She could barely resist the husky longing in his voice, the fierce admiration in his eyes. She had almost made one disastrous mistake; she would be very cautious about making another.
“I need time to think, Jack,” she said. “I’m not saying no, but I can’t say yes either. Not until I’m sure.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and she thought he might have changed his mind. Then he opened them again, and she was relieved to see that the tenderness was still there. “Take your time, sassy girl. I’m a patient man.”
She let loose the breath she only just realized she was holding. “Good.”
“But,” he continued, taking her chin in his hand, “that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to try to convince you to say yes.”
She straightened her spine, knowing a challenge when she heard one. “Take your best shot, Mr. Donovan.”
He smiled slowly, his expression taking the predatory look that created butterflies in her stomach. “You can count on that, Miss Calhoun.”
Chapter Twelve
Donovan waited until Friday before he stopped in to pay the wounded marshal a visit.
Because he had intended to set aside the day to come into town, he had put in extra hours at the ranch during the week. He hadn’t even been able to slip away to see Sarah, a situation he meant to correct as soon as he was done with the lawman.
He stepped into the clinic. Doc Mercer was sitting at his desk, a large book open before him. The physician glanced up at his entrance, peering over the top of his glasses. “Morning, Donovan.”
“Morning, Doc.” He indicated the back room with a nod of his head. “How’s the patient?”
“Awake and impatient,” Doc replied with a chuckle.
“Mind if I go back and visit?”
“Go right ahead. Just don’t stay too long. Marshal Brown is still weak and needs his rest.”
“Much obliged, Doc.” Leaving the doctor to his reading, Donovan stepped through the open door. The back room of the clinic boasted six beds, each with curtains that could be drawn for privacy. All of the beds were empty but one, which was in the corner, right next to the window and farthest from the door.
The one, he thought with amusement, that he would have chosen himself.
The marshal turned his head as Donovan approached, the utter picture of a very sick man. His left arm, wrapped in a sling, rested on his stomach. His right hand hung down the side of the bed, out of sight. Yes, indeed, the lawman’s pallor and listless pose indicated he was ailing. But his eyes told a different story.
Donovan stopped a few feet from the bed and raised his hands to shoulder height. “I don’t have a gun, Marshal,” he said calmly. “And I’m not here to kill you. All I want to do is talk. I can call Doc Mercer to vouch for me if you want.”
Marshal Brown’s eyes narrowed, and he brought his right arm up to where Donovan could see the Colt army revolver in his hand. He rested the weapon on his thigh, his finger lingering on the trigger. “You got a name?”
“Donovan. Jack Donovan. I own a spread outside town.”
“Jedidiah Brown.” The lawman sat up, wincing as he jostled his shoulder, but he kept a firm hand on the Colt. “I understand I owe you a debt, Mr. Donovan. You saved my life.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Jedidiah sat up straighter. “Where I come from, Mr. Donovan, a man always pays his debts.”
“That would be down south?”
The marshal nodded, a hint of respect glinting in his eyes. “I’m impressed. I thought I had perfected my Western accent.”
“You did pretty well. But you can’t do anything about that inbred Southern pride.”
The lawman laughed and slipped his revolver under his pillow. “Pull up a chair, Mr. Donovan, and tell me what I can do for you.”
“I want to ask you a few questions—about Luke Petrie.”
Jedidiah’s expression hardened as Donovan pulled a chair to the side of the bed, making him glad he’d never walked on the wrong side of the law. He’d hate to face Jedidiah Brown over the barrel of a gun.
“Why are you interested in Petrie?” the marshal asked.
“A few years back he killed a man here in Burr and robbed the bank.”
“I’m aware of that. That’s why I’m so surprised he headed this way. You’d think he’d have better sense than to go where he’d be recognized.”
“The man he killed was my intended’s father. She’s the one who turned him in.”
“I see.” The marshal leaned back against the pillows. “You’re thinking he’s got a score to settle. That explains a lot. This woman, she’s your intended, you say?”
“She hasn’t said yes yet, but I mean to marry her, that’s for sure.”
“And I take it you mean to protect her.”
“However I have to.”
Marshal Brown sent him a sharp look. “Don’t take the law into your own hands, Mr. Donovan. I’m warning you.”
“And I’m warning you, Marshal. If Petrie comes anywhere near my woman, I won’t hesitate to kill him.”
The two men started at each other for a moment. Two.
“The law doesn’t take kindly to civilians interfering in its business,” Jedidiah said finally, but it was obvious from his tone that he knew his words wouldn’t be heeded.
“As long as Petrie stays clear of Sarah,” Donovan said with a cold smile, “I won’t get in the law’s way.”
”See that you don’t.” Jedidiah frowned. “You know, for a moment there, you reminded me of someone.”
Donovan stiffened. “Oh?”
“I just can’t place who—”
They both heard the scuff of a footstep at the same time. The marshal whipped out his revolver even as Donovan leaped to his feet and turned to face the intruder, a knife in his hand.
