Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1 Page 2

  Donovan watched her go. His gaze followed the honey-blonde braid trailing down her back, and came to rest with masculine appreciation on her trim backside as she stomped from the room. The woman might be a pest, but she had curves in all the right places.

  He shook his head. The attraction between them burned fierce and hot whenever they met, and doing outrageous things to her was the only way he could think of to keep her at a distance. Despite her high-necked collars and arrow-straight spine, or maybe because of them, he always felt the urge to lay her out on the nearest flat surface and satisfy the hunger that gnawed at him every time she came near him.

  Maybe it was the way she pursed those kissable lips in disapproval, or the way her eyes got so big and round when she was shocked. And he sure as hell liked that pink flush that spread from her cheeks and down her neck when she was flustered. One of these days he’d follow that blush to see just how far it went. He wanted to unbutton that starched blouse, unfasten the serviceable, drab-colored skirts, and loosen her braid while he made her ache for him the way he did for her. He’d never wanted a woman so badly in his life.

  But he couldn’t have her.

  Sarah was too caught up in the Burr Chronicle to make room for hearth and home. Now that the ranch was in working order, it was time he found himself a wife. But he needed a woman who would be content to cook and keep house and raise children. He knew instinctively that Sarah would be a wildcat in bed, and he certainly enjoyed getting both her temper and her body all fired up, but he had no desire to compete with the newspaper for her attention. Besides, the woman was too darned smart. She’d figure him out in a heartbeat, and that was the last thing he wanted. Not to mention that a newspaperwoman would always be shoving her nose in other people’s business and bringing attention to herself—and him. Close scrutiny was not something he could afford to risk.

  Nope, the one woman he couldn’t marry was Sarah Calhoun.

  Chapter Two

  On Saturday the town of Burr buzzed with anticipation over the coming festivities. Wyoming Territory had suffered a hard winter, and the advent of spring lightened everyone’s heart, even though the weather was still seasonably cool. The spring social was a way to celebrate.

  Sarah stood in her room, listening to the enthusiastic shouts that drifted to her. Since the Calhoun house stood back to back with the newspaper office, sound carried easily from Main Street. Excitement about that night’s social event crackled around Burr like a blanket of lightning.

  Sarah spread her brown poplin dress on the bed. She, too, was looking forward to the event. She intended to corner Jack Donovan and discover what secret lurked in his shady past. Her intuition told her it was something big, a story that would elevate the Burr Chronicle from a tiny weekly newspaper to one that would circulate across the territory.

  For a moment she reveled in her daydream. Her task promised to be difficult, since the man was quite simply impossible. Every time she had tried to get him to talk to her, he did something outrageous to prick her temper. There was the time she’d followed him to the creek, and he’d pulled her in. And the time in the barn, when he’d tossed a forkful of hay at her. And the barbershop when he’d smeared the shaving cream all over her. Other occasions over the past five months made her burn just to think about them. Obtaining answers would require both fortitude and persistence, and she had to keep him from goading her. Gladly, she accepted the challenge.

  A soft knock sounded at her door.

  “Come in.”

  The door swung open, and her mother peeked in.

  “Oh, good, you’re not dressed yet.” With a flourish, June Calhoun strode through the doorway. “Look at this. Isn’t it lovely?”

  Sarah stared as her mother held up a beautiful sky-blue satin gown. Ecru lace edged a squared neckline that dipped lower than any dress Sarah owned. The same lace rimmed the hem and sleeves, occasionally graced by tiny blue bows. It was a fabulous creation, designed for evening wear.

  “That’s Susannah’s gown,” she murmured in recognition. “It’ll never fit.”

  Her mother beamed. “I altered it for you.” She held it up against Sarah. “You’ll look stunning!”

  Her mother’s blue eyes sparkled with a pride Sarah hesitated to extinguish. After the death of her husband, June Calhoun had started taking in sewing to make ends meet. In the past three years she had gone from simple mending and tailoring to designing many of the gowns worn by the women of Burr. The satisfaction her work brought had helped her deal with the grief of losing her husband.

