Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1

by Debra Mullins

  Here, she was secure. Here, she was master of her fate.

  Slowly she untied the ribbons of her straw poke bonnet and hung it on the peg by the door. As she walked the path to her desk, the door behind her opened. She whirled with a little scream, her hand going to her bosom.

  “Easy, Sarah. It’s just me.”

  “Good heavens.” Sarah lowered her hand from her thundering heart and watched as Donovan closed the door behind him. “You gave me such a fright.”

  “Seems to me you’re a bit on edge.” He eased toward her, as a man might approach a feral animal. “You left the doc’s awful quick.”

  “Yes. Well.” At a loss for words, she shrugged and looked away.

  He stopped just in front of her and paused, then put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  The gentle understanding in his tone almost undid her fragile defenses. She wanted nothing more than to step into his arms and let him tell her that everything would be all right.

  But she couldn’t do that.

  “I’m fine,” she said, forcing herself to look him in the eye. “I was just startled, that’s all.”

  “I’ll say you were. Hearing that name must be like hearing the devil’s coming to call.”

  She gave a small, wry smile. “Apparently, he is.”

  “You’re really scared of this fella, aren’t you?”

  She let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Yes. Very. But I’ll handle it.”

  “From what I’ve heard, he sounds like a nasty son of a bitch.”

  “Oh, he is.” She pulled away from the comfort of his touch and began to pace the room. “I suppose someone told you the whole sordid story.”

  He shrugged. “Bits and pieces. Enough to make me think you need some sort of protection.”

  “You may be right about that.” She glanced at the gun hanging on the wall with an expression of distaste. “Lordy, I hate guns.”

  “There are other weapons besides guns. I’d be happy to teach you. Right now, if you like.”

  She pondered the idea. “I’d be tempted, but I don’t want to muss up your fine suit. That’s a lovely waistcoat, by the way.”

  Donovan glanced down at his attire as if he had forgotten how he was dressed. “I can always change.”

  “That would be a shame. You look very handsome.” She frowned. “Did you have plans? We can always put this off until tomorrow.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did have plans to take a lady for a drive, but with an escaped convict in the area, I don’t think that’s such a good idea after all. I can go change and then be back—”

  “You were taking a lady for a drive?” she interrupted, stunned.

  “I was supposed to, but this is more important.”

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?” she said. “Last week you practically made love to me against that tree, and this week you’re taking someone else for a ride in your new buggy.” She raked a scornful glance from his head to his feet. “Planning on finding yourself another tree, Mr. Donovan?”

  He moved so quickly that she barely had time to blink. Then he was close, too close, and cupping her chin in his hand. The glitter in his hell-dark eyes made her clamp her lips tightly against the sharp retort that hovered there.

  “Now you listen here, Sarah Calhoun. I’m tired of you jumping to conclusions about what I think and how I feel, and we’re gonna straighten this out right now. The only woman I intend to take driving is you. The only woman around these parts that interests me is you.” He released her jaw. “Now, I believe you owe me an apology.”

  The sensual threat was there in his eyes and in his voice. “I have no intention of apologizing for what was a natural assumption,” she whispered, the vestige of his touch lingering like hot wax on her skin.

  “You can apologize now or later, it makes no difference to me. But you will apologize, Sarah Calhoun, and you’ll mean it when you do. And you will let me help you.”

  He stepped back, and she wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or disappointed. She drew in a shuddery breath. “I can take care of myself, Jack. I’ve been doing it for a long time.”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Sarah.” He hitched a hip on the corner of her desk. “Let me help you.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “I think you do. I think you need my help.”

  “I don’t need you, Jack.” She glared at him with a mutinous twist to her lips, and he scowled right back at her.

  “Fine. I can see there’s no reasoning with you right now.” He straightened. “I’ll be back, sassy girl. And then we’ll do things my way.”

  “Get out of my office.”

  “Fine.” He pulled her notebook from his pocket and flipped it onto the desk. “By the way, you dropped this.”

