She twisted her hands together. “Probably. That’s why I named him Senseless.”
He stared at her for so long that she had to battle the urge to shift her feet like a schoolgirl caught playing with her mama’s jewelry. Finally he just shook his head. “Woman, since I met you, all sorts of crazy things have happened to me.”
A flush slowly warmed her cheeks. “Surely you don’t blame me for this.”
He shrugged. “I’m just saying life has gotten a lot more interesting since you started chasing after me.”
Her jaw dropped. “I never—!”
“You did,” he asserted, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Mr. Donovan, you know that’s business!”
“And what’s with this Mr. Donovan stuff? You can call me Jack, after all we’ve meant to each other.”
“I barely know you!”
“And I’ll call you Sarah,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Though Sassy suits you better. ‘Specially after that kiss you laid on me the other night.”
“That I laid on you? You were the one…”
“You sure are pretty when you get riled.” He caressed her cheek, making her protests fade to incoherent splutters. “Makes me want to carry you off to the nearest hay pile and see how hot you can get.”
“Mr. Donovan… Jack…” she spluttered.
“I like the way you say my name.” He stepped a little closer until her breasts just touched his chest. “I bet there’s a hay pile in that stable over there, isn’t there?”
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. He seemed to give off some kind of heat that enticed her closer and made her want to forget that he considered her good enough to bed, but not good enough to marry. Already her breathing had gotten faster, and she took a step away, hoping the distance would help her regain some control.
“That kind of talk is inappropriate, Mr. Donovan.”
“Come on, Sarah.” His voice deepened to a gentle coaxing. “You and I both know that there’s fire inside you just dying to get out. I don’t know why you’re so afraid of it.”
“I’m not afraid of anything, least of all a man who dresses like an outlaw and has no concept of social graces.”
“Social graces, huh? At least I know who I am, sassy girl. Can you say the same?”
She clenched her hands into fists. “Please take your horse and get off my property. And I’ll thank you to keep your innuendoes to yourself in the future.”
“Innuendoes, hell! I was saying it straight out. You were made for loving, Sarah, but you’ve got yourself locked up so tight that even the sunlight can’t get close.”
She pressed her lips together. “That’s the second time you have insulted me. Please leave.”
He shook his head. “No insult intended. I just expected a woman like you to recognize the truth when you heard it. Guess I was wrong.”
“I don’t like your version of the truth, Mr. Donovan.” She met his gaze, hoping the hurt didn’t show in her eyes.
“Then let’s hear yours, sweet Sarah. It’s locked up inside you somewhere, but you’ve been living other people’s truth for so long that I doubt you’d recognize your own anymore.” He turned as if to leave, then paused. “And by the way, I sure do appreciate you writing that newspaper article about me. Should make wife hunting awful easy now.”
His arrogant tone made her want to scream. “Well, I certainly hope you get exactly what you want, Mr. Donovan.”
“I always get what I want, Sarah.” He tugged his hat brim. “Have a nice day now.”
He left her there, her emotions churning, her pride smarting, as he walked away with his horse, whistling.
Damn his handsome hide.
A week later, Donovan walked into his darkened house, having left the rest of the hands at the bunkhouse after a long, dusty day of herding his new cattle. Moonlight streamed in through the window, but he didn’t really need the light. He was comfortable in the shadows.
He hung his hat on a peg by the door and ran both hands through his sweat-drenched hair. He could do with a bath but felt too tuckered to haul out the tub and heat the water. The kitchen pump would have to do.
He stripped off his shirt, appreciating the relief as the cool night air struck his perspiration-damp flesh. Dropping the filthy garment to the floor, he stuck his head under the pump, letting the cold water wash the grime from his skin. Despite how tired he was, he much preferred a long, hot, dusty day herding cattle to what had transpired in the week since sassy girl had published her newspaper article.
Jack Donovan knew the rhythm of the hunt as well as he knew the beat of his heart. He knew the smell of the chase, the taste of it. And in his former profession, he had always been the predator.
This was the first time he had ever been the prey.
He muttered a curse, then doused his head under water again and scrubbed at his face with both hands, as if to wash away the memory.
It didn’t work. He straightened, water streaming down his cheeks and neck, and scowled into the darkness. Darn that woman. She plagued him night and day, in person or not. Everything led him back to Sarah, even his damned horse.
He swiped his hands over his hair, squeezing the water from the ends, and then glanced down at the part of him that was still clothed. With a shrug, he bent down and pulled off his boots. It was nearly midnight, and no one was here but him. He might as well wash all of him at once.
As he peeled off the garments and dropped them on the floor, his gaze fell upon the pies sitting on the table— all six of them—and the accompanying notes. Six different flavors of pie, baked by six different women, all interested in marrying up with him. He clenched his jaw. That darned Sarah—she made him hotter than a steam engine in the middle of July, but she was still all wrong for him.