  Sarah fingered a bit of lace wistfully. “You did a fine job, Mama.”

  “I wanted you to have something to wear besides that plain poplin of yours.”

  Sarah glanced from the dress on the bed to the one in her mother’s arms. “I think I should wear the poplin,” she said gently. “It’s not as conspicuous. After all, I’m going for the sake of the paper…”

  “Nonsense!” Her mother spread Susannah’s dress on the bed beside the sturdy poplin. Tucking back a graying strand of dark blonde hair, she considered the two garments. Even Sarah had to admit that the fancy gown stood out like a peacock next to a broody hen. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t have hopes and dreams just like every other young lady your age,” her mother said.

  Old memories rose to taunt Sarah, reminding her of all she could not have. “There’s a very good reason,” she replied with a hint of bitterness. “Luke Petrie, remember?”

  “Him?” A wave of June’s hand dismissed Sarah’s comment. “That was years ago.”

  “People in this town have long memories. If I arrive at the dance all decked out in silk and lace, everyone will be talking for weeks.” Sarah took her mother’s hand. “Mama, I’m not Susannah. She could have carried this off.”

  “She certainly could. Your sister never let idle tongues bother her.” Smiling, June pulled her hand from Sarah’s and took up the brown poplin. “I’ll just put this away.”

  “Mama…” Sarah’s protest fell on deaf ears as her mother marched out of the room in possession of her best dress.

  Despite her mother’s determination to find her a husband, Sarah had long ago accepted that no man would have her. Not after the indiscretion three years before, which had caused her father’s death.

  Since then she had become the most respectable of citizens, dressing in somber colors, never showing a hint of bosom or a flash of ankle. In memory of her father, she had dedicated herself to McHenry Calhoun’s small newspaper, vowing to make it the best in the territory. And she’d never shown any interest in a man, which would have given rise to gossip. After a while, she’d come to the conclusion that she had no need of a man in her life at all.

  Her tactics had worked. The scandal had finally died down. Despite the blot on her name, the women of Burr no longer crossed the street when she passed. Male and female alike finally afforded her the respect due a businesswoman. But appearing at a social event in such a daring gown would no doubt fire the rumors all over again.

  Bitterness pricked at her heart. How she wished she didn’t care what people thought. Mama was right; Susannah certainly didn’t.

  With a long sigh, Sarah sat on the bed and thought of her vivacious older sister. Suzie’s dramatic beauty had made the young men of Burr to fall all over themselves in pursuit of her. She had left behind a trail of broken hearts the day she’d departed to start a singing career in San Francisco.

  But broken hearts were quite different from broken lives.

  Sarah smoothed her hand over the azure satin. Not only had her mother worked hard to alter this gown, she had also quite annoyingly appropriated the only other suitable dress for the dance. Yielding to the inevitable, Sarah stood and began to undo the buttons of her sturdy calico.

  So people would talk. As long as one of them was Jack Donovan.

  Music and laughter rang out through the night, accompanied by the thud of feet on the wooden dance floor. Lamplight flickered over flushed and smiling fa
ces as couples whirled around to a lively reel played by Mort on his squeezebox, Johnny on his banjo and Gabriel on his harmonica.

  Donovan stood on the sidelines. Dressed in black except for his silver embroidered waistcoat and white shirt, he felt as out of place as a gambler at a prayer meeting.

  Wanting to fit in, he began moving through the crowd, exchanging greetings with everyone while managing to remain solitary at the same time. He sized up the unmarried ladies of the town, waiting for some jolt, some gut instinct that would tell him he’d found the right one. But despite all the flirtatious smiles and sidelong glances from the females surrounding him, not one of them set off that spark that told him she was the one.

  He made the rounds twice and ended up back on the sidelines, discouragement seeping through his confidence. He ran a finger along his tight collar. The way some of the girls’ mamas were looking at him was downright predatory. He was more comfortable out on the trail, alone with his thoughts, than here in “civilization.”

