The Marrying Kind Read Online Free PDF Page A

Something in his expression made her keep the rest of her thoughts to herself. He was looking at her in the oddest way, not like a man impressed with her intelligence or knowledge of the situation, but of one who was about to burst out laughing. A moment later, the comb fell out of her hair again, and this time it landed with a horrendous splash—into her glass of wine.
    * * *
    The following day brought warmer weather and, along with it, a sultry breeze unusual for the middle of June. It made Libby feel restless, wanting something she couldn't quite name, but wanting it badly. And her desire wasn't just to forget about last night and her idiotic attempts to impress Andrew Savage with her ladylike aplomb. She'd been struggling with her concentration all morning and bottling her frustrations until she thought she might explode from the pressure. It was the kind of day on which, had she been younger and faced with less responsibility, she'd have said, "the hell with it," grabbed her bamboo pole, and gone fishing. She closed her eyes, imagining herself lying on the grassy banks of the Laramie River, and could almost feel the sun baking the frustrations right out of her body.
    Of course, imagining an afternoon like that was as close as Libby had gotten to the real thing in a long, long time. She hadn't had a moment without serious responsibility since the age of nine—the day after Jeremy came into the world, making her an instant mother to him and housekeeper for her widowed father. She gazed out her office window, wondering why she couldn't seem to allow herself to just toss everything aside for one day, and take that little fishing trip in spite of it all. Other people in business took vacations from their daily chores, but not Liberty Ann Justice—not even long enough to make a decent attempt at behaving like a lady.
    Supper itself had gone fairly well after she'd pinned her hair up for a second time. It was after the long walk home that things had gone sour. She'd fluttered her perfumed handkerchief around the man's face, laughed at everything he said (the way Dell had instructed), and even swooned against his shoulder when they reached the stairs leading up above the pressroom, to the apartment she shared with Jeremy. The swooning part had been the easiest since her legs had been ready to give out anyway after walking "like a duck" all the way home.
    But nothing she'd done seemed to make any impression on Savage. He'd acted as if he couldn't wait to be rid of her. And since then, she hadn't seen hide nor hair of him.
    As she stared forlornly out at the wide, beckoning skies, it finally occurred to Libby that the sun was no longer rising, or even hanging high in the sky, but was on a westward journey toward home. It wasn't morning any longer—it was way past noon. Why hadn't Savage come to see her yet? Not that she was looking forward to the moment, by any means; but surely their business wasn't yet concluded to his satisfaction.
    She had a few bones to pick with him. For a newspaperman, he knew precious little about newspaper offices. It rankled her to think this spoiled son of a rich scion had such power over her, when he apparently knew so little about the working end of the business. He hadn't even realized the press was so new until she'd mentioned it.
    Libby glanced around her office, noting that he'd left his satchel sitting on the floor near her desk. He was still here, or at least in town. But what if he'd slipped out of the house before she'd awakened this morning, and was now on the loose, poking his nose around and asking questions? Her position with Savage Publishing was too precarious for her to take a chance on him finding out about her father.
    Libby leaped out of her chair, grabbed the satchel, and dashed out of her office, toward the back room. On the way, she collided full on with her employer, who was headed in her direction.
    "Urrgh." He staggered backwards, clutching his belly and gasping for breath.