by Sharon Ihle
* * *
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.
No longer feigning a firm stand or the sudden harshness in his voice, Donovan muttered, "I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't call me 'William.'"
"That's fine with me," she snapped, apparently unimpressed by his candor. "You remind me more of a 'Billy-boy' anyway, or maybe even, 'Willy the weasel'."
"Don't call me 'Billy.'" Those were the nicknames assigned to Donovan whenever his mother had a new "William" around. "And don't ever call me 'Willy.'"
"That's fine with me, too, because you're nothing but a no-good bastard who doesn't deserve to have a name at all."
She struck pay dirt there, calling him by the only sobriquet which truly fit him. "That's correct, Miss Justice." He struck an injured pose and flattened his palm across his heart. "I am, through no fault of my own, of course, a bastard."
"Don't try to play on my sympathies, you lying sack of garbage." There wasn't so much as a pinch of remorse in her voice. "Especially after all the lies you told me and the promises you made as... Mother of God. You even slept in my house—in one of my beds."
"Now, Libby..." She was on the move again, the circle around him, tighter. Back on the defense, Donovan tracked her movements. "Having me stay at your home was your idea, not mine. I never asked you to put me up."
"You did so, and you did it by lying to me about who you were. Do you think for one minute that I, as a lone woman," she bore down on him, her cheeks shiny with bright red splotches, "would have opened my home, much less one of my bedrooms, to a no-good, stinking polecat like you—Willy?"
"Don't call me Willy," Donovan shook his finger in her face. "And stop trying to blame me for everything. I tried to tell you that I wasn't Andrew Savage when I first walked into your newspaper office, but you wouldn't let me."
"That's it." Libby snapped her wrists at him as if throwing garbage onto the compost heap. "I've heard all the lies from you I intend to." With that, she turned and started up Sacramento Street.
Donovan watched her stiff-backed retreat, sorely tempted to just let her stumble around the hills of San Francisco until she calmed down enough to listen to reason. But something inside wouldn't let him—culpability, for one thing. Even though he thought she was overreacting in the extreme, he also felt a certain amount of sympathy, or something close to it. A tough little cookie, she reminded him a little of the sister he'd fabricated for himself as a child. Although Libby had been raised under circumstances completely different than he'd had—by a mother, with a real live father and brother, to boot—he sensed that she was a maverick, like he was. A bit of a loner.
With a heavy sigh, Donovan took off after her and continued to plead his case. "I know how this must sound to you now," he said to her still rigid back. "But once you'd gotten the wrong impression about who I was, it just seemed easier to go along with you."
Libby glanced over her shoulder to deliver her remarks, but never slowed her stride. "I'll just bet it did, you greasy-tongued jackass."
"I only meant to help you, all along. I never meant to cheat you out of anything or hurt you. I don't see why you should be so damned mad."
"Really? Then you're the one who needs glasses, not me."
Donovan threw his hands up in exasperation, but continued to follow her, defending himself and explaining why he'd done what he'd done, all the way back to his house. Surprisingly enough, Libby managed to find Jackson Street without any help from him—and on foot, no less, instead of by taking the cable railway as they had on the way to Savage Publishing. When they reached the walkway which led to his modest home, Libby was still berating him, no longer over her shoulder, but right to his face.
"...and I don't believe a word you've said, because there's no way a stupid plan like that could have worked, much less helped me."
"It was working just fine," he insisted, opening the door for her. Gesturing dramatically, Donovan waved Libby inside. "And it would have kept right on working if you hadn't done something so stupid as getting on that train."
"Even if boarding that train was stupid," she muttered, marching straight through the foyer and into the parlor, where she dropped onto the first available chair, "and I'm not saying that it was, I only did it because I was trying to save my newspaper. What's your excuse for being so stupid?"
"For the last time..." He sighed heavily. "I was just trying to help you a little—still am, in fact. There's nothing more sinister than that to anything I've done."
"Even if I believed you," she lifted her foot and tore at the buttons on her shoe, "it wouldn't matter because I never asked for your help. Not once."
Tired of trying to defend himself—especially where his behavior was largely indefensible—Donovan strolled over to the bay window and propped himself against the scalloped molding near the frame. This is what helping folks got him, he thought sourly: scolded, like he was some kind of irresponsible kid. And by whom? A pretender to Calamity Jane's throne, that's who.
As Libby struggled with her footgear, he couldn't help but notice that she'd hiked her skirt and petticoats up to her knees, revealing a wide expanse of leg between her plain flannel drawers and drab woolen stockings. The woman didn't even know how to behave out of her buckskins, much less realize what the sight of those creamy legs could do to a man—even a man like himself, who would never, under normal circumstance
s, be drawn to a woman like her.
But drawn he was, Donovan acknowledged, and this situation was about as bizarre as any he'd been in. He wondered if Libby knew she was flashing him glimpses of her very shapely legs, or if she realized the state she'd worked herself into between her anger and the struggle she was having with her footgear. She looked positively untamed. A few tendrils of mahogany hair had escaped her carefully prepared coif, and now clung to her lightly perspiring cheeks and neck. She was also out of breath, her bosom straining against the ribbed bodice of her somber black dress, and her lips were parted, making room for the tip of her tongue at the edge of her mouth. Hell, he thought, a tug of desire working into a steady, pounding ache, even the real Andrew—a dead man—would sit up and take notice of Libby under these conditions.
"I think there's a buttonhook in the kitchen," he said, looking for a way to distract himself. "I'll just go get it for you."
"Don't bother. I don't want anything from you," she snapped. "Damnation, if I don't hate these stupid shoes, and I hate you, too. Nothing's gone right for me since I laid eyes on you. Everything has gone wrong, and it's all because of you—everything."
Though he was pretty well argued out, Donovan recognized her challenge as the distraction he sought. "I beg to differ with you... Lippy. If you could have kept your big mouth shut long enough for a man to get a word in edgewise, none of this would have happened in the first place. I tried to tell you more than once that I was not Andrew Savage, but you wouldn't give me a chance."
"You had plenty of chances to tell the truth—and all of this is your fault, including the fact that I rushed out and bought these miserable boots." The buttons unhooked at last, Libby strained, tugging on the shoe. When it finally popped off of her foot, she reared back and threw it at Donovan, hurling one last accusation along with it. "This is all your fault, Willy."
Not a moment too soon, he ducked, leaving the boot to crash against the glass behind him. "Hey—hey. There's no cause to get violent. You damn near broke my window. And stop calling me, Willy!"
