The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  "No," she answered honestly. "I only knew that he would probably lose his distillery, should the women of this country get the vote and enact temperance laws."

  "He stands to lose much more than that." Donovan was looking at her as if he expected an apology.

  "And what do you suggest I do with my losses?" As much as she hated to end things this way, Libby was dogged in her determination to never back down from her ideals again. "What about the indignities I'll continue to suffer, right along with the rest of this nation's women, because of evil men like your father?"

  "Evil, Libby?" He laughed, no doubt thinking she'd intentionally overstated her case, then slammed his hat back down on his head. "Because a man tries to protect what's his, that makes him evil?"

  There was no way she could explain herself. "Sorry if I sounded a little dramatic, but if you thought I'd back down after hearing that your father might lose his title as the richest man on the face of the earth, you've got another think coming. My fight against men like R. T. Savage has only begun."

  "That's just great." He threw his hands up, as if completely exasperated, but then spread them wide. "I've tried, you know, really tried to see your side of this equal rights thing, and I've even tried to make my father see it, too. After talking with the both of you, it's painfully obvious to me that there isn't a damn thing I can say or do for either of you, and be right. I don't know what you expect me to do now, but whatever it is, I have a feeling I can't do it."

  She wanted to feel for him, wanted to sympathize with his unenviable position, but sudden righteous anger ripped through her, forcing Libby to blurt out how she felt instead. "In order to do anything I might want, you'd have to get off that comfortable high-priced fence you've been straddling since you met your father, and I don't think you want to."

  "Damn, Libby, what was that? An ultimatum?" Donovan's eyes narrowed accusingly. "Are you seriously asking me to choose between you and my family—a family I've never even known that I had?"

  "No, of course not," she countered, although she wasn't completely sure she hadn't done just that. "I'd never ask you to give up your family for any reason, but if you think you have to choose between me and them, that's your problem. Mine is, fighting against men like your father. That's my life. Can't you see that if I give up the cause, I give up myself?"

  "But how in God's name can you equate voting rights with a man's family? If we do things your way, you'll have me turning on my family and maybe even destroying them. I've dreamed of having a real family like this for my entire life—is taking that dream away from me what you want?"

  "You have no idea what I want. None."

  This time, Libby had to turn away from him. She could no longer look at those beautifully sculpted hands without remembering what they could do to her, couldn't bear to let her gaze fall on his full, sensual lips, or even risk a glance into his eyes. Not now, not when she could see them so well in her mind: silvery-blue, crackling with passion, but withholding the love she so desperately wanted to see in them.

  "You're right," Donovan said quietly, surprising her by taking her in his arms. "I'm not sure I do understand what it is you want. It was a mistake, my coming here and demanding that we straighten this out once and for all. There is no easy answer, is there."

  Easy being the key word, thought Libby, but she didn't express the sentiment. Feeling inexplicably weary, she rested her head against Donovan's chest and quietly murmured, "No, but then my father used to say nothing is worth having if it comes to you too easy—something like that, anyway."

  Swaying her in his arms, the movement slight, like waltzing in place, Donovan whispered against Libby's hair. "I don't want us to fight about this any more. Can we call a truce of some kind, at least for now?"

  He'd given her the perfect out. And it was way past time to go. Swallowing her tears, Libby forced a grin as she pledged, "I promise, you'll never hear me say another word against your father."

  "See? Now that wasn't so hard." Donovan lifted her up on tiptoes, crushing her to his chest, then rewarded her with a blinding smile. "I vow never to belittle, make fun of, or otherwise thwart your attempts to continue your work for the suffrage movement."

  "And I now pronounce you man and wife." Impulse made her spout those words, but at the sound of them, Libby suddenly wanted to cry so badly, that she burst into nearly hysterical giggles instead. "Maybe we should say 'I do' or something, just to make the truce sound more official."

