Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1 (3 page)

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 faces 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 his 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.”

“Take it or leave it.”

She deliberated a moment, torn between pressing for more or settling for what he was willing to offer. “Very well, I’ll take it. For now. Would you be willing to discuss your ranch?”

“Sure thing.” Pride lit his face. “I just bought some stock. In a few weeks the Triple D will be up and running.”

She nodded with polite interest. “The buildings are quite impressive, but I’m really interested in the fancy furniture you bought. Take the bed, for instance. Most of the men I’ve known would be content sleeping in a bunk or a bedroll.”

He stared at her with masculine interest, smiling when a flush heated her cheeks. “So, Miss Calhoun, you’ve been thinking about my bed.”

Her blush deepened, and she grew annoyed with herself. “It just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing a man would buy for himself.”

“You’re right. I didn’t buy it for myself. I bought it for my wife.”

She stumbled, and his strong arms immediately tightened. “Your what?”

“My wife. I mean to find one here.”

“Oh.” She didn’t like the sprig of hope that grew in her breast. “And have you found one yet?”

“No, but I have a list of three or four names that I can choose from.”

“A list?” she choked. “Like a list of supplies you buy at the mercantile?” Good heavens, the man had spent a fortune building the house of any woman’s dreams and furnishing it as extravagantly as any Boston manor. The bed alone must have set him back quite a bit of money, yet he didn’t seem to care which wife would soon reside in it!

“I’m looking for certain qualities in a woman,” he continued, oblivious to her growing ire. “I made a list of some of the unmarried ladies hereabouts who might have them.”

“And what are these
qualities
?” She could barely maintain a civil tone.

“Well, my wife has to be a hard worker, used to ranch life. She’ll take care of my house and trust me to provide for her. And she has to like children. I aim to have a lot of them.”

“So what you’re saying is that she needs stamina, blind obedience and good breeding potential.”

“That’s right.” He smiled.

“Mr. Donovan, you might as well just go buy yourself a horse!”

The smile disappeared. “Now just a minute here—”

“You can’t shop for a wife the way you would a brood mare! A woman needs to be loved, to feel important in a man’s life. To be his partner. You can’t marry someone just because you think she’ll be easy to break to the saddle!” Furious now, she jerked out of his arms. “I can’t stomach your company another minute.”

Strong fingers closed on her arm before she could take a step. “You walk away from me now, you’ll just start up all that talk you’re trying to avoid,” he warned. “You want a piece of me? We’ll take it someplace private.”

She stared at him, battling the urge to stomp off, consequences be damned. “What do you mean, private?”