Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1 (18 page)

Donovan found her that way a few minutes later, sitting curled up into herself with her eyes red and puffy from crying. He hadn’t meant to let her see him. He’d just wanted to walk off some of the fury that that still churned in him, and then decided to take a stroll past Sarah’s place to make sure she was all right.

Obviously, she wasn’t.

Her quiet sniffles bit at him like spurs on a horse. He took the steps two at a time and knelt down in front of her, touching her gently on the arm. His first thought was that Petrie had somehow gotten to her, despite the guards he had set. He glanced over her quickly, but he saw no rips in her clothing, no signs of blood. What he did see was the aching despair in her eyes.

He cursed, scooping her into his arms and then sitting down in the chair, cuddling her in his lap. He really didn’t know what to do with a crying female—but holding her seemed a damned good idea.

She turned her face into his neck, her hand resting helplessly on his chest, as her bosom rose and fell with shuddering breaths. He could feel her trembling and tightened his arms around her. What happened? Who had done this to her? Whoever it was had better damned sure stay clear of him; he was still in the mood to pound someone.

They sat that way for a while, listening to the wind whisper through the trees and the insects chirping to each other. Finally Sarah’s breathing steadied, and she raised her head from his chest.

“You can let go of me now,” she said quietly.

“I don’t want to.” He shifted, pulling his bandanna from his pocket and wiping the tears from her cheeks. “You okay now?”

She took a deep breath that hitched in her throat, then let it out slowly and nodded.

“Good.” He cupped her cheek in his palm and made her look at him. “Who hurt you, sassy girl?”

Her lips quivered, and something broke apart inside him. Lord, this woman did something to him like no one else ever had. Somehow she had gotten to him. He stroked loose tendrils of hair back from her face with a tenderness that he hadn’t known he possessed. Her eyelids slid closed, and she turned her head so that her cheek touched his hand, her expression one of utter contentment, as if all she needed was his touch to make her world complete. Emotion welled up in him, clogging his throat and making his hand tremble against her cheek.

Sweet Jesus, was this what love felt like? This need to touch her, to hold her, to rip apart anybody who hurt her? The humbling emotion seemed so much larger than anything he had ever experienced. Part of him was scared spitless. The other part of him rejoiced. Somehow Sarah had crawled inside him, changed him. And he would never be the same again.

“I had an argument with Ross,” she said. Donovan jolted at the other man’s name. He’d forgotten about Turner.

“What about?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“He was…angry that you had posted your men to watch the house,” she explained. “He said I should have gone to him.”

“You shouldn’t have to go to him,” Donovan said, annoyed. “He should have thought of it himself, and he would have, if he’d really been concerned about your welfare.”

“I don’t think Ross is interested in anything but himself.”

Donovan raised his brows. Well, well. So Turner was showing his true colors, was he?

Sarah wiggled in his arms, distracting him. “You can let me go now,” she said.

“You don’t like me holding you?” He relished the feel of her soft bottom squirming in his lap. Another few seconds, and she was going to have him hotter than a convict after a five-year sentence.

“Your lack of social graces is showing again,” she shot back with a little of her usual spirit. “This is utterly improper.”

“Yeah, well, I like it. And I think you do, too.”

Color flooded her face. “Can’t you act like a gentleman, just once?”

“Being a gentleman is no fun, sassy girl. And if you keep rubbing yourself against me like that, I’m gonna forget everything except that I’m a man, and you’re a woman.”

She grew completely still, her back ramrod-straight. He took one look at her face and barked with laughter. Her expression was a comical combination of nervousness and feminine curiosity.

She scowled at him. “Do I amuse you?”

“All the time, sweetheart.” He raised her hand to his lips and planted a smacking kiss on her palm. She gasped and jerked her hand away, but he noticed how her fingers curled closed, as if to hold on to his kiss.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“Good thing you like me that way.”

“Mr. Donovan, I never said I liked you at all.”

God, he loved that uppity tone of voice. “I guess you forgot about what I said about my name, Sarah, and the snooty way you say it.”

Her eyes widened, but by then it was too late. He cupped a hand behind her head and pulled her close for a deep, hungry kiss.

He’d been starving for this since the box social. She resisted at first, sitting rigidly in his lap. Then her mouth softened beneath his, and her fingers curled into his chest. He made a sound of pleasure and angled his head to take more of her mouth. The kiss changed, becoming softer, more intimate. Her arms slipped around his neck and he savored her, tasting her in a slow, tender blending of lips and tongue that was more than sex, more than he had ever thought himself capable of offering a woman.

She shifted in his lap, pressing her breasts against his chest and rubbing her soft buttocks against his aching erection. The blood pounded in his ears, yet he found himself cradling her against him, cherishing her rather than seducing her, enjoying the sweet torment of arousal without needing to satisfy his physical cravings.

Not that he didn’t want to, but his relationship with Sarah had taken a very complicated turn. It was emotional now as well as physical. And he wasn’t sure yet how comfortable he felt with that.

He broke the kiss, softly touching her face when she made a sound of protest. Her eyes slowly opened, and the sultry heat he saw there almost undid all his good intentions. He smiled at her. “Any more of this, sassy girl, and Sam out there is gonna get an eyeful.”

He knew the instant his words penetrated her passion-induced daze. She gasped, color blooming in her face, and she jerked out of his arms, stumbling to her feet. He let her go and watched with affectionate amusement as she grabbed the porch railing for balance, leaning against it while she regained control. He waited, knowing that when she recovered herself, she’d be back to spitting and clawing just like always.

