“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?”
He pulled her back into his arms and began dancing her toward the edge of the crowd. “Don’t you worry about your virtue, Miss Calhoun. We’ll stay within screaming distance.” He grinned, and she wanted to smack that dimple right off his cheek.
He swept her to the edge of the platform and then gallantly took her hand to help her down the steps. Given his strong grip on her fingers, Sarah wondered if he was holding her prisoner.
Only a few heads turned their way as he escorted her with a firm hand on her elbow toward the church a few yards back. She knew she would have attracted much more attention had she given in to impulse and stormed off the dance floor, and was grudgingly grateful that he’d just rescued her from her own impetuous nature.
Donovan led her around the side of the building, away from prying eyes but close enough to be heard should she call for help. Then he released his grip on her elbow, crossed his arms and looked down at her.
They were alone. Above them stars glittered like diamonds against a sky of dark blue velvet, and insects chirped mating songs far prettier than the music they had left behind. Donovan stood with his back to the moon, his face cast in shadow, his masculine stance making Sarah restlessly aware of her own smaller feminine stature.
“Now what was that you were saying, about me not knowing a woman from a horse?”
His voice rippled over her, soft, dangerous. For a moment she couldn’t think for the fluttering in her belly. “That’s not what I meant,” she whispered, finally.
“I know what you meant.” He reached for her. She tensed, but all he did was slide his hands down her bare arms. His callused thumbs rasped over the vulnerable flesh of her inner elbows, the sensitive palms of her hands. The pure sensuality of the gesture sent heat spiraling through her system, making her tremble in a response that she couldn’t deny.
His fingers tightened over hers as he sensed her reaction. He took a step closer, slowly raising his hand to her chin. Her breath caught. She thought he would kiss her—finally, after all these months—but he only stroked the backs of his fingers over her throat.
“A woman,” he said with slow deliberation, “has soft skin. Silky hair.” He tugged gently at a wispy curl, his knuckles brushing her ear. “And a sweet mouth, meant for kissing. I don’t ever recall wanting to kiss my horse.”
“I should hope not.” Her words were barely audible. Where had her anger gone? He touched her with the skill of a man who knew women well, yet the knowledge excited instead of repulsed her.
“Now you…” He stroked his thumb along her lower lip. “You, Miss Sarah Calhoun, are a different kettle of fish altogether. I’ve been thinking entirely too much about that sassy mouth of yours.”
“You have?” She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Her body hummed with readiness, poised for whatever he asked of her.
“Yeah.” He cupped her face in his hands, spearing his fingers into her hair. A long blonde coil dropped over her shoulder as he dislodged her hairpins. “Sweet Lord, what a sassy mouth.”
“I’ve thought about you, too,” she admitted in a shy whisper. Slowly she raised her hands to his lean waist, massaging the taut muscles.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I shouldn’t either…” The words dissolved against his mouth.
She’d been kissed before, but never like this. His lips were soft, his touch gentle. His tenderness aroused her faster than hot passion would have done. She pressed closer to him and molded her mouth more precisely over his, shivering with delicious excitement as he held her face in his hands and savored her.
“God.” He broke the kiss, but barely, his mouth hovering within an inch of hers. “I wondered how you would taste.”
She smiled, her gaze drifting to his mouth. “Really?”
“Hell, yeah.” He nuzzled her cheek with his lips. “But we have to stop. I have to think about finding a wife, much as I’d like a tumble with you.”
She stiffened as his words cut through the desire that tangled her thoughts. For a moment she had actually thought— “What did you say?”
“I said I’d sure enjoy a little slap and tickle with you, sassy girl, but my future wife might not like it.”
“You low-down skunk!” Stung to her feminine core, she jerked away from him. “So I’m good enough for a romp in the hay, but not good enough to be on that list of yours? Have you been listening to the gossips, Mr. Donovan?”
“I don’t care about gossip.” He moved to brush a strand of hair out of her face, but Sarah turned from his touch.
“Then why do you consider me good enough to bed, but not good enough to be on your precious list?” Passion flared into anger, all the better to dull the pain in her heart. “I work hard at my newspaper, and I love children.”
He leaned close. “You know good and well why you’re not on the list, Sassy.”
“My name is Sarah.”
“Sassy suits you better. Truth is, you’re prettier than an Arizona sunset, but you’re to
o ornery for your own good, and you love that damned paper more than you’ll ever love a man. I need a woman who puts me before anything else. Hell, your husband would have to lay down on the printing press just to get your attention!”
She slapped him. Stunned at her own action, she could only stare as he raised a hand to rub his cheek.