  “Look at her.” The malicious whisper caught his attention. He watched Emmaline Tremont, one of the two women standing in front of him, duck her head close to her sister’s ear. “How can she appear like that in public?”

  “Flaunting herself,” Juliana Tremont responded with smug derision. “I told you she had the heart of a harlot.”

  “I knew she hadn’t changed,” Emmaline hissed. “Not after what she did…”

  Donovan frowned as the two kept at their scornful muttering. Even though the Tremont sisters were the biggest gossips in town, he had considered Juliana, the younger sister, a candidate for the position of his wife. Now he crossed her off his list. No wife of his would take pleasure in another’s misfortune.

  Emmaline gave her sister a knowing look. “Those Calhoun girls are nothing but trouble.”

  Calhoun. Donovan flinched as if a snake had bitten him. They couldn’t be talking about Sarah, could they? Miss I-Don’t-Need-A-Man-The-Newspaper-Is-My-Reason-For-Living Calhoun? Miss Buttoned-Up-To-The-Neck-Not-A-Hair-Out-Of-Place Sarah Calhoun? No, he must have mistaken the name.

  “How could June let her come out like that?” Juliana sniffed.

  “Every man here will be wanting to follow her home,” Emmaline warned sagely.

  Curious, Donovan moved to see past the two sisters. Gone was the prim and proper newspaper editor, and in her place stood a vision of golden seduction. The blue dress Sarah wore defined her womanly shape in a way no man could fail to notice. The low-cut bodice showcased her full breasts and a waist that appeared no wider than the span of his hands. He’d always thought she was fine-looking, but tonight her beauty stunned him. Add guts and brains to that lovely package, and here was a real woman.

  Something primitive uncurled inside him, making his muscles tighten and his loins stir in hunger. She was the one.

  No! He jerked his thoughts from that track. The last person he should be considering for a wife was nosy Sarah Calhoun. Smart Sarah Calhoun. No way, no how, could he ever consider her for a bride—no matter how tempting she looked in that dress.

  The Tremont sisters continued to malign Sarah, each insult another log on the fire of their malice. His protective instincts warred with his survival instincts as he resisted the urge to defend Sarah. But it was the word “whore” that finally decided the matter. Survival be damned. He could handle the sassy Miss Calhoun, but he couldn’t stand by and listen to her be called names she sure as hell hadn’t earned, even though he’d given her ample opportunity. Donovan cleared his throat, and the two women turned to face him.

  “Good heavens!” Flirting for all she was worth, Juliana patted her dark hair and smoothed her hands over her skirts. “Mr. Donovan, you gave me such a fright! I surely didn’t hear you come up behind me.”

  “Sorry, Miss Juliana.” He noticed for the first time the lines that bracketed her mouth. While he had known she was past the first bloom of youth, he had not realized that the harsher planes of her face came from her spiteful character.

  Emmaline asked, “Have you just arrived, Mr. Donovan?”

  “Nope. I’ve been here a while now.” Donovan watched with satisfaction as Emmaline’s pleased expression faded.

  “Really?” Juliana cast a nervous glance at her sister.

  Donovan bared his teeth in a smile. “Yes, I’ve been standing right here, staring at the most beautiful woman in town.”

  Juliana blushed. “Why, Mr. Donovan…!”

  “I guess I’ll have to get up the gumption to go talk to her. Pardon me, ladies.” With a polite nod, he pushed past the Tremont sisters. Their indignant gasps added to his amusement as he skirted the edge of the dance floor and went to stand before Sarah.

  Her blonde hair was swept atop her head, leaving wispy ringlets to brush over her ears and neck. In the lamplight, her skin looked like fine porcelain.

  She looked up at him with eyes the same shade as a Montana sky. For a moment, he couldn’t look away. Something, a challenge met and answered, compelled him to stay when he should have walked away. A becoming blush crept into her cheeks as his gaze slid approvingly over her, from top to toes and back again.

  “Well, Miss Calhoun,” he said. “You wanted my attention. Looks like you’ve got it.”