  Donovan shook his head firmly. "Oh, no. That would be way too much like taking wedding vows. But I do think it might be a good idea to seal our vows with a kiss." He didn't give her a chance to do anything but accept as he lifted her chin and fit his mouth to hers for a long, satisfying moment of tenderness. When he ended the kiss, Donovan continued to hold Libby's chin in place as he said, "I meant those vows. I hope you did too."

  "I did," she murmured. "But as long as we're making promises, would you mind making another one for me?"

  "As long as it fits the boundaries of our truce, I don't see why not. What do you want?"

  "I want you to please go see your mother. Today if possible. She loves you very much, you know."

  "My mother?" Libby felt his arms grow rigid just before Donovan loosened his hold on her. Leaning back enough to look into her eyes, he asked, "What does Lil have to do with any of this?"

  "Just go see her." She blinked, hoping he hadn't noticed the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "Promise me you'll go to her and make things right between you two again. You never know when you might lose her."

  The unspoken reminder of how early and unexpectedly she'd lost her own mother wasn't lost on Donovan. He agreed quickly and easily, as if suddenly made uncomfortable by the subject. "All right. If it's that important to you, I promise to see her as soon as possible. Anything else?"

  Sliding her arms around his chest, squeezing him tightly, she whispered, "Just remember who loves you, and everything will be fine."

  "Well... okay."

  There was hesitation in his voice, suspicion, too, so Libby turned away from the awkward situation by bringing it to an end. "Good. I'm glad we got everything settled. Now, I've got to get to work on a new editorial."

  "I should be on my way, too." Donovan kept one skeptical eye on her. "Are you sure you're all right? Is there something—"

  "I'm fine." She wiped her eyes, aware they were filling again. "Just relieved, I guess, to get this out in the open and over with."

  "If you say so." He shrugged. "I'd better get going then. I haven't done a lick of work yet today, and I think, at Savage Publishing, even the boss's son can be fired. See you later?"

  Unable to answer, Libby pressed her lips together in a half-hearted smile and inclined her head as if nodding.

  Donovan, who was already turning the corner into the hallway, waved as he strode out of the kitchen. And out of her life.

  * * *

  By early afternoon, Donovan had only managed to convince one saloon owner to buy an ad in the Tribune, and that was only because the man owed him money on a bad gambling debt. His concentration was at an all-time low, but he couldn't figure out why. He felt good about the conversation he'd had with Libby, and was pretty well convinced that the two warring factions in his life—his father's immovable stand against the suffragist movement and Libby's unerring determination to pass the female vote into law—could somehow link fingers in peace, as long as he stood between them.

  Still, something wasn't right, and it wasn't just the fact that he'd lost his magical abilities as an advertising solicitor. Determined to concentrate on his job, Donovan looked up to see that he was standing in front of the doors to Lucky Lil's. Had this route been accidental, he wondered, or had he subconsciously been trying to fulfill the promise he'd made to Libby? Maybe that was what was nagging him in the back of his mind. Thinking he might be able to talk his mother into an advertising contract with Savage Publishing, should the other effort fail, he pushed open the swinging
door.

  Instantly comforted by the old familiar scene, feeling more relaxed, Donovan stepped inside. The place was fairly quiet, but it was early yet. Only two poker tables had any action, the faro table was deserted, and the heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the bare stage. Old George was playing the piano as usual, but his music sounded more like practice than an actual performance. Lil was nowhere in sight.

  "Donovan, honey," called Joy, twisting her way through the tables on her way to him. "Where you been, good-looking? I kinda missed having you around."

  "Working in the daytime world, darlin.' Where's Lil—in the office?"

  "No, she ain't come down yet today."

  Concerned, Donovan glanced upstairs to the back of the hall where his mother's room was located. Lil never slept past two or three in the afternoon, no matter how big the night before had been. She was always down and working by now. Always. With a mumbled thanks to Joy, he started toward the stairs.

  When he reached the end of the hallway past the private boxes, he knocked on the almost-hidden door which led to his mother's private quarters. A moment later, he thought he heard a muffled groan.

  "Lil?" he called. "It's Donovan. Open up."