  “Thank you.” She marched to the door and held it open. “Good day, Mr. Donovan.”

  He stalked toward the door but paused just before stepping outside. His gaze slid to her mouth. “You know, when you call me Mr. Donovan in that uppity way of yours, it makes me want to kiss you until you can’t remember your name, much less mine.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t really care what you want.”

  He chuckled, but the sound had a hard edge to it. “Oh, yes, you do, sweetheart. But I’ve got cattle to see to, so you’ll have to save your flirting for later.” He continued despite her gasp of indignation. “I’m sending a man to walk you home at quitting time, and I’m setting someone to watch your house, too. Don’t even think about arguing.”

  She had opened her mouth to do just that, but changed her mind. The look in his eyes discouraged discussion.

  “Smart girl.” He stalked over to Sarah and pressed a kiss to her mouth, then left, slamming the door behind him.

  “Arrogant jackass,” she muttered to the empty room. “He’ll change his mind.”

  She knew that he couldn’t be serious about courting her. No, he was just toying with her like he always did. No matter what he said, once the old scandal got fired up again, he wouldn’t want anything to do with her at all. And there was no way to avoid the talk, not with Luke Petrie in the area.

  Despair made tears sting her eyes even as fear made her hands shake. Suddenly weary, she leaned back against the door. Just when she had a chance at a normal life, just when Ross was a breath away from proposing marriage… She only hoped the old rumors wouldn’t make him change his mind, too.

  Well, she didn’t care what any of them thought. Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. She’d already proven that Sarah Calhoun didn’t need anybody.

  And she would prove it again, if she had to.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Yessiree, the boss is one lucky bastard,” Art Foley said, swigging back an ale and wiping a hand across his mouth. “You can bet that bossy blonde of his is one hot piece of tail.”

  The other five cowhands laughed, and Foley, who was Ross Turner’s foreman, leered to underscore his words. One of the cowpokes banged his empty glass on the table, shouting for more liquor. Another one reached out to pinch the satin-clad bottom of one of Harve’s girls as she sauntered past. The bunch of them roared with laughter as the girl squealed, whirled around, and found herself pulled into the fellow’s lap. She struggled to get up, but the crumpled bills he held up changed her from a spitting cat to a purring kitten in seconds.

  Donovan clenched his hand around his whiskey glass. Normally he wouldn’t have tarnished his newfound respectability by lingering in the saloon on a Sunday, but tonight was an exception. He needed information on Petrie, and this seemed the most likely place to find it.

  When he had first come through the double doors of the Four Aces, he had been struck by a nostalgic feeling of homecoming. Everything seemed familiar, from the bouncing tune of the piano, to the girls all dolled up in satin and feathers, to the smell of good tobacco and hard liquor. For the first time in a long while, he knew how to walk, what to say, and what to do.

  He had se
ttled himself at a table with his back to the wall and a glass of whiskey to keep him company, automatically picking the best vantage point, where he could watch the comings and goings yet still remain unnoticed. And where no one could come upon him unawares. He scanned the room, nursing his whiskey, his eyes missing nothing, and his ears open for any scrap of information.

  He didn’t like what he heard.

  Art Foley and his group were known to be a little crude and a little rowdy, preferring the saloon girls to respectable women. But this time Foley had gone too far.

  “How do you know so much?” one of the hands, a new fellow named Shorty Jenkins, challenged.

  “I been around,” Art stated, leaning back in his chair. “And I hear things.”

  “Like what? I don’t think the boss’d talk to you about his woman.”

  “Nope, the boss don’t talk about womenfolk. But everybody knows how Sarah Calhoun is. Heck, if the boss weren’t plannin’ on marryin’ up with her, I’d want a poke at her myself.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Shorty scoffed.

  “Why else do you suppose he’s set on her when he could have any woman he wants?” Art asked with a sneer. “She spread her legs for that no-account Petrie, so you can be sure the boss ain’t gonna spend any cold nights this winter. She acts all uppity like she’s better’n the rest of us, but I hear tell she can tear up the sheets better’n any whore around.”