He turned back to the pump, naked and aroused despite himself. Damned woman. Everywhere he turned now, he bumped into marriage-minded females. They cajoled, flirted and fainted. They stopped him on the street, rode out to the ranch, and followed him around town. The only place they never followed was into the saloon, but he had a feeling that might be next. He had even taken to bringing Matt or Amos along with him everywhere to help keep them at arm’s length. The gifts of food were only a small part of what had turned into a full-fledged, hound-dog pursuit of Jack Donovan.
At first he had been amused by Sarah’s article. Now it was getting increasingly annoying.
He gave himself a quick rinse, then gathered up his dusty clothes and padded naked through the dark, empty house. As a man who had often walked in the shadows of society, he was downright shocked at the behavior of some of these “good” women. Their chase held none of the subtlety of a true hunt. If they’d been out on the trail, they wouldn’t have been able to trap so much as a field mouse. They were too noisy, too clumsy. Heck, he’d met saloon girls with less obvious wiles.
He climbed the stairs to the bedroom, shaking his head. He was beginning to wonder if there was a single woman in town, aside from the soiled doves, who didn’t resort to plots and plans to get a man’s attention.
There was one, he realized as he pushed open his bedroom door. Sarah Calhoun. But as much as he thought about getting her into bed, he already knew she was the one woman he couldn’t marry. She didn’t fit any of his requirements. And that was that.
With a sigh, he tossed his clothes over a chair. At the rate things were going, it looked like his bed was going to be mighty empty for a while yet. He couldn’t have Sarah, and he hadn’t found anyone else who tickled his fancy the way she did. And as for the others…
He repressed a shudder. As much as he wanted a wife, he just couldn’t stand the thought of being tied to that sort of manipulating female for the rest of his life. Sarah was the only one who didn’t try to finagle her way into his affections. He only teased her about it because some stubborn part of himself wished that she would.
He lit the lamp and turned to his cold, lonely bed.
“It’s ab
out time you got here, Jack Donovan.”
He stopped short and stared at the woman reclining on the mattress. She smiled, revealing a tiny space between her two front teeth that he might have found charming any other time. As it was, he could only stare in stupefaction as she sat up and lazily smoothed a hand over her auburn hair.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming home.” She slid him a warm, dark-eyed look.
“Mrs. O’Brien?” he finally said, still stunned.
“Katie.” She rose to her knees, the sheets tangling around her bare legs. “You can call me Katie. And I’ll call you Jack.”
“Katie?”
Her hot gaze slid over him, jolting him with the reminder that he was naked. He grabbed his shirt off the chair and wrapped it around his waist. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you might be tired of all those silly young things chasing after you.” She slipped from the bed. Her sheer lawn shift revealed a lush, full figure designed to make a man’s mouth water. “I thought you might want more womanly company for a change.”
“I…uh…” Words failed him as the sultry widow approached. She was pretty and willing. So what was he waiting for? “Mrs. O’Brien…”
“Katie,” she whispered, stroking her hands over his bare shoulders.
He backed away until his spine bumped the bureau. She followed, pressing against him. “Mrs. O’Brien…” he said again.
“Am I right?” With a gleam in her eye, she slowly trailed one hand down his chest and past his stomach.
He grabbed her wrist before her fingers made contact.
“I never figured you for a shy one,” she murmured. “I hope you’re not offended, but a woman needs to try out a husband before she marries him.”
He had to give her credit: she knew what she wanted.
“You’re very honest,” he said. He couldn’t help wishing that Sarah was more like the earthy widow. He knew that deep down inside prim-and-proper Sarah, hot-blooded Sassy was just itching to escape.
“Fair’s fair,” Katie said, distracting him from his thoughts. “I get to try you out, and you get to try me out.” She grinned. “And by the way, I left my pie on the table with the others.”
He laughed. As he looked down into her soft, brown eyes, he wondered why he was hesitating. Katie O’Brien fit all his requirements. She was a rancher’s widow, used to hard work, and an accomplished cook. On top of that, she had already proven her fertility by bearing her late husband a son. And she was attractive. Any sane man would take her up on her offer and rush her to the nearest preacher.
He must be insane—it was the only answer.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Brien, but I have to turn you down.” He slipped from between the woman and the bureau and managed to snag his pants from the chair.
“I can change your mind.” Before his astonished eyes, she slipped off her shift. Her voluptuous figure would have enticed a monk. He stared appreciatively, but she stirred no desire in him at all.
She wasn’t Sarah.
Just the thought of Sarah had him harder than an axe handle in seconds. He subtly shifted his hold on his pants so the garment blocked his arousal from Katie O’Brien’s sharp-eyed view.
Damn it all. Sarah Calhoun was the wrong woman.
But so was Katie O’Brien. And damned if he understood why.
“Jack?” The widow reached for him, but he dodged her touch.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Brien,” he said as he backed out the door. “A woman like you deserves a man who appreciates her. I’ll go saddle my horse and see you home.”
Sarah stared at the ceiling of her bedroom. She should have been asleep hours ago, but her restless mind refused to allow her peace. Jack Donovan had turned her simple, quiet life into chaos.
She flung back the covers and slid from the bed. Since he had deigned to notice her at the spring dance, her life had become the cynosure of speculation and rumor. Moving to the window, Sarah rested her head against the frame. She had worked hard to repair her tarnished reputation. She had gone from the passionate young woman in love with the wrong man to the proper and respectable businesswoman who ran the town paper.
