The Marrying Kind (14 page)

"Oh, Lord." Libby gasped. "I'd forgotten about him. If you're R. T.'s... oh, Lord." She immediately thought of Jeremy and the fact that she'd been away from Laramie for so long. Guilt adding to the emotions rising in her throat, Libby swallowed hard. "I guess that makes—made—Andrew your brother."

"Half brother, yes, it would seem that he was." He thought back to the poker game on the train and sadly shook his head. "I only met him that one time, but the truth is, I didn't much like him." Donovan wondered briefly if knowing that the man was his brother would have made any difference. He thought not. "Once I told R. T. about Andrew, he naturally got quite upset. The last thing I figured he'd want to talk about was freedom of the press, so I didn't mention you or the
Laramie Tribune
at all."

"Oh, well, of course not. I can certainly understand there was no place in the conversation for my problems."

"There really wasn't a place to discuss anything but Andrew, once that was out in the open. R. T. said he needed a couple of days to collect his thoughts and to make arrangements for Andrew. He promised me that, as soon as he was able, he'd send a messenger here to summon me."

"Summon you?" What an odd way to invite a long-lost son to visit. "That sounds like a subpoena or something."

"That's probably exactly what it is, Libby. He doesn't know a damn thing about me, except that I carry his blood."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that." She softly sighed. "All this must be terribly difficult for you."

Maybe, Donovan thought to himself, but he had an idea it hadn't been nearly as hard on him as what he had to do next might be. He must convince this stubborn woman to return to her home. He couldn't wait to get Libby out of his house, out of his mind. This had been, without a doubt, the longest ten days of his life. Last night alone had seemed interminable, especially after he'd gotten her up the stairs, and she'd fled for the safety of her own room. He'd come so close, so very, very close to breaking down her door and taking her then—his conscience be damned—that he could hardly look her in the eye this morning. Just thinking of how close he'd come to defiling the only decent woman who'd ever passed through his life made him more determined than ever to send her away.

His tone brooking no disagreement, Donovan launched what he hoped would be a convincing argument for her to get the hell out of town. "Given the circumstances, I think you ought to return to Laramie immediately. I can take care of everything from here on out. Even when R. T. sends for me, I won't know what kind of mood he'll be in or if there will be an opening to bring your troubles up. It could be another week or so before we get around to talking about the
Tribune."

As usual, Libby's first impulse was to disagree, but then she thought of Jeremy, and hesitated. Would it be fair or even plausible to leave him and the newspaper without her guidance for another week? She considered the wire she'd received from Hymie yesterday, insisting all was well, then recalled the note Jeremy had added requesting that she please bring him back some kind of souvenir from one of the famous San Francisco cable cars, even if it were only a splinter of wood. Nowhere had he mentioned missing her, or even made inquiries about her return. There wasn't a reason in the world to think that Jeremy and crew would be anything other than fine if she were to extend her stay a little.

Her mind made up, Libby smiled broadly as she said, "I wouldn't dream of leaving, now that you've found your father. In fact, this could even make one of those great, weepy stories R. T. likes so much. Why, if he'll let me, maybe I'll write it up for both the
San Francisco
and
Laramie Tribunes."

"No way that's going to happen
,
Libby." His hands against his face again, Donovan heaved himself off the wicker chair and went to stand in front of the window. "You don't quite understand, do you? I'm the
bastard
son, the one he wants to hide. He doesn't give a shit—excuse me, he doesn't care about me at all. In fact, R. T. is probably considering ways of paying me off right now, so that I
won't
claim him as a father. I doubt he wants that information splashed across the fronts of his newspapers." His gaze flickering to her, he added, "Why don't you just give up and go on home? I swear to God, I'll do everything I can here on your behalf."

"I'm not going, Donovan."

Looking back out the window to Gerda's herb garden below, he shook his head, wondering what it would take, short of shanghaiing her, to get this mulish female back where she came from. The next thing he knew, though he hadn't heard her get out of bed, Libby was standing behind him, whispering against the back of his ear.