  “Petrie used to talk about her.” Another cowpuncher spoke up. “Told Foley here she had a mouth to take a man to heaven, and there was nothin’ she wouldn’t do.”

  “Maybe if we’re lucky the boss’ll share her.” Art cupped a hand around his crotch and made a rude gesture, sending the others into roars of laughter.

  The sniggering halted abruptly as Donovan rose to his feet with a screech of chair legs on the wood floor. His gaze settled on Art Foley, his entire body tense with fury. The piano music stopped mid-tune. Conversations faded to whispers and finally to silence. Art’s lewd grin faded from his florid face as he realized that Donovan had fixed that black-as-death stare on him.

  The other hands at the table all grabbed their drinks and fled to the anonymity of the crowd. Foley slowly rose to his feet, his thumbs hooked around the belt that circled his thickening waist. He raised his chin and met Donovan’s gaze. “You got a problem, Donovan?”

  Donovan came forward, the crowd retreating before him like soil before the plow. He moved slowly, carefully, though rage churned in his gut. Already he felt the familiar change coming over him, as the instincts that had saved his life many times sharpened his senses. It was as if his conscience settled into the back of his mind, out of the way of the hunting wolf that broke free of the tethers of morality.

  When he was like this, he could dispassionately kill a man as easily as drink with him. And feel no regret at all.

  He could smell the fear emanating from Foley, could see the bead of sweat that slowly trickled down the foreman’s temple. Donovan's blood thundered from the slow beat of his heart as he approached, every footfall bringing him closer to transforming into the man known as Blade.

  The foreman nervously cast an eye over the spectators, no doubt looking for his buddies. His expression of confidence faded into uncertainty and then fear as he realized that he would face Donovan alone. Donovan had noticed a few of his own men standing at the front of the crowd and knew with only a single glance that they were ready to back him.

  He doubted he’d need their help. His opponent was mean, but he was also half drunk and a little out of shape. Donovan could take him easily, if it came to that. But he had something else in mind.

  He stopped an arm’s length away from his opponent.

  “You’re drunk, Foley,” Donovan said softly. “Where I come from, decent men don’t talk about ladies in saloons.”

  Foley’s florid complexion turned bright red. “I heard you was sweet on the Calhoun woman,” he sneered, all bravado. “In fact, I heard tell that you spent thirty dollars to have her at the box social.”

  “If I were you,“ Donovan warned, “I wouldn’t be talking about Miss Calhoun like that. She’s a respectable lady.”

  “Lady!” Foley hooted. ”The gal’s not much better than a high-priced whore! Hell, she gave it away to Petrie, but you had to pay for a piece.”

  Icy wrath crept through Donovan’s veins, but he controlled it. He slapped a companionable hand on Foley’s shoulder, squeezing his fingers in merciless punishment around flesh and bone. “Like I said, Foley, you’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Foley swung around, trying to dislodge the painful grip. Donovan let him go, and Foley stumbled, off balance. Donovan grabbed his shirt with both hands this time, bringing him back around to face him.

  “Whoa, Foley, you’ve really had too much tonight! Let me help you out of here before you embarrass yourself with more lies.”

  “I ain’t lyin’!” Foley snarled, twisting back and forth in Donovan’s clutch.

  Donovan chuckled, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Now why would Luke Petrie tell you anything? Foley, you tell the fanciest lies I ever heard, and everyone here knows it. Right?” He looked around at the crowd and to his amusement saw several enthusiastic nods.

  “I ain’t no liar!” Foley screamed. “Everyone knows about Sarah Calhoun—”

  “Easy there, Foley!” Shielding the action from the crowd, Donovan crushed Foley’s toes beneath his boot. The foreman yowled and stumbled, looking for all the world as if he were a bumbling drunk. Donovan tightened his grip on the man’s shirt. “You want to lean on me or something?”

  Foley spat curses and tried to take a swing at Donovan.

