by Sharon Ihle
But could she have given herself to him so easily? Libby wondered for the thousandth time. If she had allowed Donovan to drag her down the hallway to his bedroom and fling her onto his bed, could she actually have gone through with letting him ravish her? Libby's belly quivered as she pondered what all making love might entail, and then she restlessly rolled to her side.
She wished fervently that she had a few answers about the subject. Most women's rights leaders, including Libby's hero, Susan B. Anthony, championed the notion of taking a lover without benefit of marriage, noting that men had long enjoyed this freedom without public chastisement. Etiquette, popular opinion, and—had he lived to see her through this dilemma—Libby's father all would demand that a woman remain virtuous until the day she wed. Where would her mother have stood on the issue? Libby wondered, suddenly missing her more than she had in a long, long time. Would her mother have embraced even this most radical dictate of the equal rights proponents, or sided with the more temperate suffragists who did not view sexual freedom as one of the "spoils of war"?
If only her mother had lived to see Libby begin to bud as a woman. Then at least Libby would have some idea of what to do the next time Donovan put his hands on her—if he ever tried again when he was sober. Libby's thoughts returned to her mother, and a single teardrop rolled down her cheek. The only advice she'd gotten from her mother regarding men was never to let any of them tell her she wasn't as good or as smart as they were. Upon realizing that she'd lost sight of that goal in her preoccupation with Donovan, Libby almost gave into the urge to bury her face in the pillow and weep until she was cried out, and might have, had the man in question not barged into her room just then, without so much as knocking on the door.
"You—you're still here?" He looked dazed, disoriented.
"Are you disappointed?"
"No, just... surprised."
Donovan finished buttoning his shirt, giving Libby the impression that he'd been dressing himself on the way to her room. If its rumpled appearance was any indication, it was the same shirt he'd been wearing the last time she'd seen him.
"After the way I treated you last night, I wasn't sure you'd want to spend another day under the same roof with me." Yet he barged into her room as if she'd invited him to do so.
Amused, but slightly irritated, too, Libby folded her arms across her breasts. "Which treatment are you talking about? Are you trying to apologize for the way you fondled me in the kitchen or the way you tried to drag me into your bedroom after we went upstairs?"
"Don't hold anything back, Libby," he said sarcastically. "Do tell me exactly what's on your mind."
"I just did. If you're not here to apologize, then what do you want?"
Sighing, Donovan rubbed his hands across his face, careful to avoid his eyeballs, which felt as if they might explode. Why had he drunk so much last night, especially with nothing but a couple of sweet rolls in his belly? He should have waited for this little confrontation until he was better equipped to do battle.
"I did come here to apologize, and for both treatments. I don't usually get liquored-up like that. In fact, I rarely take more than one or two drinks. In my line of work, it doesn't pay for a drunk to be looking after the other rum suckers."
In spite of her foul mood, Libby chuckled softly, propped her pillows beneath her, and raised up a little. "I forgive you for that since I have an apology to make along the same lines. I don't usually drink so much cherry brandy either, and certainly not during daylight hours. I'm willing to call it even on that score, if you are."
"It's a deal." Looking weary, he went on to ask, "I realize this may not be the best time for you, but would it be all right if we talked a little now?"
Though once again it wouldn't be the right or proper thing to do, Libby had far too many unanswered questions to let anything so ambiguous as propriety get in the way now. She waved him forward. "You're welcome to stay, as long as you promise to give me a few straight answers for a change."
Nodding, Donovan walked over to Libby's dressing table, removed the little wicker chair, and dragged it over to the edge of the bed. Sinking heavily onto the chair, he balanced his weight as the delicate piece of furniture sagged and creaked beneath him. Then he rubbed his forehead again. "Damned," he said, groaning, "if I don't feel like hell."
"My sympathies since I know what that feels like after my turn in purgatory yesterday. My memory's understandably a little hazy about what happened at Lucky Lil's, but if I recall, you brought me home and left me here to sleep, while you went on some great mission. Did it have something to do with Savage Publishing?"