  "Oh, ah, just a second," she answered back, her voice groggy, scratchy.

  When Lil's door finally opened a few moments later, Donovan's concerns about her were far from eased. Her hair was completely disheveled, not just down and flying around her shoulders, but tangled and bushy in a way he hadn't seen before. Dark sunken hollows beneath her eyes made her look old and weary, and she was wearing a hastily donned wrapper of wrinkled cotton over her chemise. Lil never let anyone, not even her son, see her in such a state.

  "Sorry if I... woke you. Are you ill?" he asked, wondering what kind of evening she'd had.

  "No, just tired, and don't worry about waking me. I was coming around anyway. I had a really long night last night."

  "Sorry I bothered you." Donovan felt distinctly uncomfortable, sorry he'd come here at all. "I'll come back some other time."

  "No, come in." She grabbed his arm, almost desperately he thought, and pulled him into her room. Then she clutched her robe high at the throat and midsection, holding it closed. "I'm glad you came by. The place could use a little cheering up after what happened to Seamus, and all."

  "What happened to Seamus?"

  Lil stepped deeper into the shadows, looking as if she was hiding from him. Increasingly curious about her strange behavior, Donovan turned the flame on the wall lamp up high. As his mother's image grew brighter, he was shocked to see her looking even more haggard. "What's happened?"

  She sighed wearily, giving up, it seemed. "I've been up half the day trying to take care of business. Seamus was shot last night."

  "What? How? Drunken gamblers, a fight, what?"

  "We don't know for sure. He just walked outside to go home after his shift was done, and someone shot him dead. A buggy drove off after it was done."

  "You're saying he was shot on purpose, murdered?" Donovan crossed over to where his mother stood. She looked almost fragile, a first. And secretive, as usual. "Why in God's name would anyone shoot him? What do you know you're not telling me?"

  "Nothing." But she looked away from him. "I don't know anything for sure except that Seamus is dead."

  Shoulders slumping in despair, Lil's hands drifted to her sides. The movement caused her robe to fall open at the throat, revealing several dark splotches marring her alabaster skin. Taking his mother gently by the shoulders, Donovan turned her toward the light for a better look.

  "What the hell," he muttered, angered by what were obvious bruises dotting her neck. "What has been going on around here? Who did this to you?"

  "It's taken care of," she insisted, trying to break out of his grasp and close her robe, but Donovan held her tightly. "There's nothing for you to worry about now. I'll be okay."

  "I want to know who did this. Who are you protecting?"

  "No one, Son, I swear it."

  Narrowing his gaze, he warned, "Tell me now, or I'll go downstairs and start asking questions until I get some answers. Now, who did this?"

  Looking a little ashamed, Lil hung her head. "R. T. came back to see me a couple of nights ago—thought maybe I'd want to pick up where we'd left off. I said, no." Raising her dull-eyed gaze to meet Donovan's again, she quietly added, "R. T. never did much care for that word."

  "You mean did he—"

  "No, but he tried."

  Donovan didn't spend so much as a second questioning his mother's story. She was many things to many people, but a liar to no one. He released her and raised his fists. "He's not going to get away with this. I don't give a damn who he thinks he is, he is not going to get away with this."

  "He's paid his due on my account—honest." Fear shone brightly in her eyes. "Seamus heard me scream that night, pulled him off me, and beat him to a bloody pulp."

  "Seamus beat him?" Donovan knew the ex-fighter was a master at pummeling a rowdy patron into submission without causing any permanent damage—such as broken bones. Black eyes, bloody noses, and sore ribs were his specialties, when forced into service. If he hadn't been so blinded by his father's ways, he might have noticed the Irishman's mark the moment he set eyes on R. T. His thoughts growing darker by the minute, Donovan didn't even look his mother's way as he muttered under his breath, "I have to go now. Take care of yourself, Lil. I'll be back to check on you later tonight, tomorrow at the latest."

  But Lil threw herself between him and the door. "Let well enough alone, Son. I beg you. Let well enough alone. You don't know R. T. like I do—he's evil."