"I can't wait to meet the man fool enough to turn a fine son like you away." She spoke in dulcet tones, a warm spill of honey to sweeten the bitterness in his heart. "And even if he doesn't want to hear about my troubles at the
Tribune
or won't allow me to print a story about your reunion with him, I still want to go."

She gently laid her head against Donovan's back, then slipped her arms around his waist and gave his middle a light squeeze. "I'm in this with you all the way."

At her touch, Donovan lurched forward a little, his knuckles white where he gripped the windowsill for balance. Damn, he thought, drawing in a deep breath to ease the frustration building inside him. This was not what he wanted for himself or for Libby, no matter how fast he always responded to her touch. She was
not
the kind of woman he wanted chasing after him, and she for sure was
not
the kind he could easily bed, no matter how hard his body tried to convince him otherwise. What in God's name did he have to do to convince
her
of that—move another woman in here with him?

As he toyed with the idea, sure that Libby wouldn't stay under the same roof should he make such an arrangement, her voice caressed the back of his ear again, this time smoky and seductive. "I'm sorry for, well, hollering at you the way I did after we got upstairs last night. You were a little drunk, and I was... a little scared, I guess."

Swearing softly under his breath, Donovan glanced down to where Libby's hands were clasped dangerously, if innocently, close to his waistband. He could feel each of her soft curves pressed against his body, knew from his previous explorations that all he need do was turn around and reach inside the folds of her nightgown to gain access to the woman. And, now that she knew he really was a Savage, he had an idea that she wouldn't discourage him so quickly.

Raw desire ripped through him in spite of his struggles against it, making him hate Libby at that moment almost as much as he wanted her. Using the hate to his advantage, Donovan broke her hands apart, and then turned to launch his final argument against her staying in San Francisco.

"You had every right to be afraid of me. When I'm drunk, there's no telling who I'll chase after or what I'm liable to do." He forced a laugh. "It's a damn good thing Gerda doesn't stay over—for her, that is."

Libby didn't say a thing to that. She didn't have to. Her expression, a mix of hurt, confusion, and maybe even disgust, said it all.

"I'm the same man I've always been," he went on to explain, his voice harsh. "An honest sort most times, but capable of bilking a sharper when the circumstances leave me with no choice. Women don't fare much better around me."

"What are you trying to say, Donovan? You wanted me last night, but now that you've sobered up, you don't?"

"What I'm saying," he replied gruffly, too aware of her nearness, too unsure of his lightning responses to risk touching Libby even long enough to set her away from him, "is that I'm the kind of gambler who can find a pinprick between the eyes of the queen of spades just by sliding my fingertip across it—or put one there, if need be, just as easily. I'll cheat when necessary—on anyone, for any reason. You, on the other hand..." He paused, his eyes flickering over her prim and proper nightdress. "You, my dear lady, are the marrying kind. The kind who expects a man to be, well, something I'm not."

Libby heard every word he said, but for some reason, her mind refused to move past the thought of his fingers—and the fact that they were sensitive enough to detect marked cards. It made her wonder what those accomplished hands might do to her, should they caress her entire body.

Donovan exhaled impatiently. "Now do you see the problem with your staying here any longer?"

Libby forced her concentration back to the conversation, and gave him what he seemed to need so badly: reassurances. "There is no problem, really. When you consider my staunch support for equal rights, we should be a perfect match. I'm not the marrying kind, any more than you are."

"For heaven's sake, Libby, what does suffrage have to do with this? I'm talking about real people here, you and me. When I look at you, I see lace curtains, a neat little cottage, and a bunch of carrot-topped kids running amok in the vegetable garden. Me? I'm a bastard—a real one, you know—a gambler who doesn't always stay on the straight and narrow." Adding what he was sure would be the final inducement, he said, "I'm also a man who isn't terribly particular about who shares his bed."

Libby tried to turn away, but Donovan could see how much that statement stung her. He gripped her shoulders, keeping her in place, and made her listen to the rest of his argument. "What I'm not," he maintained, "is the sort who trifles with virginal types like you—in short, the kind of woman who'll want something from me in the morning that I simply can't give."

"Can't?" she asked. "Or won't?"

In this, Donovan refused to be baited. "Can't, which means I'm not even close to what you're looking for, Miss Justice. And I'm sure as hell not what you need."

