness, no, I wouldn't..." Libby glanced down at herself as if she'd suddenly remembered that she wasn't properly dressed, then began to back toward the door. "I'll be ready to go to your father's office with you shortly. I'd like to get going as soon as possible, if you don't mind."

"We might as well. I can see that I'm not going to get any more rest around here today. Just one more thing," he added before she crossed the threshold. "You're not planning to wear your buckskins, are you?" Not that he intended to take her inside with him.

"Oh, goodness, of course not." Her laughter was halting, nervous as she folded her arms across her breasts. "Those are my working clothes. They're far more comfortable and serviceable than dresses for most of what I do, reporting and such, but I did bring something suitable for visiting Savage Publishing."

He nodded. "Have it on and be downstairs in thirty minutes. I have a lot more to accomplish today than trying to save the
Laramie Tribune."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Then she scurried on down the hallway, leaving Donovan to contemplate ways of getting out of this mess once and for all.

* * *

Nearly two hours later, after a fast breakfast, a short cable railway ride, and an even shorter walk, Donovan guided Libby into the small but picturesque courtyard gracing the entrance of the imposing five-story Savage building. The other businesses lining the street were linked by common walls and similar Italianate facades, but the publishing house, elaborately ornamented with bay windows and High Victorian Gothic design, was set back from them, making room for the courtyard.

He escorted Libby to a circular bench which surrounded a lone shade tree and said, "You'll probably be more comfortable if you wait right here. With any luck, I won't be long."

She grumbled a little, but took a seat on the bench. They'd argued over how best to approach the publisher all during breakfast, with him insisting that the best plan would be to see R. T. in private, and then, if need be, to send for her. She hadn't agreed easily, but in the end, had little choice but to comply with his wishes. And thank God for that, he thought, given the way she was turned out.

Libby was dressed all in black, a none-too flattering color for her fair complexion, if you didn't count the bruise. In place of a fashionable little bonnet, she wore a black lace scarf draped over her head. Between the dress, which was devoid of any kind of ornamentation, her curious tottering gait, and the scarf, Donovan thought she looked like the drunken wife of a preacher on her way to a funeral. Even if he'd
wanted
to take her to see R. T. Savage, he'd have left her outside.

Her stomach churning with anxiety, Libby watched Donovan's fuzzy image divide the glass doors and fade from view. Something was wrong. His confidence, usually so flagrant, no matter the subject, seemed tentative at best. And she had the nagging feeling that he was hiding something, or at least, skipping over some not-so-minor detail. She should have simply demanded that he bring her along when he went to see his father, but she'd been distracted by her aching feet.

Damnation, she muttered inwardly, cursing the impulse that made her buy such miserably uncomfortable high-heeled boots. At the time, she'd thought they'd look nice and fashionable with the mourning dress she was wearing, and also with Dell's fancier gown, should she have occasion to don it. Now all she wanted was to be barefoot. Groaning, Libby massaged the ball of her foot through the stiff, new leather. How would she ever manage the trip back?

If all that wasn't enough to make her feel less-than-adequate, now that she was finally in the big, cosmopolitan city of San Francisco, Libby could easily see that even her best clothing was common and hopelessly dated. All the other ladies she'd passed on the streets were gowned in colorful dresses featuring embroidery, flounces, and drawn-up overskirts which spilled gracefully over fashionably large bustles. And the hats these city women wore. Libby had never seen anything quite like the wide assortment of feathered and fussy bonnets, or the matching parasols seemingly every lady she passed was carrying. Not one of them, she noted wryly, had been wearing a scarf on her head. No wonder Donovan hadn't wanted to introduce her to his father.

Glancing toward the doors where she'd last seen him, Libby was surprised to spot a figure which seemed to be dressed in very much the same manner as he'd been. Surely he hadn't gotten his father to agree to her demands so soon. Sneaking her glasses out of her pocket, she briefly held them against the bridge of her nose and studied the man. It
was
him. And his painfully handsome features were drawn and etched with worry. Lord in heaven—now what?

Rising slowly, Libby buried her glasses in her pocket, then swallowed to ease the sudden ache in her throat. As Donovan approached, she asked, "What's wrong?"

"It shows, huh?"

She nodded. "Just tell it straight out. What happened?"

"Not much. R. T. is out of town, and will be for several more days."

"Well, where did he go? Maybe we can meet with him there."

"Give it up Libby." Donovan's expression was deadly serious. "There's nothing else you can do here. I want you to listen carefully to what I have to say from here on out, and do what I suggest."

"All right," she said, even though his ice-blue eyes still told her that something was wrong. "Exactly what do you think I ought to do now?"

"I want you to let me take you back to my place to pick up your things. After that, I'll see you safely aboard the first train to Laramie."

"Oh, no. I'm not—"

"Let me finish."

She clamped her lips shut, but had a list of objections ready to toss at him. Something definitely wasn't right. Savage family member or not, she intended to find out exactly what.

"Thank you." Donovan made a little courtesy bow. "As I was saying, I'll send you a wire the minute R. T. returns and let you know what he has to say about everything—which, by the way, is exactly what I intended to do all along."

