Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1

by Debra Mullins

  “Mama, how many times must we discuss this?” Sarah snapped the reins over Matilda’s back and steered the buggy toward Miller’s Pond.

  “I still think you should have made up a basket, Sarah.” June smoothed her skirt of pale green gingham. “I’m certain Ross Turner would bid on it.”

  “Mama…”

  “Sweetheart, the man has come to sit on our porch with you these past two Saturday evenings. And he’s talking about marriage. Of course he would bid on your basket.”

  Sarah sighed and didn’t answer, not wanting to prolong the discussion. Ross Turner had come calling these past two Saturday nights. They had sat outside on the porch and carried on conversations that mostly centered around Ross and cattle. It had been pleasant to listen to a man talk about his dreams while watching the sunset, though cattle was not necessarily her favorite topic of conversation.

  She couldn’t deny that Ross was attractive. And he had mentioned marriage. But there was no spark between them. No fire.

  Nothing like what sizzled between her and Jack Donovan.

  She should be glad of that, she thought. She should be thrilled to be free from that carnal side of her that tormented her with improper hungers.

  With Ross she could have all those things she had always dreamed about: a home of her own and children. But the cattleman had made it quite clear that no wife of his would work. That meant she would have to sell the Chronicle.

  Her father’s dream. And hers.

  She had worked out her feelings of guilt over her father’s death by taking on his dream, but somewhere along the way, she had made the paper her own. She enjoyed the job, and it would not be as easy to put it aside.

  But amazingly, she was actually considering it.

  Miller’s Pond came into view. The Millers had moved on long ago, after a fire had burned down their farm, but the name still clung to the place. The timbers of the burned buildings had been taken away, leaving a pretty meadow that was ideal for picnics and a watering hole shaded by trees that had become Burr’s favorite fishing and swimming spot. A lone shed standing at the edge of the woods was all that remained of the farm.

  Reverend Westerly stood in the back of someone’s buckboard, a pile of picnic baskets at his feet. Mrs. Westerly sat in the seat of the buckboard with a small wooden box, no doubt for the collection of funds. Everyone milled around, socializing and laughing and smiling.

  “It looks like we haven’t missed anything,” June said as Sarah stopped the buggy beneath a leafy maple tree.

  “Good. I want to talk to a few people before they start the auction.” Sarah climbed down and tied the horse’s reins around a branch.

  June scrambled out the other side. “You do that, dear. I’ll just go talk to Honoria.” She took a bulky, cloth-wrapped bundle from the back of the buggy and hurried away.

  Sarah frowned after her mother for a moment, wondering what she was carrying. Probably someone’s new dress. Without another thought on the matter, she grabbed her notepad and pencil, then wandered across the meadow.

  “Looks like a fine crowd of folks showed up for the auction,” Matt said.

  “Sure does,” Amos agreed. “You fixin’ on buyin’ one a them baskets, boss?”

  Donovan sent a look at the two men walking beside him. “I don’t think so, Amos,” he replied.

  Matt chuckled. “Hey, Amos, I reckon the gals would pay Donovan to pick one of those baskets, what with the way they’ve been after him lately.”

  “Yessiree,” Amos agreed. “The boss did his share by offerin’ to pay for that teacher. I reckon he don’t have to participate if he don’t want to.”

  “You can both stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” Donovan growled.

  “If ya don’t aim to buy a basket, boss, why are ya here?” Amos asked.

  “I thought it would be the right thing to do,” Donovan answered. “Besides, I am looking for a wife.” He sent them a hard glance. “You two can stop trailing me like a couple of hound dogs. Get on and enjoy yourselves.”

  “You got it, boss.” Amos grabbed Matt by the arm and dragged him off.

  Donovan chuckled, then scanned the crowd. His restless gaze settled on a familiar face. Sarah’s blonde hair shone in the sunlight as she spoke earnestly with Reverend Westerly. For an instant their eyes met. She gave Donovan a little smile, then turned her attention back to the preacher.

