The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  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, Libb
y raised her arms above her head and stretched, closing her eyes and yawning vigorously at the same 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."

  "If you're not his wife, then are you his, well, girlfriend or something like that?" The wench laughed again, this time sounding like a yard full of chickens.

  "No, sugar, I am none of those things to Donovan. Why that man just won't let himself get tied down long enough to be anyone's anything. But he's so good to us girls, you know, treats us real kindly and all, that anytime he wants a favor"—she paused to wink—"he gets it. Know what I mean?" With that, she turned and flounced out the door, leaving a cloud of cheap perfume in her wake.

  Stunned, Libby sat there for several minutes wondering exactly where the painted-up hussy fit into Donovan's life, and what on earth she'd meant when she'd referred to herself as one of his "girls." Her thoughts, which were rapidly turning dark, were abruptly interrupted yet again as someone else strode into her room—a boxy little woman with gray hair and an aged cherubic face.

  "Um Gottes willen. Another lost piggy?" she cried in a thick accent. She shook a pudgy finger toward Libby. "I don't clean up after piggies. Nein, nein, never again. Humph." With that final oath, she backed out of the room and slammed the door.

  That was the last straw. Libby tore back her covers, leaped out of bed, and started across the room.

  * * *

  In his bedroom at the end of the hall, Donovan lay flat on his back in his big brass bed trying to ward off an onslaught of the barmaid's welcoming kisses.

  "Dammit all, Joy—get off of me. I'm not even awake yet."

  "Oh, but I just wanted to welcome you home real good, honey-face," she said in a cooing voice. "We missed you something terrible."

  "Well, I'm here now, so you don't have to miss me at all." Donovan gripped her arms, preparing to push her away from him and off the bed, when in through the opened door strode Libby. From over Joy's shoulder, he could see she was in her nightgown, which billowed behind her like a ship's sail. Her shiny auburn hair was loose, too, tousled from sleep, and flowing every which way across her shoulders. But the biggest surprise of all, other than the fact that she'd barreled her way into his room, was the fire burning bright in her sable-brown eyes, a match, he thought with alarm, to even the bloodiest California sunset.

  "Oh, er... excuse me for interrupting, but..."

  "Please, do come in." Donovan waved her toward his bed. "It seems my bedroom is opened to the public this morning."

  "Well..." Libby was clearly uncomfortable approaching his bed, but annoyed, too. "It seems I have the same problem."

  "You've had visitors, too?" Donovan glanced at Joy. "Did you stop by Libby's room on your way here?"

  She nodded, then grinned like a naughty little girl. "A drunked-up customer beat on me last night, so I thought I ought to come rest up here till the bruises fade a little."

  Looking at her more closely, Donovan spotted the evidence. He lightly ran his finger over her bottom lip, feeling the lump there, then examined her eye, which he was sure would sport a shiner by evening. If there was one thing he couldn't abide, it was men who tested their strength on the soft skin and delicate bodies of women. "Who did this to you?"

  "Oh, now don't go worrying about it, honey. Besides, you know how Lil hates for you to get involved in the rougher side of the business."

  "I don't care what Lil thinks, Joy, I'm not going to—"

  "Umm... excuse me again?" Libby was bobbing up and down, giving him the impression that beneath her gown, she was tapping a bare foot against his rug. Ah, yes, he remembered, bold, brave little Libby had some complaints.

  "Joy is sorry for disturbing you. Is that it?"

  "Not exactly. Right after she left, an old woman popped in and called me a pig—a pig."

  After rolling Joy to the side, Donovan slapped his forehead. "Damn. Is today Thursday?"

  "Yes," said Libby. "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Plenty. I think you just met my housekeeper, Gerda, also known as the whip-cracker. She comes a couple of times a week to leave food, and tries to keep the place looking halfway decent. Sorry if she startled you. As for the name she called you..."

  "Don't mind Gerda," Joy interrupted, giggling. "She calls all us girls 'pigs.' She's just a dried-up old maid with nothing better to do than keep track of our sins. Don't pay her no never mind."

  Sins? Settling her hands against her hips, Libby gave the hussy a long look, then shifted her sharp-eyed gaze to Donovan. Nothing around here made sense. Not the man, not his home, and definitely not his "friends."

  Donovan swatted Joy's bottom. "You were leaving, weren't you, sweetheart? Why don't you ladies go on downstairs and get yourselves some breakfast or something. Gerda usually brings along some baked goods."

  "Oh, all right. I'll see you later at Lil's." After climbing off the bed, Joy sashayed out of the room, turning to study Libby and her oversized Mother Hubbard nightgown before closing the door behind her.

  Libby meant to follow her out the door as Donovan had suggested, but curiosity overrode her common sense. "Does Joy have something to do with the newspaper? And who's Lil? Does she work for the San Francisco Tribune, too? I'm very confused."

  Donovan sat straight up. He hadn't planned to deal with this misunderstanding so early—hell, he'd hoped he wouldn't have to deal with it at all. "Joy, if you must know," he said irritably, "works as an actress, barmaid, and, ah, general all-around entertainer at Lucky Lil's Theatre and Gaming Saloon. Lil runs the place and I'm her partner."

  "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.