Shaken by the powerful emotions that held her captive, Sarah grappled for control of her body and mind. The desolation and hurt caused by Ross’s words had faded, like a nightmare in the face of sunrise. But now she felt confused and vulnerable, and she didn’t know what to think.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” She glanced at him, so dark and male on her pretty white porch. The look on his face made her heartbeat quicken. She could see the way desire lingered in his eyes, the way it tightened his sharp features. His deceptively relaxed pose couldn’t hide the tension of his body or the conspicuous bulge in the front of his pants. Yet he didn’t act on his obvious arousal, which only puzzled her more.

“I told you what I want,” he answered. “I want
you
, Sarah.”

“But what does that mean? Do you want me as a friend? A lover?” She twisted her fingers together. “I need to know.”

“I want you to be my wife.”

She jerked her gaze to his. “What did you say?”

He rose from the chair and came to stand in front of her. “I said I want you to marry me.”

“No more games, Jack.”

“I’m not playing games.” He stroked the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “You’re the only woman for me, Sarah. Say you’ll marry me.”

She started to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. She took a step back to put some distance between them. “Jack, if this is about Ross, I think you should know that he’s no longer interested in me.”

“He said that to you?” She nodded, and he cursed. “Did he say anything else?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Her face must have given something away, because he pulled her into his embrace, holding her as if he would never let her go. “Don’t you listen to him, sassy girl. He’s a damned fool.”

Something long imprisoned broke free inside her at the conviction in his voice. Whatever else he thought of her, it was obvious that Jack Donovan didn’t consider her the sordid creature that other people believed her to be. But she knew what Jack wanted in a woman, and she had only just realized this evening that she could never be that woman. She could be nothing other than herself. Anything else would be a lie.

She pulled back from his tight embrace, but he kept his arms around her waist. Comforted by the sensation of being held, Sarah allowed him that.

“You say that you want me to marry you.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand, halting the words before they left his lips. “If you truly mean that, Jack, then I should tell you I have no intention of giving up the paper. It’s too important to me.”

“Keep the damned paper,” he answered. “I want
you,
Sarah, just as you are. Marry me.”

She could barely resist the husky longing in his voice, the fierce admiration in his eyes. She had almost made one disastrous mistake; she would be very cautious about making another.

“I need time to think, Jack,” she said. “I’m not saying no, but I can’t say yes either. Not until I’m sure.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and she thought he might have changed his mind. Then he opened them again, and she was relieved to see that the tenderness was still there. “Take your time, sassy girl. I’m a patient man.”

She let loose the breath she only just realized she was holding. “Good.”

“But,” he continued, taking her chin in his hand, “that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to try to convince you to say yes.”

She straightened her spine, knowing a challenge when she heard one. “Take your best shot, Mr. Donovan.”

He smiled slowly, his expression taking the predatory look that created butterflies in her stomach. “You can count on that, Miss Calhoun.”

Chapter Twelve

Donovan waited until Friday before he stopped in to pay the wounded marshal a visit.

Because he had intended to set aside the day to come into town, he had put in extra hours at the ranch during the week. He hadn’t even been able to slip away to see Sarah, a situation he meant to correct as soon as he was done with the lawman.

He stepped into the clinic. Doc Mercer was sitting at his desk, a large book open before him. The physician glanced up at his entrance, peering over the top of his glasses. “Morning, Donovan.”

“Morning, Doc.” He indicated the back room with a nod of his head. “How’s the patient?”

“Awake and
im
patient,” Doc replied with a chuckle.

“Mind if I go back and visit?”

“Go right ahead. Just don’t stay too long. Marshal Brown is still weak and needs his rest.”

“Much obliged, Doc.” Leaving the doctor to his reading, Donovan stepped through the open door. The back room of the clinic boasted six beds, each with curtains that could be drawn for privacy. All of the beds were empty but one, which was in the corner, right next to the window and farthest from the door.

The one, he thought with amusement, that he would have chosen himself.

The marshal turned his head as Donovan approached, the utter picture of a very sick man. His left arm, wrapped in a sling, rested on his stomach. His right hand hung down the side of the bed, out of sight. Yes, indeed, the lawman’s pallor and listless pose indicated he was ailing. But his eyes told a different story.

Donovan stopped a few feet from the bed and raised his hands to shoulder height. “I don’t have a gun, Marshal,” he said calmly. “And I’m not here to kill you. All I want to do is talk. I can call Doc Mercer to vouch for me if you want.”

Marshal Brown’s eyes narrowed, and he brought his right arm up to where Donovan could see the Colt army revolver in his hand. He rested the weapon on his thigh, his finger lingering on the trigger. “You got a name?”

“Donovan. Jack Donovan. I own a spread outside town.”

“Jedidiah Brown.” The lawman sat up, wincing as he jostled his shoulder, but he kept a firm hand on the Colt. “I understand I owe you a debt, Mr. Donovan. You saved my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Jedidiah sat up straighter. “Where I come from, Mr. Donovan, a man always pays his debts.”

“That would be down south?”

The marshal nodded, a hint of respect glinting in his eyes. “I’m impressed. I thought I had perfected my Western accent.”

“You did pretty well. But you can’t do anything about that inbred Southern pride.”

The lawman laughed and slipped his revolver under his pillow. “Pull up a chair, Mr. Donovan, and tell me what I can do for you.”

“I want to ask you a few questions—about Luke Petrie.”

Jedidiah’s expression hardened as Donovan pulled a chair to the side of the bed, making him glad he’d never walked on the wrong side of the law. He’d hate to face Jedidiah Brown over the barrel of a gun.