“See what I mean?” He smiled, but the derision in his expression seemed directed more toward himself than her. “We mix like fire and oil, sassy girl. That kind of explosion makes for hot loving, but it doesn’t fit into a marriage.”
What a fool! “Good evening, Mr. Donovan. I hope you find what you’re looking for—though I can’t help but pity her.” Without waiting for a response, Sarah left him standing there in the dark.
Chapter Three
Monday morning, Sarah set the type for the article herself. As each piece clicked into place, a smile of pure feminine satisfaction tugged at her mouth. This story ought to see that Jack Donovan got just what he thought he wanted.
WEALTHY BACHELOR SEEKS WIFE
Mr. Jack Donovan, Burr’s most eligible bachelor, has declared his intention of taking a bride. He has designed his beautiful home with the future Mrs. Donovan in mind, going so far as to purchase furniture from back east, including an ornate bed that any woman would covet. The antique bed dates back a hundred years and looks big enough to sleep a family of six. Carved into the rich walnut posts and headboard are cherubs and flowers of exquisite workmanship. The future Mrs. Donovan looks to be one lucky lady.
Mr. Donovan has indicated that his future wife will be a woman suited to the rigors of childbirth and ranching. The eager bridegroom can be reached at the Triple D ranch, just outside Burr, Wyoming Territory. Only qualified ladies need apply.
The Burr Chronicle hadn’t been in Pearson’s Mercantile two hours before Millicent Castor paid a visit to the newspaper office. Sarah looked up as the door blew open, unsurprised at the identity of her visitor. “Good morning, Mrs. Castor.”
“Good morning, Sarah.” The mayor’s plump wife struggled against the door a moment and heaved a sigh when it gave up the battle and clicked into the latch. Outside the wind howled in protest.
Sarah stood and came out from behind her desk. “What can I do for you today?”
“I came to put a notice in the Chronicle about the town council meeting next week.”
“Certainly.” Sarah handed her a notepad and pencil. “Just write down what you want it to say.”
The mayor’s wife started to write. After a moment she asked, “So, dear, how are you these days?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Castor.”
“Good, good.” Still scribbling, Mrs. Castor glanced at Sarah from the corner of her eye. “And your mother?”
“She’s well.”
“That’s fine then.” She finished the notice and handed pad and pencil back to Sarah. “Do you hear from your sister?”
“She writes. Mama sends her the Chronicle regularly.”
“Why, isn’t that nice? Susannah can have a little bit of home come in the mail every week.” Mrs. Castor smiled, revealing the dimples nearly hidden in her chubby cheeks. “You’ve done a good job with your newspaper, Sarah. I read it from first page to last, every issue.”
Sarah paused in the act of making notes about the typesetting of Mrs. Castor’s announcement. Covertly Sarah studied the woman, noting the sparkle in her brown eyes and the flush in her cheeks. Her bountiful bosom fairly quivered with excitement. Given that the mayor’s wife was the biggest gossip in town, Sarah wondered what bit of hearsay had brought the portly woman to her doorstep.
“I’m glad you enjoy the Chronicle.”
“Oh my, yes!” Mrs. Castor lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though no one else was present to overhear her. “I especially like the piece you did on Mr. Donovan. Such a handsome man. And so close-mouthed about himself.”
Sarah tensed at the mention of Jack Donovan. “Thank you,” she said, for lack of anything else.
“How ever did you get him to open up, dear?” Mrs. Castor paused expectantly, her brown eyes snapping with anticipation.
“Well, I—”
“You can tell me.” The mayor’s wife patted Sarah’s hand. “I promise, I won’t tell a soul.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Feeling like she was caught in a mudslide, Sarah grasped for words that would not implicate her in unfounded rumor. “I simply asked him a few questions.”
“I’m sure there’s more to it than that. Won’t you tell me which one of our girls that handsome man has his eye on?”
Stung that she was obviously not considered one of “our” girls, Sarah said tightly, “Everything I know about Mr. Donovan’s marital plans is in the article.”
“I don’t believe that for a second, Sarah Ann Calhoun, and I am well and truly hurt that you won’t confide in me. Me, who’s known you since you were born!” With a sniff, Mrs. Castor wiped at an imaginary teardrop with her forefinger.
As Sarah started to protest, the door to the office slammed open and the Tremont sisters hurried inside in a whirl of wind-blown skirts and petticoats. Juliana brushed the dust from her dress, while Emmaline shoved the door shut.