"Everything, actually."
Donovan finally lifted his head to meet Libby's gaze. "Well? What happened?" she prompted him.
"You'll never believe it."
Libby sat straight up, making sure the quilt still covered her decently. "Let me decide that."
Donovan wished she hadn't made such an inviting statement, or chosen that moment to adjust her position. Now the quilt was draped low enough to show him that the buttons at the throat of her nightdress were opened—which in turn reminded him of exactly who had unbuttoned them, and how the exquisite softness just below that opening had felt against his lips. He hadn't been so drunk as to forget that.
He cleared his throat and glanced away from the tantalizing sight. "This is probably going to sound real funny to you," he began, feeling like an idiot, "and probably familiar as hell. What would you say if I were to tell you that I really am the son of R. T. Savage?"
Libby's spine stiffened, as did her jaw. "I'd say that you'd better get out of my room before I find something to throw at your head." She punctuated the sentence by reaching for the pitcher at her bedside.
"Now, Libby..."
"As I've warned you before, don't 'Now, Libby' me, especially not while all the humiliating memories of yesterday are still so fresh in my mind, Willy."
"Dammit all stop calling me that. There isn't one thing funny about that name to me, and if you ever use it again, I won't be responsible for my actions—understand?"
Libby shrank back, suddenly looking tiny and wide-eyed in the folds of the big quilt. Donovan paused to get hold of himself, feeling sick to think that he'd scared her so badly. While the sound of that nickname had always irritated him, now that he'd learned the truth of how the sobriquet had evolved, the very thought of it filled him with rage.
Calmer, but still angry, Donovan said, "I came here to talk a few things out with you. Do you want to do that, or trade insults? Make up your mind."
Libby pressed her lips together firmly, then parted them enough to say, "Let's talk."
"All right, then, here it is, straight out. When I first went to see R. T. yesterday, he as much as came right out and told me I was his son."
"Oh, please—"
"Patience, Libby, or I won't tell the rest of the story." Her back was up by now, which relieved Donovan's conscience. He hadn't cared in the slightest for the fear he'd seen in her eyes, especially since he'd been the one to put it there. "Savage recognized my name from long ago, saw my face—which, by the way, looks a little like his—and deduced that I was his long-lost son. I, on the other hand, had no inkling that he was my father. So, without much by way of a response, I ran out of the office to check his claims."
"Don't tell me it checked out." Libby's expression still registered doubt, but he could hear just a touch of speculation in her tone. So she hadn't known his true identity last night. Is that why she'd sent him packing to his own room?
Suddenly grumpy, he snapped, "Yes, it checked out. R. T. Savage definitely is my father."
Libby stared hard at him for a long moment. "You swear this isn't another of your lies?"
Donovan crossed his heart, then held up his right hand, for good measure. "May I never fill a straight again as long as I live if I'm not telling the truth."
"Oh, my God." Her eyes were round with surprise, but he could read her well enough to know that she finally bel
ieved him.
"Precisely my reaction at first, since I had a little trouble believing it myself. But after I checked with Lil, who had the information I needed, I went back to see him."
"Your business partner knew about Savage?"
He nodded thoughtfully, wondering if he should explain about his mother, but decided that he had enough to untangle already. "Lil is a very... enterprising woman. She happened to have the information I needed to confirm that R. T. was my father. Shortly after we finished talking, I found you pie-eyed at the bar."
Libby folded her arms across her breasts and frowned. "I thought we'd called a draw on talk such as that."
"You're right—forgive me?"
"I guess so." Her mouth fell into a pout, but her eyes were amused. "So you brought me home, then took off. Where did you go after you left?"
"I headed right back to Savage Publishing, of course, to finish up a few loose ends." In spite of his mother's plea, he'd been unable—unwilling, he supposed—to make that final promise to her. Not yet, anyway. Not until he'd gotten the chance to know the man at least a little better. "When I ran out of R. T.'s office earlier, I left Andrew's satchel behind, without explaining anything about it, or even mentioning the fact that he'd been murdered."
"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."