  Evil—Libby's impression, too. Donovan paused, studying Lil for a long moment, and saw in her eyes all the years they'd struggled together to make a life for themselves. Something turned in his chest, knife-like, but not sharp or agonizing with its pain. It was more of an ache. Like guilt. How could he have forgotten what all they'd been to each other for so long? How could it have been so... so easy for him to turn his back on his mother?

  Giving into sudden impulse, the kind of impulse that didn't occur to him often, Donovan leaned over and tenderly kissed Lil's forehead. Then, thinking of someone else, he smiled as he said, "I'm done taking the easy way out... Mother. In fact, I'm thinking I ought to climb down off that fence I've been straddling before I get my ass stuck full of splinters. Wouldn't you agree?"

  * * *

  Six months ago, outrage would have driven Donovan immediately to his father's office where he most likely would have finished the job Seamus had started on R. T. Now that so much more than simple vengeance was at stake—his future, Libby's future, and possibly, even their future together, among other dilemmas—he forced himself to take a walk along the waterfront, in order to cool down enough to think straight.

  That walk ultimately led him to his own house—to Libby—where Donovan was certain he'd find the answers he sought. When he got there, all he found was darkness.

  Libby had gone, not just for the evening, but as far as he could tell, forever. She'd packed up all traces of herself, save for the mangled hat he'd given her; packed and run off into the night. He knew, without even considering the possibility, that she hadn't gone to his mother's like before. The sick feeling in his gut told him there was no doubt that she'd finally boarded the train to Laramie.

  Filled with a sense of emptiness, and not just the cold isolation of his once-warm home, Donovan sat down on the edge of the bed he and Libby had occupied just last night, and took the little straw bonnet between his hands. It was stained, pummeled, smashed beyond recognition, even though Libby had tried to mend it. The hat reminded him of where his relationship with her had ended—smashed and broken, probably beyond repair.

  Try as she might, she hadn't been successful in her attempts to bring the bonnet back to its former beauty. Was he ten kinds of a fool to even think of trying to restore what they'd once had? If he went after her, would she even welcome him long enough to begin the r
epair work?

  Chapter 20

  Laramie, Wyoming Territory

  Two weeks later

  Libby braced her hips against the counter in the front office of the Laramie Tribune and pounded the final nail into the wooden frame she'd built to hold a copy of her favorite editorial. The piece, written early last week, was an expose of R. T. Savage and his tyrannical manipulation of Savage-owned newspapers, as well as his involvement with government lobbyists. Libby had left no stones unturned in her article, and even included "quotes" from the esteemed magnate, taken from her brief, and generally heated, conversations with him. The moment the inflammatory issue had come off the press, she'd sent it, as usual, to Savage Publishing—and to many other newspapers countrywide, especially those that leaned toward supporting equal rights.

  Because the Savage name also belonged to Donovan, Libby took no pleasure in the way she'd exposed it. In spite of everything Randolph T. Savage stood for, she'd never wanted to tarnish the family Donovan coveted so much. But she'd done what she'd had to do. Even at her own risk. And she'd done it all with the blessings of her brother.

  After she'd explained everything to Jeremy—everything except her personal involvement with Donovan—and made a point of the fact that, should she run the editorial, their affiliation with the Tribune would soon come to an end, he had agreed wholeheartedly that it was time they struck out on their own. If the Justice family had to begin by writing their newspaper in longhand, so be it. If one or both of them had to deliver newspapers for a rival publisher to make ends meet in the meantime, so be it. If they had to sell their home and live in a tent, so be it. They would stay together, and publish together a paper of which they could both be proud.

  Of course, neither Justice sibling was fool enough to think a vindictive man like R. T. Savage would take a mutiny such as this lying down. Libby had been careful to explain to Jeremy the risks they'd be facing, should they expose the man, and even hinted to him that their soon-to-be former employer might have ordered a murder done. But as before, Jeremy had been no more interested in continuing the affiliation with the Tribune than Libby.