The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  Unaware of her son's turmoil, Lil continued. "There isn't much more to tell. R. T. had a legal wife with legal children, and I was on the outside, looking in. After our horrid fight the day he told me about his other family, I thought I'd never see him again. But he showed up shortly after you were born, then every six months or so for a few years, filling both our heads with promises and tales of the day we'd all be together."

  "R. T. was going to leave his wife and family for us?"

  Lil laughed again, more bitterly than before. "That's what he kept saying, and fool that I was, I believed him at first because, I guess because I wanted to so badly. By the time his wife had her baby after you were born, making three legal sons for R. T., it finally occurred to me that he was just keeping me on the side, and that he'd never leave her."

  Slowly rising from the desk, Donovan shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled thoughtfully to the tiny window behind his mother's spindle-back chair. He contemplated the dark alleys and shadowed corners beyond the glass, and how different his life might have been had R. T. been free to marry Lil. Then he shrugged the thought off and turned to face his mother again, understanding her a little better, if still disillusioned by all he'd learned in one short afternoon.

  In a hollow voice he asked, "How was R. T. around me? Did he claim me as his son?"

  She nodded half-heartedly. "He always wanted to play with you, and tried to get me to change your name from William." She gave a little smirk. "By then, I'd taken to calling him William, like the others. He didn't much like it, but he kept coming around until you were a little better than five."

  Memories of his fifth year on this earth were strong to him, and suddenly Donovan had an idea as to why. He remembered the kind man, the one he liked best of his mother's friends, teaching him the finer points of pitching pennies, letting him win one just so he'd know the thrill of feeling the spoils of victory against his palm. Donovan tapped the toe of his boot against his mother's chair now, rattling the coin in the heel, and knew somehow without any clear recollection of the incident, that R. T. Savage had been the one who'd given him that penny.

  "Donovan?" said Lil. "Are you still listening?"

  "Is there more?"

  "Not too much. It was about that time that I decided I just couldn't take his lies anymore, or the way he always got you worked up about being a whole family someday." Lil paused, deep in thought, her brow furrowed with far more wrinkles than she ever allowed to show. "After one of his hurried visits, I packed us up and moved us to San Francisco to get away from him."

  Donovan nodded thoughtfully, vaguely remembering the rushed move, the sense of urgency, or maybe desperation, in his mother as she made arrangements for their journey. Something else about that impetuous relocation teased the back of his mind, a dark thing he'd buried good and tight, sealed, perhaps forever. Even if he'd had the desire to break the seal and dig the thing up—which at this point, he did not—Donovan wouldn't have had the chance, as Lil went ahead with her story.

  "R. T. lived in Sacramento at the time, so you can imagine my surprise when he struck gold and decided to head for San Francisco, too. I thought of running again, but we were just getting settled, and since I figured he wouldn't be anxious to find us anyway, I decided to stay. I guess I figured wrong."

  "I guess you did." Feeling too troubled by today's revelations to discuss the past any longer, Donovan headed for the door. "Thanks for being so honest—at last. I have to go now."

  Lil placed a hand on his arm. "All right. I can understand your wanting to go off on your own right now, but would you mind if I ask you a couple of questions first?" Donovan glanced over his shoulder and gave her a short nod. "When R. T, ah, when he talked with you today, did he, ah, ask about me?"

  "You bet," he said through a heavy sigh. "He wanted to know if you sent me to him. At first, of course, I didn't know what the hell he was talking about."

  "You didn't tell him I'm here in the city, did you?"

  He shook his head. "By the time I'd figured out what he was trying to say, I was so shaken up, I just got up and ran out of his office."—which reminded Donovan that he'd left Andrew's satchel behind. "I don't know what R. T.'s thinking about either of us right now—but I have an idea, it isn't good."

  "If we're lucky, maybe he's not thinking about us at all." Lil gave his arm a little squeeze. "Two more things, Donovan—one, if you do run into him again, promise you won't ever tell him that I'm here. I couldn't bear it if he knew, if he were to descend from his lofty heights to look down his nose at me."