That newspaper had saved her life. But the cost…
Grief rose like a heavy fog from within, obscuring the present and revealing scenes from the past to torment her. Images of her father guiding her small hands as he taught her how to set type. Visions of her sister, always so beautiful, always the one entertaining beaux while Sarah worked long, lonely nights with ink staining her skin. Then Luke Petrie had arrived, and that was when everything had started to go wrong.
How desperate she had been, Sarah thought, moisture welling in her eyes. A man had finally noticed her. Her, Sarah, the “smart” sister. She had believed every lie Luke Petrie told her, gave him her heart and her virginity. In return he had murdered her father.
And whether the townsfolk ever chose to forgive her or not, she would live with the guilt for the rest of her life.
A sob escaped her. She ruthlessly quelled it, pressing her lips together. She knew her disgrace had doomed her to a life without a husband or children. Very few men would take on a woman with a past, and she wasn’t yet desperate enough to accept an offer from the sort of man who would. She had buried the part of her that longed to be a wife and mother, and concentrated on making her father’s dream come true.
While other small-town newspaper editors put together their papers in old barns or even outdoors, Mac Calhoun had spent all his savings to build the tiny office of the Burr Chronicle right on Main Street. He brought in extra money between issues by printing up advertisements for other businesses. He had sworn that the Burr Chronicle was going to be the most popular paper in the territory, and Sarah owed it to him to see that happen.
She swiped a tear away and tried to distract her thoughts by focusing on the view out the window. Below, a shadow moved in the night.
Sarah pressed her face against the windowpane and stared at the area where she had seen the movement. Gradually, as the clouds cleared a path for the moonlight, she began to make out the shape of a man sitting on a horse.
He shifted in the saddle, and she knew it was Jack Donovan.
Her pulse sped up. Why was he here, beneath her window, in the middle of the night? It was like some tale from a dime novel.
He just sat there, so still that she might have indeed mistaken him for one of the shadows if Senseless hadn’t chosen that moment to toss his head. Then Jack urged the horse forward, came fully into the moonlight, and looked straight up at her bedroom window.
She knew she should step back. She was in her nightgown, and she knew he could see her. It was the height of immodesty. But for some reason, she couldn’t move…or didn’t want to.
You were made for loving. She heard his words again as if he whispered them in her ear, and a tremor shook her. He didn’t know how right he was, and how hard she fought that part of herself.
She knew well the fires that burned inside her. Her passionate nature had long been a failing. Her own heated emotions often caused more harm than good, especially when she gave them rein. Case in point—when she had gotten so annoyed at Jack Donovan that she wrote that article, which started the gossip about her all over again.
But worse than her temper were the terrible longings that plagued her, the secret cravings that frequently held her captive late at night as she longed for a man’s touch.
At heart she was a wanton, and she hated herself for it.
Yet here she stood, proving her true nature by brazenly displaying herself for the pleasure of the man below. She should be in bed asleep, like any other respectable woman. But she couldn’t pull herself away, couldn’t break the silent communication that stretched between them.
She knew he desired her; he had made that very plain. But she hadn’t wanted to admit her own reciprocal feelings. The stirrings invoked by his kiss two weeks ago had become stronger and more disturbing each time they met, and th
ose passions awoke now, flushing her body with heat.
She could feel his eyes on her. Her body reacted, making her nipples hard and her knees weak. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to slow her pounding heart. Then she raised one trembling hand to the windowpane, wishing she touched warm flesh instead of cool glass.
But giving in to these dangerous feelings would mean disaster. Donovan had made it abundantly clear that he wanted her only as a bedmate and not a bride.
She knew now what he was doing beneath her window in the middle of the night. He knew the most hidden, darkest part of her. He had seen deep into her soul and knew her for what she was…a slave to her own passions.
And still, she wanted nothing more than to go outside and step into his arms and let loose the fires that consumed her.
He knew he shouldn’t have given Senseless his head.
Donovan looked over the Calhoun house. It was well built and painted white, with a wraparound porch and real glass windows. Someone had planted flowers along the walkway, and lace curtains fluttered in the night breeze. It was more than just a house; it was a home.
A pale flash of movement in one of the upstairs windows caught his eye, and he glanced up. A woman stood in the window, the moonlight making her nightgown glow white and her hair glint with gold.
Sarah.
His body reacted to the sight of her, and he cursed. Why her, damn it? Why did he react so fiercely to the one woman in town who wasn’t after him? The one woman he couldn’t have?
She was pretty, but so were a dozen other women. And come to think of it, he had never been partial to blondes. He liked brunettes with big, dark eyes. The widow O’Brien was more his type of woman. But for some reason, it was Sarah Calhoun who made him hot. Blonde, blue-eyed Sarah, with her starched petticoats and her single-minded determination. There were times when he was sure she would figure out who he had been and print the story in the paper, destroying his chance of starting over. If he had any brains at all, he would stay as far from her as possible.
Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1 Page 5