"I thank you for your suggestions," she said sharply, "but I didn't come all this way just to go back home without seeing your father. I'm staying. Anything else?"

"Dammit, Libby." Donovan shoved his hands in his pockets, then turned his back to her and began pacing. "Why do you have to be so stubborn about this? I told you that I've got things under control. I even have an appointment with R. T. a week from Monday. I promise to wire you the minute our meeting is concluded. That should be reassurance enough."

"What did you say?"

"I promised to wire you—"

"Not that." Incredulous, Libby circled Donovan until she could look him right in the eye. "Did you just say you made an
appointment
with R. T.?"

His expression wide with horror, or something close to it, he stood rock-still, giving Libby an even better glimpse of the man inside than before. Things were far worse than just "not right."

Her suspicion cresting, she grabbed the lapel of his jacket, and demanded, "Why the
devil
do you have to make an appointment to see your own father?"

Chapter 4

The last gambler who'd lost a week's pay to Donovan hadn't looked at him with such contempt or hostility—and Libby still didn't know exactly what he'd done or how he'd deceived her. He backed a safe distance away before trying to explain.

"You're probably going to laugh when you hear this," he said, calling on all his boyish charm. "But I'm surprised I even
got
an appointment with old R. T."

"I'm not laughing yet."

"That's because I haven't gotten to the really funny part."

Donovan paused, giving Libby a moment to relax a little, but she was like a rock, as she stood there burning holes in him with her accusing brown eyes.

"I could use a good laugh about now," she muttered. "What's so blasted funny?"

"Well, the truth is, R. T. has no reason to want to see me, even
with
an appointment because... well," he chuckled lightly. "I'm not his son."

"Not his son—you mean, biologically?"

"That's right." Watching her carefully, catching the gradual shift in her expression from animosity to curiosity, Donovan decided that Libby was only slightly stunned by the information, but not so shaken he couldn't smooth her ruffled feathers. "I am not, nor have I ever been, a part of the Savage family. The closest I've been to any of them was when I sat next to Andrew during a card game on the train to Laramie."

"Andrew?
A card game?" She frowned, looking very confused. "I don't understand. If you're not Andrew Savage, why did you come to see me at the
Tribune
? Do you work for Savage Publishing?"

"Good Lord, no. I have nothing to do with the newspaper." Damn, but it felt good to have it all out in the open. Good and almost virtuous. "I'm a gambler by trade and, like I told you, a partner in Lucky Lil's. Savage didn't make it to Laramie to see you because during that card game, one of the other poker players shot him."

Libby gasped. "Shot him? You mean he's
dead?"

"As in staring up at the sky, but seeing nothing." He paused to give Libby a moment to digest the significance of that before going on. "Savage left his satchel behind, so I took it, intending to return it to his family—which I'm still trying to do. Does that clear everything up for you?"

Save for the twitching of a muscle near the corner of her left eye, Libby didn't respond right away, or even change her stunned expression. But she did begin to move, her gait rigid and determined, and slowly circled him as if he were some kind of prey.

"Libby?" Following her movements, Donovan spun around on one heel. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

But she just kept circling, glaring now, looking like a beady-eyed vulture just hours from starvation.

"I know when you get to thinking about this, you'll see the humor in the situation." He laughed, surprised to hear a nervous chortle in his voice, then cleared his throat and adopted a sterner manner. Hell, it wasn't like he'd cheated her out of anything. "You'd do well to remember where we are," he warned. "Think of the folks peeking out the windows of Savage Publishing. They can see us down here, you know."

This threat seemed to have some impact on her. Libby abruptly stopped pacing, coming to a halt just inches from him, and at last, she began to talk. And talk. And talk.

"I have a few questions," she began, her adorable features contorted with rage. "Let's start with your real name, you low-down, dirty, egg-sucking varmit."

Damn, but she was pissed—glowing with anger. "It's Donovan, like I said."

"Donovan
what,
you chicken-thieving, mangy dog."

He tugged at his suddenly too-tight collar, wondering how he could have misread her so. Libby had bitten those words off hard enough to break her teeth—which, he couldn't help but notice, were bared as she waited for his answer. "Donovan is my last name. I never use my given name."

"What is it?" she demanded, tracing his steps as he backed away from her. "Judas? Benedict? Or maybe it's Brutus—yes, that's probably it. Brutus, right?"

His full name, something he never told anyone, was as private to him as his deepest thoughts, but for a crazy moment, Donovan actually thought that if he were to share that information with Libby, if he were to give her that small piece of himself, maybe it would somehow help to right the wrong she thought he'd done her.

"It's William," he admitted, spitting the name out like a stream of tobacco juice, "but I never—"

"William, huh?"

Donovan had always hated the name, and with damn good reason. Throughout his life, his mother had called all her paramours "William," no matter what their true identities might have been. She'd claimed she'd done so because the name was her favorite, but Donovan had always known she'd done it because her love life was less confusing that way. He hated the name "William," all right, along with the memories of the men in his mother's life. And hearing the word spewing from Libby's snarling lips made it sound worse than it ever had before, almost like a vile oath.