  He stared at her, struck by the way the breeze stirred her hair, the way her laughter carried across the meadow. One smile shouldn’t make his heart clench like that, he thought with a twinge of alarm. One look shouldn’t steal the thoughts from his head or the voice from his throat.

  By all that was holy, why couldn’t she be the right woman?

  The preacher said something to Sarah, then walked away. She glanced over at him, and once more, their gazes touched. He started walking before he even realized he had moved.

  “Good afternoon,” Sarah said as he drew near.

  “Afternoon.” The delicate scent of lavender drifted to him. He had a sudden image of her taking a bath, smoothing lavender-scented soap over long limbs and soft skin.

  Damn.

  “Going to bid on a basket today?” she asked.

  “Why, do you have one to bid on?” he teased, reminding himself that they were friends and nothing more.

  “Of course not,” she answered, her cheeks reddening.

  “That’s too bad.”

  Her blush deepened. “I’m here for the newspaper and nothing more.”

  “You think some man wouldn’t bid on your basket?” Unable to resist, he stroked a finger down her flushed cheek. “You should look in the mirror sometime, sassy girl.”

  Sarah stepped away from his touch just as someone called her name. She glanced over her shoulder. “My mother needs me. I’ll speak to you later, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Sure.” He watched her walk away, his gaze following the sway of her bottom beneath her dark brown skirt.

  “Why, Mr. Donovan!” All warm smiles and sparkling eyes, Mrs. Castor came over and took his arm. “Imagine, a handsome man like yourself standing all alone.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Castor.” Still distracted, he watched Sarah make her way through the crowd until she reached her mother, who stood with Ross Turner.

  The mayor’s wife followed his gaze. “Well, isn’t that sweet? Ross Turner and Sarah Calhoun. Who would have thought?”

  Donovan turned to look at her. “Pardon?”

  “Well, certainly you’ve heard the news. It seems as if there’s a match in the making over there, yes indeed.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he muttered.

  “June is thrilled to bits. Of course Sarah will have to sell the newspaper. A man like Ross won’t tolerate his wife working.”

  Sarah, sell the newspaper? Impossible. “When did all this happen?”

  Mrs. Castor stared at him. “Well, everyone knows that Ross Turner has come to call these past two Saturdays. It was only a matter of time.” She glanced again at the couple in question. “Because of Imogene and all that.”

  “Imogene?”

  Obviously thrilled to have an interested ear, Mrs. Castor launched into the role of narrator. “Imogene was Ross’s cousin. When his wife died a couple years back, Imogene came out to look after the children. I think it was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but she just stayed on. She was a tender-hearted girl, but…well, she was a bit plain, and she liked her sweets a little too much, if you know what I mean.”

  “What does Imogene have to do with Sarah?”

  “Well, everyone knows how Ross is about money,” Mrs. Castor continued, “and since no one ever expected Imogene to marry, I suppose it suited Ross to have her stay on and save him the trouble of hiring someone to care for the children. Then that peddler came through town last fall, and that was the end of that.”

  Fascinated by the miserly flaw in the otherwise perfect Ross Turner, Donovan prodded, “Then what?”

  Mrs.
Castor stared at him in surprise. “Why, hadn’t you heard? Imogene ran off with the peddler and left Ross high and dry with no one to manage his household. His boy Ross Junior is old enough to go out on the range, and the twins can certainly keep house, but what about little Betsy? She needs a mama, being only eight years old and all.”

  “So rather than hire someone to care for the children, he decided to get married,” Donovan concluded.

  “Well, I’m certain that wasn’t his only reason,” Mrs. Castor said diplomatically. “But it sure is nice he chose Sarah. After all, it’s not as if she had any prospects—”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Sarah.” Irritated with himself for lending an ear to gossip for even a short time, Donovan ignored the look of disappointment on the woman’s face and tugged his hat brim. “If you’ll pardon me, ma’am.”