  Still running, Lil?, Donovan wanted to ask. But, since he'd come for information, not to hurt her, he said, "All right. If he asks, your whereabouts are unknown. What else?"

  "I want you to swear that you won't try to see R. T. Savage again, that you will never let him become a part of your life and... and let him take you away from me."

  This from a woman who was so wrapped up in herself and her fading youth that she couldn't bring herself to admit to the world that she even had a grown son? Donovan swiveled to face Lil head on. "Since when did you get so motherly?"

  She started to speak, but looked away from him instead and hung her head.

  Lil's veiled expression wasn't lost on Donovan. He'd seen that shuttered look in her eyes many times before, knew that his mother was a woman of many secrets. Until today, he'd never realized how many she'd kept from him, but he did grasp that she was hiding something more now. He knew in his gut there was more to this story than she'd confessed, but whatever it was, Lil had no intention of discussing it now. Probably, never.

  "Donovan?" As he studied her, he could hardly believe that she suddenly looked old and painted, used up like some of the actresses she hired. "You know I'm not the type to grovel, but in this, I'm begging you. Promise me you'll never go to him again."

  He opened the door and walked through it, then slammed it behind him—but still he heard his mother's voice: "Donovan?"

  * * *

  At the bar, her spectacles still perched on the bridge of her nose, Libby eyed her glass, which was almost empty—again. She wondered briefly what the devil she was doing, sitting here drinking brandy in the middle of the day, but then shoved the snifter toward Goldy anyway. It was all because of Donovan and his secret meetings, she decided, because of Donovan and his private "discussions" with voluptuous harlots in enticing blue gowns. All his fault. As usual.

  Her gloved fingers curling into fists, she considered storming the office and demanding that he escort her back to Savage Publishing so she could conduct her business at last. Before she could decide what to do next or act on the plan, from the corner of her eye, she spotted a figure bulldozing his way through the crowd. And he was headed toward the bar. Adjusting the tilt of her glasses, Libby peered through them to better make out his features. It was Donovan, as she'd suspected, looking angry and much the way he had when he'd come bursting through Savage's doors just hours earlier. What the devil was going on with that man—and when was he going to let her in on the secret?

  When he reached her, he spoke in the same monotone as before and used almost the same words. "Come on, Libby. We're leaving."

  In defiance, she pounded both fists against the pitted bar top. "Just a blasted minute. I'm tired of you saying, 'Come on, let's go,' then dragging me here and there. I demand to know what's going on, and what you were doing for so long in that woman's office."

  Donovan moved closer to Libby's little stool and narrowed his gaze. "It's a very private matter, and one I don't want to talk about right now. Why don't we talk about you instead. How many drinks have you had?"

  Deeply offended, Libby threw back her shoulders and, in so doing, almost flung herself off the stool. Donovan reached out to break her fall, but by then, Libby had managed to collect herself. Peering up at him, wondering why his image was so fuzzy even though she was still wearing her glasses, she asked suspiciously, "Have you been drinking? You're all wobbly."

  "Oh, hell," he
muttered. "You're half shot."

  "Am not."

  Libby indignantly lifted her chin, but Donovan didn't even seem to notice the gesture. He just reached over and adjusted her glasses, which had somehow gone cockeyed on her. Now she could see him much better, enough to notice that he no longer looked as mad as he had crossing the room. In fact, she'd never seen him looking better. His eyes were all sparkly, both gray and blue, and his mouth was curved at the corners, just the way she liked it. A sudden warmth bloomed in Libby's breast, making her think for a moment of leaning forward and kissing him. She parted her lips and sighed instead, feeling dreamy all over and maybe even a little bit in love.

  "Do you know," she whispered thickly, "that you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen?"

  "Oh, Libby—damn..." He rolled those gorgeous eyes, then gripped her elbow. "Come on, let's go."

  "In a minute. First I have to tell you that I think..." Recalling what Dell had said about flirting with a man, she batted her lashes, making herself dizzy, and damn near fell off the stool again. "I think you're wonnerful. Just wonnerful, even if you are a lying Willy."