  Sarah’s skin rippled with gooseflesh beneath that dark, compelling stare. “I seem to have everyone’s attention,” she replied. “Have you come to confirm the rumors?”

  He didn’t answer, merely held out a hand. “Dance with me.”

  Sarah hesitated, conscious of the whispers and knowing looks that surrounded them. She looked from his extended hand to his face, wondering if she dared give in to temptation and dance with the devil.

  She wanted to dismiss Donovan as just an ornery man who thrived on annoying her, but tonight she couldn’t help noticing how different he was from every other man in Burr. In his black coat and tie and silver embroidered waistcoat, he was dashing enough to make any woman’s heart beat faster. His face had too much character to be called handsome and too many sharp edges to fit the definition of conventional good looks. But Donovan was hardly conventional.

  Still, he had tried to blend in by at least appearing the gentleman. His overlong black hair normally had an unruly curl to it, but tonight he had tamed it by slicking it back. As he smiled, that dimple appeared in his left cheek.

  All in all, he looked very civilized for a wolf mingling with a bunch of sheep.

  “The longer you wait, the more they’ll talk,” he said as she continued to waver. “Are you afraid?”

  “Certainly not!”

  His lips parted in a wicked smile that weakened her knees and enticed her to explore the forbidden. “Then we dance.”

  He pulled her into his arms before she could protest. Mere inches separated them, and she could swear that she felt the heat of his body envelop her. The aura of danger that surrounded him both attracted and frightened her, and the surety with which he held her made her feel both safe and captured. She closed her eyes, her body warming and responding in a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

  “For a woman who’s been trying to get me alone for almost a year, you sure don’t talk too much.”

  Her eyes popped open, and she jerked her annoyed gaze up to his. “What a ridiculous thing to say. You know good and well I want to interview you for the Chronicle.”

  “I do?” His lazy tone could not disguise the insinuation behind the words.

  “Mr. Donovan, you have a way of making an innocent situation sound perfectly indecent.”

  He shrugged, apparently unfazed by her displeasure. “What else is a man supposed to think when a woman chases him like a hound after fresh meat?”

  Her cheeks heated. “You, sir, are not a nice man.”

  “True enough.” He dipped his head close to her ear and whispered, “But you seem to be the only one who knows it.”

  His breath caressed her neck, prickling her flesh with awareness. She moved her head, and he straightened. The look in h
is dark eyes was edgy and predatory. There was a quiet power seething beneath his deceptively harmless veneer, though his hold on her remained gentle.

  “People are curious about you,” she said, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  “Good. Let them stay that way.”

  She blinked at his brusqueness, but forged ahead. “I mean, look at you. You dress like a gambler—”

  “I’ve done some.”

  “Oh, really?” But not professionally, she thought. He wasn’t glib enough, not smooth enough and certainly not polished enough. He lacked the easy sophistication of a man used to blending into social situations—a skill a gambler would have developed out of necessity.

  She could imagine Jack Donovan as a lawman, a miner or even an outlaw. He had an element of danger, a sense of self-containment, found with that sort of solitary occupation, but there was no way he had ever been a gambler.

  Which left the question of where his wealth had come from.

  At her speculative glance, he laughed. “Miss Calhoun, you’re like a tick under my skin about my past.”

  “Human nature, Mr. Donovan. When a man like you comes to town, flaunting money the way you have, people are bound to talk.”

  “Flaunting money? And what do you mean, a man like me?” The cool, self-possessed Donovan actually seemed disconcerted.

  “You’re an eligible, wealthy bachelor whose existence seems to have begun the day you came to Burr. You spend money like it’s water, but no one seems to know anything about you. Of course, you’re bound to attract attention.”

  “A man’s past is his own business, Miss Calhoun. That’s an unwritten law.” Warning underscored his tone. “But I’m not a wanted man, so the good people of Burr needn’t worry about being murdered in their beds.”

  “Who said anything about murder?” She held his gaze, eyebrows raised in challenge.

  He didn’t look away. “I won’t discuss my past. Ask me about something else.”

  “It’s my business to uncover secrets, Mr. Donovan.”