  He walked along the edge of the crowd, keeping an eye on Sarah and her suitor. Pausing at the table that had been set up for those not participating in the auction, he got himself a glass of lemonade from a giggling young woman and went to a secluded spot beneath a shady maple.

  Across the meadow, Ross placed a proprietary hand beneath Sarah’s elbow.

  A mother for little Betsy? Red-hot fury surged through him. The strength of his desire to go over there and break Ross’s arm stunned him. What was wrong with him?

  He sipped at his lemonade, barely tasting the tart sweetness of it. All right, so the situation bothered him. He had been so certain that Sarah would never make time in her life for a husband—yet Ross had asked her to marry him, and now Sarah was thinking about selling the newspaper. Donovan hadn’t even bothered to try and court her; he had just spent months convincing himself that she was the wrong woman for him. He had never imagined that she might be willing to compromise.

  Maybe it was because Sarah was a woman, and he wasn’t used to having to figure a woman’s mind. His job had demanded that he study a man until he knew how the man’s mind worked. What his secrets were. His fears. His dreams.

  He hadn’t done that with Sarah.

  But what did he know about decent women? The only women with whom he’d had any sort of relationship had been good-time girls.

  And in the meantime, Sarah was considering changing her entire life around for a chance to catch a husband. Without the newspaper, Sarah would change. She would turn into one of those giggling females who talked about nothing but fabrics and furniture, who grew too old too quickly from too many babies in too few years.

  The thought of Sarah lying with Turner in the marriage bed was enough to make Donovan's stomach clench.

  He couldn’t let her do it. If she was so set on selling the paper and getting married, then she could damned well marry him.

  The reverend held up the third basket of the day and announced the name of the young lady who had prepared it. Masculine voices shouted bids as the woman in question flushed and giggled with delight.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” June asked. “I haven’t been to a box social since I was a girl.”

  “It serves the purpose for raising the funds, which is the important thing,” Sarah conceded. She glanced at the tall rancher standing beside her. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Turner?”

  “Tomfoolery.” Ross snorted as the victorious winner came forth to claim his basket and his companion amid cheers from the crowd. “But I have to give the town credit for what it’s trying to do.”

  Sarah sighed. Her mother was determined that she take Ross’s interest seriously, and she was trying. But the man’s narrow-minded thinking constantly disappointed her.

  “Isn’t that her fiancé?” June asked, stretching on tiptoe to see over the crowd. “Oh, how romantic.”

  “I certainly hope you don’t expect me to participate in this foolishness,” Ross said to Sarah.

  “Of course not,” she responded. “I didn’t even prepare a basket.”

  “This next basket was made up by Miss Sarah Calhoun,” Reverend Westerly called. “May I have the first bid?”

  Ross stared at her.

  “I didn’t make anything!” she protested. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

  Ross scowled. “Since the whole darned town knows I’m courting you, I suppose I have to make a bid or else look like a fool. I’m certainly not going to let anyone else spend the afternoon with you.”

  “But I didn’t—wait a minute.” She glared at June. “Mother…?”

  “I didn’t see the harm.” June rolled her eyes. “Young people these days.”

  “What’s done is done,” Ross said.

  “Very well.” Sarah glared at her mother as Ross called his bid.

  “I have fifty cents,” the reverend announced with a stern look at Ross. “Do I hear one dollar? One dollar for this delicious ham dinner and the company of Miss Sarah Calhoun?”

  Ross looked around threateningly, as if to warn off anyone else.

  “One dollar.”

  Sarah jerked her head around at the familiar voice. Donovan leaned against a tree on the other side of the crowd, his arms folded across his chest. He watched her for a long moment with that black-as-hell gaze, then grinned and tugged his hat brim in salute. She flushed.

  “What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Ross’s color rose, deepening his ruddy complexion to an apoplectic red.

  June smiled with delight. “Apparently, he’s bidding on Sarah’s basket.”

  “One dollar. I have one dollar. Do I hear two?” Reverend Westerly called out with a wide grin.