She stood silent a long moment, her dark eyes impassive. When she finally spoke, her words were equally distant. "Thank you for being so candid. You're absolutely right—you're not the kind of man I'm looking for at all."

Libby tried to say this as if she believed it; but her gut kept insisting that he hadn't been entirely truthful with her—and that Donovan Savage was exactly what she needed.

* * *

Donovan's argument—especially the part about not being particular about who shared his bed—stayed with Libby for the next two days, grating like a dull saw on her already ragged nerves. Like it or not, however, she did understand why he might be reluctant to court a woman like her. Other than making sure her clothes were clean and pressed and that she was properly groomed, she'd never bothered too much with her appearance, and certainly not just to impress anyone of the male species. The night in Laramie when she'd borrowed Dell's dress didn't count since she hadn't been thinking of Donovan as a male, but simply as an employer she had to impress.

She thought of him as a male now. One, much to her chagrin, with whom she suspected she'd fallen a little bit in love. Thinking of doing more than impressing him—of attracting him—Libby dressed the she had the day he'd "set her straight." She donned the new suit he'd purchased for her, and then struggled to twist her hair into a rather attractive bun at the top of her head. She'd gone to a lot of trouble to present herself as femininely as possible that day, but the effort had turned out to have been a miserable waste of time. Donovan had hardly even glanced at her when he'd come downstairs, and then, instead of dining with her, had tossed off a flimsy excuse for leaving her alone and taken off into the night.

Today, she'd awakened in a foul mood, one that had made her feel so ornery, she'd donned her comfortable buckskins and rawhide boots. There'd been no point in bothering to primp for a man who showed no inclination to acknowledge her efforts. She'd even defiantly plaited her hair into a pair of braids, and let them hang down the front of her blouse—something she hadn't done in years. Then she'd gone to work. She had articles to write, and a plan to work out with regard to R. T. Savage and his rigid editorial rules. Never again would she allow anything, not even love, if that's what she felt for Donovan, to keep her from remembering the vow she'd made to her mother.

Dressed in that manner and sprawled in the middle of the living room rug with her pencils and writing pads, Libby spent the better part of the afternoon writing an article about the history of the cable railway for Jeremy and the
Laramie Tribune.
As she worked her way through the second revision of the piece, a knock sounded at the front door. At first, Libby wasn't inclined to answer the summons since it wasn't her house and she didn't know how Donovan would react to being disturbed during his rest. He'd slammed through the door a couple of hours ago, while she was in the kitchen, and dashed upstairs before she could make it down the hallway to stop him.

The knock sounded again, this time loud enough to rattle the glass in the bay window. Against her better judgment, Libby leaped to her feet and went to open the door.

Donovan's partner stood on the stoop, impatiently tapping her foot. For a moment, the woman looked stunned, as if lost. Then she leaned back, read the numbers nailed to the doorjamb, and looked inside the house again.

Eyeing Libby suspiciously, she asked, "Who the hell are you?"

Libby's first impulse was to slam the door in the redhead's face. Instead she responded in kind to the woman for whom she'd taken an instant dislike. "I'm Liberty Justice. Who the hell are you?"

Lil, although she'd yet to introduce herself, seemed taken aback for a moment. Then, with a toss of her vermilion curls and the bright yellow ostrich tips poking up from them, she boldly entered the house, the frilly skirts of her lemon-colored dress swishing against Libby's worn buckskin trousers as she brushed past her.

"Donovan?" she called, ignoring Libby entirely. She glanced inside the living room and then down the hallway. "Donovan, where are you?"

"He's upstairs resting...
ma'am."

Libby addressed Lil by that term, not out of respect, but due to the age difference between them. This was the first time Libby was seeing the woman up close, let alone in the daylight. She clearly had at least fifteen years on Donovan. Why in the hell was he so attracted to this older woman? she wondered. Not that Lil wasn't pretty in a cheap sort of way, and she supposed, appealing enough to the opposite sex. Then Libby remembered Donovan's remark about not being terribly particular about his lady friends and the next thing she knew, Libby was boiling inside.