by Sharon Ihle
"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?"
She smiled sweetly. A little too sweetly, he thought. "It's a wonder I made it at all. You wouldn't believe the trouble I had arranging for Jeremy and Hymie to take care of the paper while I'm gone, not to mention what I had to go through to get a decent pair of shoes. You didn't give me much time to prepare for the trip, you know."
"But, but..." Donovan heard liquor splashing into his glass, and blindly groped for it. "But why did you even make the trip?"
"Because I'm going to your father's office with you, of course." She actually looked surprised by the question, maybe even, offended. "No one can plead my cause the way I can, and besides, I figured you could use all the help you could get."
"Oh, heavens above." Not bothering to excuse himself, Donovan brought the glass to his lips and downed the whiskey. He hadn't gotten half of the liquid swallowed before he choked on it, spraying the glass counter, his shirtsleeves, and Libby's startled face. "What the—" He coughed and sputtered again, then cleared his throat of the vile flavor of rancid fruit. "What the hell was that?" he demanded of the barkeep.
"Peach brandy. The lady ordered it, remember?"
"Yes, but I—"
"Sorry if it surprised you a little." The barkeep ran his hand across his slick hair, grinning smugly. "'Course, none of this has surprised me in the least."
Donovan shot the man a nasty look before turning back to Libby, who was wiping her face with her bare fingers. "Now, where were we?" he asked.
"I was buying us a drink and you decided to spit yours at me."
"Oh, damn—I'm sorry." Donovan pulled his handkerchief from his vest pocket. "Here, I'll take care of that for you, but first let me get rid of this." He lifted the battered straw hat from her head, and dropped it on the counter. When he turned back to Libby, she'd raised her chin high toward the light and closed her eyes, giving him access to the splatters on her face. The angle of her head and mouth made her look as if she were waiting for a kiss—something, he realized with a shock, he was awfully tempted to give her. Whipping his head around to the bartender, he growled, "Where's that whiskey I ordered?"
"Coming right up, sir." Now the man was grinning like a cat.
After glaring at the barkeep again, Donovan caught Libby's chin between his fingers, careful to avoid the bruise, and hastily wiped her face. Then he returned to his drink and took a swallow.
Beside him, Libby lifted her glass of peach brandy and raised it high. "Here's hoping that we can get your father to listen to reason."
Donovan grudgingly bumped his glass against hers, but instead of taking another drink, he asked, "Just what are you planning to do when you get to San Francisco? Where will you go, where will you stay?"
Libby sat her drink down on the bar and turned to him with hands on hips. "Well, for goodness sake. What kind of a question is that? I would think, after all I did to make you feel welcome at the Tribune, the least the Savage family could do would be to offer to put me up for a day or two. Even in Wyoming, that would be the hospitable thing to do, especially since I can't afford to stay in a hotel."
"Oh, I, er, hadn't thought of that." Catching the barkeep's eye, Donovan slowly shook his head. "I'm sure I can find a room for you... somewhere."
After fingering his lucky ten dollar gold piece as it lay on the bar, Donovan slid it across the counter toward the bartender, and then rolled his eyes. "You win."
* * *
Her first morning in San Francisco, Libby awoke at dawn, feeling both amazed and pleased with herself. She'd done the impossible. So far, just about everything had gone her way. Back home, it hadn't taken her long to figure out that if she was going to save the paper, more drastic steps than keeping Savage in Laramie were needed. Besides, with less than two hours in which to come up with a plan, she'd figured her odds of finding the man, then convincing him to stay weren't too good.
Libby had briefly considered sending Dell after him since her disastrous attempts to impress Savage herself had proved that she did not possess the charms required to turn a man's head, much less turn him into a man who'd champion the cause. The trouble with a plan involving Dell was the fact that her passions did not lie in saving the Laramie Tribune or with the cause. If Dell had known exactly who Savage and his impressive family were, her sole objective would have been to get the man to marry her. So Libby had decided, the only way she could save the paper was to follow Savage to San Francisco herself.
There was no doubt in her mind that Hymie and Jeremy could run the Tribune alone for a week or so, and she always had extra editorials on file for emergency use. Hymie's wife, Nona, had agreed to keep an eye on Jeremy and cook his meals, so Libby really didn't have a care in the world except keeping R. T. Savage from closing the doors on her. She could resume working on that problem soon. Once Andrew Donovan Savage—and who'd insisted that she call him Donovan from here on out—woke up, he'd escort her to Savage Publishing as he'd promised.
Libby sat up and propped her pillow between her spine and the headboard of her fluffy four-poster bed. The room Donovan had designated as hers was softly feminine, the snow-white dust ruffle, coverlet, fringed curtains, and lace-edged pillow covers all made of the same puffy, crinkly fabric. The bedside cupboard, wash-stand, and dressing table had been stained dark to resemble walnut, but she thought they might be made of pine, as was the corner piece, a tall wardrobe with added shelving for shoes. What did Donovan need with a frilly bedroom like this? she wondered. She knew he had two brothers, but never had she heard mention of a sister.
In any case, Libby suspected that the sister, if he had one, wouldn't be living here. The fact that he lived alone didn't surprise Libby—after all, the man was near thirty and certainly old enough to be entitled to his own home—still, she'd been hesitant about staying here with him. He'd been a complete gentleman so far, but this arrangement wouldn't look good at all to the rest of the Savage family, and if it ever got back to the folks in Laramie, well... Libby didn't want to even think about that.
Instead, she glanced around the cozy little room again. She hadn't seen much of the rest of the house, except for the staircase she'd climbed to the second level last night, but she'd noticed upon arriving that the place was fairly small and sat shoulder to shoulder to the neighboring Victorian-style houses. What was a man of his wealth doing living in such an unimpressive home? The place was nice enough all right, but far from the mansion she'd been expecting.
Pondering that little inconsistency, Libby raised her arms above her head and stretched, closing her eyes and yawning vigorously at the sam
e time. When she dropped her hands into her lap and opened her eyes a few moments later, she was surprised to see that her bedroom door was open, and that a woman had entered, bag in hand.
"Oh," said the stranger. "I didn't realize someone had already taken over the room." She started to back out the door, but then stopped and cocked her head. "Are you new in town, sugar? I don't recall seeing you around before."
Flabbergasted by both the intruder's words and her scandalous appearance, Libby took a minute to form her reply. The woman's bosoms looked as if they were ready to fall out of her skimpy red satin dress at any minute. And her hair. It was a cottony shade of blonde Libby had never seen before, and puffed up on top of her head like a great hawk's nest. What was she doing in Donovan's home?
"Cat got your tongue, honey?"
"I came in on the train from Laramie with Donovan last night," Libby finally managed to say.
"Really?" The strumpet, or whatever she was, strolled over to the foot of the bed. She smiled then, drawing attention to her painted face and to her bottom lip, which was as unnaturally swollen as the puffy eye above it. "Out recruiting was he? I didn't know Donovan took a hand in that part of the business."
"Recruiting?" Had the man been looking for someone to take over the Tribune during his visit to the saloons of Laramie? "I really don't know what all he was up to."
She laughed. "Not many of us do. Are you new to the business, sweetheart?
"Oh, gosh, no."
"How long have you been at it?"
She shrugged. "In one way or another, I suppose, since I was a little girl."
The woman's good eye bugged out. "My goodness, dearie, but you're holding up well. Still, my guess is that you need the rest more than I do. I'll just go bunk with Donovan and let you get back to sleep."
"Wait a minute! Are you his... his wife?"
The woman laughed robustly. "No, honey. Our friend Donovan is definitely not the marrying kind."