  He barked a laugh, or something close to it, then muttered, "You were right, Libby—you're not half shot. You're stinking drunk."

  "Am..." She swung her arms wide, deeply and belligerently offended. "Not."

  And then, much to her horror, she did fall off the bar stool.

  Chapter 6

  Libby's eyes were closed when a sudden wave of dizziness swept over her, then her stomach churned and rolled, threatening, for a moment, to erupt. Was she on a boat? Again her stomach churned, this time bringing up an acid taste of bile. The sensation reminded Libby that in her excitement this morning, she hadn't been able to eat a bite of breakfast. The cherry brandy she'd gulped, she realized much too late, had been sloshing around in her empty belly with nothing to do but addle her brain. "Food," she said thickly to no one in particular. "I need some food."

  "As soon as we get home."

  Donovan's voice. Yes, sparkly-eyed Donovan with the handsome face and naughty mouth was taking her home. Feeling as if she existed in spirit only—her body was no longer spinning, but numb, as if it had flown to another planet—she comprehended in the muddied depths of her sluggish brain that he'd carried her out of the saloon and hoisted her into a carriage. And he was taking her home. Moments later, at least that's the way it seemed to her, Libby opened her eyes and found herself standing in her fluffy bedroom in his house. Donovan had his arms around her, holding her close—or up. Had she fallen asleep in the carriage?

  "How are you feeling now?" he asked.

  "I... I don't know." She no longer felt dreamy, but sluggish all over, and her vision was a little bit hazy. She reached up to adjust her spectacles only to discover them missing. "My glasses."

  "I have them." Donovan reached into his jacket pocket, then leaned over and carefully set her eye wear on the bedside table. "I took them for safekeeping. Can you stand alone now?"

  The moment he released her, Libby swayed.

  "I guess not." Taking her back in his arms, Donovan walked her to the edge of the bed and gently sat her down.

  "Thanks," she muttered, too ashamed of herself to look him in the eye.

  "You're more than welcome." Donovan went on as if nothing were out of order, his voice reflecting neither amusement nor disgust. "Gerda was here this morning, and I'm sure she left some food behind. If you'd still like something to eat, I'll go downstairs and fix a sandwich for you before I leave."

  She'd been starving earlier, but now, all she wanted to do was lie down. Libby shook her head. "I'm not feeling well enough to eat right now. And what do you mean, leave? You're not going away again, are you?"

  "I have to."

  At Donovan's grim tone, Libby looked up to see there wasn't so much as a spark of amusement in his eyes—in fact they seemed flat, steel-like. "What's the matter? You're carrying on like the world's come to an end."

  "I have some chores to attend to, is all. Nothing for you to worry about. Will you be all right?"

  Eventually, she supposed. Libby glanced in his direction and noticed that her new hat was sitting atop the dresser. The pert little straw crown had been mashed flat and the roses and ostrich plume appeared to be crushed.

  "My stars," she cried. "What happened to my new hat?"

  Donovan's mouth puckered as if he were trying mightily not to laugh. "You took exception to a carriage which was following ours up the street. I believe its horse was blowing and snorting too loudly to suit you, so you threw your hat at it."

  Libby gasped and brought her hand to her mouth. "No, I didn't."

  "Oh, yes, I'm afraid you did. By the time we got the carriages stopped, the horse and the cab had run over it."

  Closing her eyes as much in shame as horror, Libby groaned.

  "Why don't you lie down? After you take a nap, you'll be feeling a lot better. Maybe you can even fix the hat." He started for the door and paused as he opened it. "Is there anything else you need before I go?"

  There was a hell of a lot more she needed, and had she not been full of cherry brandy, Libby was fairly certain she'd have known exactly how to express those needs. As it was, she could hardly make sense of the fact that, once again, Donovan was leaving her to fend for herself.