  “Now, that’s no way to treat someone who’s trying to help you,” Donovan said with a shake of his head. He shoved Foley away, hard enough that the foreman tripped over his own feet and crashed into a table, shattering glass and scattering poker chips. “Look at you. You can’t even stand.”

  Donovan walked over and stopped beside Foley, then extended a hand as if to help the man up. At the same time he jabbed him hard in the ribs with the toe of his boot. “Come on, Foley. You’ve been telling the same lies for years now. I bet these folks are sick of it.”

  Foley slapped Donovan’s hand away and slowly got to his feet, his cheek bleeding where a flying piece of glass had struck him. “Ain’t no lies,” he snarled. “Girl’s as good as a whore.”

  A murmur of discontent rumbled from the crowd.

  “You’d better watch what you say, Foley,” Donovan said, indicating the throng. “Folks don’t take kindly to a woman being slandered like that.” He fixed his gaze on the foreman’s face, letting some of the tightly controlled fury into his tone. “And neither do I.”

  Foley flinched at the implied threat. Looking around for aid, he started to sweat as he noticed the hostility of the spectators. “But…but…everyone knows…”

  “You hush now, Foley!” someone called from the crowd. “You’ve dragged that girl’s name through the mud for too long now!”

  Foley gaped. “But—”

  “She’s a respectable girl who’s had enough trouble,” someone else called out. “What with her pa getting’ killed by her sweetheart, she don’t need your lyin’ tongue to make it worse!”

  “Let the gal alone!” a third voice chimed in.

  Foley seemed to realize he had been branded a liar before the whole town. He whirled on Donovan. “This is your fault,” he snarled.

  “Mine? I’m new here. I wasn’t even around when you started spinning those tales.”

  “But it’s the truth!” Foley wailed.

  The crowd stirred, animosity like a live thing among them. Donovan looked at the foreman in disgust. “You got something against women, Foley? How long has it been since you’ve been with one, anyway? Or has all your drinking dried up your pecker?”

  “Lyin’ bastard!” Foley took a swing at him, but Donovan nimbly stepped out of the way.

  “You
’re a mean drunk, Foley,” Donovan said.

  “I ain’t drunk!” Foley swung again. Donovan dodged the blow, then scowled at his opponent.

  “Have it your way.” He jerked Foley up by a fistful of his shirt and landed three punches on Foley’s face in quick succession. A soft crunch and a spurt of blood had Foley howling in pain and stumbling backward, one hand clinging to the bar for support and the other cupped to his broken nose.

  “You sober yet, Foley?” Donovan asked, his fists still tightly clenched.

  “You broke my nose, you son of a bitch!” the foreman cried. Shoving away from the bar, Foley charged him, and Donovan spun out of the way. The foreman stumbled onward, driven by his own momentum, and Donovan helped him along with a boot to the backside. With a crash of discordant notes, Foley smashed into the piano, groaned, and dropped to the floor to lie unmoving.

  Donovan gave a short nod of satisfaction. Retrieving his hat from where it had fallen during the fight, he placed it on his head and glanced at Harve. “Sorry about the mess,” he said to the saloonkeeper. “I’ll pay for the damage.”

  Harve nodded, unperturbed, clearly well used to such happenings. The crowd shifted to let Donovan pass as he headed for the door amid claps on the back and the murmurings of the converted.

  “Foley deserved it.”

  “‘Bout time someone made him account for them lies.”

  “That poor gal’s been sufferin’ all this time on account of him.”

  Donovan stepped out of the saloon and stared up at the crescent moon, the sympathetic rumbles of the crowd following him into the night. Anger still licked at him, and he started walking fast to let off some steam. As much as he had wanted to kill Foley, he knew that what he had done was much better. He had rewritten history, even though he had revealed more about his violent side than was wise, considering this was where he intended to settle down and raise children with his sassy girl. Still, he considered it a worthy sacrifice.

  A feral smile slowly spread across his face as he remembered the satisfaction of hearing Foley’s nose break beneath his fist. Hellfire, it had felt good.