“Good afternoon, Emmaline. Juliana.” Mrs. Castor favored both women with a huge smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Hello, Mrs. Castor.” Emmaline nodded her head at the mayor’s wife and turned her attention to Sarah. “Good afternoon, Sarah. Juliana and I just stopped by to invite you to the sewing circle tomorrow.”
Sarah eyed the sisters with caution. As far back as she could remember, the Tremont sisters had been people to avoid whenever possible. Juliana was an unpleasant woman just Sarah’s age who fancied herself a great beauty. Emmaline, five years older, prided herself on her arrow-straight posture and impeccable manners. The Tremonts had been Sarah’s greatest detractors during the scandal, and Emmaline had been a long-time rival of her sister, Susannah. Given the facts, the timing of this invitation to the close-knit sewing circle seemed extremely suspicious.
Sarah realized that everyone awaited her answer. “Why thank you, Emmaline, but I really should work on the Chronicle tomorrow.”
“Oh, come now, Sarah.” Emmaline smiled, a mere straightening of her thin lips that narrowed her eyes. “We’ll have tea, and Juliana is going to make her famous lemon cake. Isn’t that so, sister?”
“Why, yes.” Juliana gave Sarah a look that could have scorched her hair. “Please do come, Sarah. We have so much to talk about.”
“If you mean what I think, don’t waste your breath.” Mrs. Castor heaved a dramatic sigh. “Sarah is keeping all the details about Mr. Donovan’s wedding plans to herself.”
“Mrs. Castor, I told you—”
“How selfish of you, Sarah.” Despite her smaller stature, Juliana somehow managed to look down her nose at Sarah. “Of course, perhaps Sarah just wants Mr. Donovan for herself.”
“Juliana!” Emmaline splayed a hand to her scrawny bosom.
“I only said what everyone else is thinking.”
“That will be enough,” Mrs. Castor announced. “Juliana, don’t be ridiculous. Everyone knows that Mr. Donovan is interested in more than simple companionship.”
“There are certain kinds of companionship that all men are interested in.” Juliana wrinkled her nose and looked Sarah up and down; then her pointy features took on a sly cast. “I saw you go off with him Saturday night, Sarah. And then you came back with your hair all mussed. I suppose now we all know how you managed to describe his bed in such intricate detail.”
“Everyone saw that bed when it came through town, Juliana,” Sarah retorted. “I’m just more observant than most.”
“I’d say you got a closer look than the rest of us.” Juliana tucked a strand of dark hair back beneath her bonnet and gave Sarah a look of pure challenge. “As close as the mattress perhaps?”
Silence descended. Sarah glanced from the spiteful glee on Juliana’s face to Mrs. Casto
r’s look of breathless anticipation. Emmaline’s eyes narrowed as they all awaited Sarah's response, surrounding her like crows picking over a carcass. She should have expected it after she let her anger get the best of her and wrote that article. She had learned the hard way not to let her emotions overrule her intellect, yet she had done just that. Her throat tightened as she realized that all her hard work to repair her reputation over the past three years had been for nothing. The slightest hint of a man in her life brought the whole scandal to life again.
“Nothing to say, Sarah?” Juliana taunted.
Sarah glared at the smaller woman. Though she felt like crying, she refused to let someone like Juliana Tremont belittle her.
“Your manners are deplorable, Juliana,” she replied with a coldness that made the other woman gape. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have work to do.” She took up the notepad that held Mrs. Castor’s announcement and dismissed the three by turning her back.
A stunned silence followed, tension thickening the air until Sarah could barely breathe. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to give in to them. For three years she had allowed these women to dictate her way of life. She had played by their rules, never once straying from the path of respectability they set forth, and all to make up for a single error in judgment. Despite years of impeccable behavior on Sarah’s part, they still turned on her at the first hint of impropriety.
No more.
The words seared her brain like a cattle brand. No more would she let others control her life. She reached for the tray of type, her movements pure reflex as she began to set the announcement for the mayor’s wife.
“Sarah Ann Calhoun,” Mrs. Castor finally said, her voice hoarse with shock. “I would not have believed such rudeness from you.”
Emmaline chimed in. “I take back my invitation to the sewing circle, Sarah, unless you apologize to my sister at once.”
“Yes, Sarah,” Juliana put in. “Do apologize.”
Sarah didn’t look up from her task. Juliana Tremont was free to speak of beds and mattresses with impunity while she, Sarah, could not so much as wear the wrong dress without being censured. She was tired of paying for sins she had committed three years ago. She had a new life now, and a purpose. She needed to concentrate on that and let the rumors slip past her like dandelion seeds on the wind. She needed to stop caring so much what people said.
Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1 Page 3