  "I guess not," she whispered, defeated. It wasn't until after he'd closed the door behind him that Libby remembered she'd failed—once again—in her mission to save the Laramie Tribune. Then she thought of her mother and the even more significant promise she'd made to her, and at last, Libby fell back against her pillows. And cried until she fell asleep.

  * * *

  She slept like a great pile of rocks, waking once just long enough to take several desperate gulps of water from the pitcher on the bed stand before collapsing in slumber again. As the night moved steadily toward dawn, Libby woke again, this time refreshed and, at last, herself again. On the heels of this discovery, she realized that she was absolutely ravenous. Remembering that Gerda usually left a bundle of rolls and several nice fat sausages on her cleaning day, she threw back the covers, stumbled out of bed, then made her way out of the bedroom and down the staircase in the dark.

  Once in the hallway that led to the kitchen, Libby was surprised to find a dim glow spilling out of the kitchen to light her way. As she stepped inside the room, she discovered the source—a small lamp sitting on the stove. Assuming that Donovan had lit it for her benefit, should she awaken in the dark, she smiled at the thought as she lifted the towel off the basket of rolls. Maybe he did care about her just a little. Humming to herself now, Libby was on her way to the icebox for the sausages, when a deep male voice came at her from the shadows near the back door.

  "Where the hell's your clothes?"

  "Oh, my Lord." With a shriek, Libby flung a roll into the air. "Donovan?" she asked, peering into the darkened corner near the door. "Is that you?"

  "No, actually, it's not."

  The man took a step toward her, the light catching enough of him to illuminate the lower half of his body. All Libby could tell for sure, was that the man looked as if he were in the middle of undressing. His shirttails were out of his trousers and hanging down below his waist. Surely this had to be Donovan home from the saloon. It sounded like him, and yet...

  "Donovan? You're scaring me." The man took another step toward her then, illuminating the features she knew so well. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Why didn't you just say it was you, instead of trying to frighten me half to death?"

  She expected him to burst out laughing over his little joke, but his features remained somber like his voice. "Donovan's gone," he muttered thickly. "I don't know where he went. I'm R. T. Savage's bastard son."

  He didn't laugh over this reference to his earlier chicanery, and neither did Libby. She still didn't see much funny about his pretending to be Andrew Savage.

  Donovan moved completely out of the shadows then, revealing himself to be in a rather unruly state. He'
d stripped down to his trousers and shirt—his jacket, vest, and necktie were flung sloppily over one of two kitchen chairs—and looked as if he was in the midst of discarding even more of his apparel. His shirt was completely unbuttoned, exposing a wide expanse of his chest, down to his waist. Libby couldn't help but notice the slender triangle of dark hair at his breastbone, or keep her inquisitive eyes from following that narrow band of hair to where it disappeared, like the tail of a kite, beneath the waist of his trousers.

  "What're you looking at?" he suddenly asked, causing Libby to jerk her gaze away from areas in which it had no business.

  "I didn't realize you were getting undressed in here."

  He started for her, staggering a bit, she thought, and came to a halt just a whisper away. "It's my house. I can run naked here if I want to. What's your excuse?"

  The sharp tang of brandy, or something like it, curled under her nostrils, both gagging and amusing her. So the tables had turned, had they? Donovan was staring hard at her, trying his damnedest to look rigid, maybe even angry, as he waited for her answer—but not quite carrying it off. His eyes, though struggling to bore into her, were languid, the silvery accents usually so ice-like, now soft like flakes from an early snow. Libby had seen her father looking this way before, not in the eyes so much, but in his general appearance, especially during the months after the death of her mother. Something dreadful had happened to Donovan during the past twenty-four hours, a crisis of some kind which had left him badly in need of comfort.

  Of course Libby couldn't think what to do for him because she didn't know what his troubles were. "I'm sorry to have come downstairs without dressing, but I had no idea you'd be home, and certainly not that you'd be standing here in the kitchen." She touched the lacy collar at her throat, making sure she was properly buttoned up. "If you'd like, I'll go back upstairs. Do you mind if I take along a little snack with me? I never did eat anything yesterday."