  “Damn it.” Ross glared at Sarah. “This is going to end up costing a pretty penny, and all because of Donovan. Two!” he yelled.

  “Mr. Turner, your language!” June admonished.

  Sarah raised her brows. Ross had shown her nothing but charm and geniality these past two weeks. She had never witnessed this side of him.

  “Two dollars,” the reverend said with a grin. “That’s a fine donation to the school fund from Ross Turner. We have two dollars. Do I hear any more?”

  “Two dollars,” Ross muttered in disgust, digging for his money.

  “Going once…”

  “Two dollars, Sarah!” June exclaimed, her eyes bright. “That’s a fine donation.”

  “Going twice…”

  “Thirty dollars.”

  The crowd gasped.

  Ross turned pale.

  June squealed.

  Sarah stared at Donovan.

  The preacher cleared his throat. “Did you say two-thirty, Mr. Donovan?”

  “No, Reverend. I said thirty dollars.” Donovan held Sarah’s gaze. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought she heard the howl of a lonely wolf.

  “Thirty dollars. My goodness.” Awed by the bid that amounted to a month’s pay for most people, Reverend Westerly edged a finger along his collar and cleared his throat. “The bid is thirty dollars,” he said loudly.

  “Thirty dollars,” Ross whispered. He swallowed, glanced at Sarah, then shoved the money back into his pocket. “I don’t even have that much with me.”

  “Going once…”

  Ross wasn’t going to bid any more, Sarah realized.

  “Going twice…”

  He could have put his word on it and matched Donovan’s bid, but he didn’t.

  “Sold to Mr. Donovan, for the price of thirty dollars!”

  Sold to the devil for thirty dollars.

  Sarah stepped forward, prepared to do her part to help the school fund. Ross grabbed her elbow.

  “Sarah Calhoun, I hope you don’t intend to go through with this!”

  Sarah tugged her arm free and frowned at the red-faced rancher. “I have to go through with it, Ross. Even though I didn’t make the basket”—she sent a sharp look at her mother, who ignored her—”I still have to do this, for the school.”

  “Sarah, I will not have you make a laughingstock of me. You will not go off alone with Donovan, and that’s that.”

  She clenched her fingers as her temper sparked to life, but sh
e made an effort to remain calm. “I must go. Our neighbors expect it.”

  His face grew even redder if possible, but he had no answer. Appearances were everything to a man like Ross. Sarah turned her back on him and started walking toward Donovan, who had the basket in hand, a grin on his face. She pasted on a false smile for the sake of the crowd, all the while plotting to give Jack Donovan a piece of her mind.

  And nothing else.

  Chapter Nine

  “The nerve….the utter gall…!” Sarah spluttered. “Who gave you permission to interfere in my life?”

  “I’m not interfering. I only bought your basket.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  Donovan sighed. He walked with Sarah through the meadow, looking for a place to sit and eat the dinner he had just purchased for thirty dollars.

  Thirty dollars, he thought with a shake of his head. He could have bought a brand new saddle for that money! But it was worth it to get Sarah to himself. And it hadn’t hurt to beat out Ross Turner, either. But he didn’t think Sarah agreed with him.

  Given her current temper, he decided to wait until she settled down before he mentioned the change in their relationship.

  “I don’t see why we have to go so far from the others,” Sarah carped, stomping along with her sturdy brown skirt clenched in furious fists.

  “Because I want to talk to you,” Donovan said. “And I really don’t want any of those busybodies to get wind of what I have to say. Do you?”

  Sarah snorted. “The last thing I want is gossip, but you and your grandiose gesture have assured that the rumor mill will be working nonstop for the next week.”

  “Well, if I hadn’t bid that much money, Ross Turner would be the one carrying this basket.” He grunted and shifted his grip. “What the heck is in here anyway? Enough food to feed the whole town?”

  “I have no idea what’s in there,” Sarah replied primly. “I didn’t make it. My mother did. And as for Ross, why should the prospect of a picnic with him disturb me?”