“Gracious.” Sarah stood frozen in the doorway, her hand over her heart.
“Damn it, Sarah.” Donovan slipped his knife back into the sheath up his sleeve. The marshal slid the revolver from sight.
“Unarmed?” Jedidiah murmured.
“I said I didn’t have a gun.” Donovan kept his attention on Sarah, but heard the lawman chuckle.
“The doctor said it was all right for me to come back here.” Sarah’s gaze slid from Donovan to the marshal and back again. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“We’re through here,” Donovan said.
“Yes, please come in,” Jedidiah invited, suddenly every inch the Southern gentleman. “There’s nothing like a lovely lady to brighten up the boredom of a sickroom.”
Sarah stepped forward, a hint of hesitation in her step. As she neared them, Donovan could see the curiosity in her eyes. He held out a hand, feeling an absurd sense of satisfaction as she placed her fingers in his. “Sarah, this is Marshal Jedidiah Brown. Marshal, Miss Sarah Calhoun, editor of the Burr Chronicle.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” Jedidiah lifted Sarah’s free hand to his lips with exaggerated flirtation. Sarah blushed, and Donovan scowled at the lawman.
“Marshal Brown, I’d like to interview you for the newspaper, if you’re feeling up to it,” Sarah said with a flustered smile.
“Miss Calhoun, in your presence I feel no pain, only the greatest pleasure.”
Donovan rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but notice how Sarah seemed to respond to the lavish compliments like a flower opening to sunlight. Maybe he should learn some fancy words. Since she was a writer and all, words probably meant a lot to her.
Dr. Mercer came to the doorway. “Here now, only one visitor at a time. The marshal needs to rest.”
Donovan had every intention of staying where he was, but the doctor looked right at him as he spoke.
Marshal Brown also sent him a look. “Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Donovan. You and I can continue our conversation—later.”
Forced by Sarah’s highly prized social graces to take the hint, Donovan had no choice but to exit the room. As he left, he cast a glance back over
his shoulder. Marshal Brown had focused his entire attention on Sarah. And his sassy girl was blushing and smiling and hanging on every word the smooth-talking Southerner said.
“Not too long now, Sarah,” the doctor admonished. “I don’t want my patient to have a relapse.” The physician left the room, urging Donovan along with him. Donovan didn’t much like being shuffled aside like a child who couldn’t stay out of trouble, but he said good-bye to the doc and stepped out onto Main Street.
“Afternoon, Mr. Donovan,” Reverend Westerly said as he passed by on his way to the church.
“Afternoon, Reverend.”
The preacher paused. “Say, would you be willing to judge the pie-baking contest at the Founder’s Day Festival tomorrow? We could sure use the help.”
“Be happy to.”
“Fine, fine. The judging is at twelve-thirty. That way we can use the pies for the pie-eating contest later on.” The reverend grinned.
Donovan found himself grinning back. “See you at twelve-thirty, then.”
The preacher nodded and headed toward the church. Donovan stood and watched him go. All around him, the citizens of Burr called out greetings to him as they passed by. He answered absently as a realization settled into his mind.
He belonged here.
No longer was he the outcast, the bounty hunter, an unwanted but necessary evil in catching criminals. He was a proper citizen of this little town, a decent man whom people could look in the eye, not the fellow who made ladies cross the street to avoid him. Even though he’d always walked on the right side of the law, people had tended to shun him like they would a gunslinger.
But not anymore. Now his company was sought; his advice was asked. He had succeeded in leaving his past behind, and a bright future lay ahead for him with Sarah as his wife.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, lost in revelation, but suddenly the door to the clinic opened and Sarah stepped out. She halted, then a smile stretched across her face. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
His first instinct was to deny that he’d been waiting for her. Then he remembered how she’d reacted to the marshal’s flirtation, so he smiled warmly and offered his arm. “I thought I’d walk you back to your office.”
“Why, thank you.” Her eyes sparkled as she shyly tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow. “I haven’t seen you since Sunday.”
“Since I asked you to marry me, you mean.”
She glanced away, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. “Yes, since then.”
He’d made her blush! Lord, he wanted to pull her into a dark corner somewhere and kiss her. This emotion that gripped him was still uncomfortable, yet he felt as proud as a rooster as he walked down the street with Sarah on his arm. How had he gotten so lucky? He’d been looking for this woman his entire life, and somehow he’d actually found her.
It was enough to make a man believe in miracles.
“How did your interview with the marshal go?” he asked as he held open the door of the newspaper office for her.
“Very well. He’s a charming man.” Entering the office, she stepped behind her desk and slipped her drawstring bag into a drawer.
“So I saw.”
She glanced up, her lips quirking in amusement. “Heavens, Jack, are you jealous?”
“No. Well, maybe just a little. Marshal Brown seems to have all those social graces you say I lack.”
“Marshal Brown may have some social polish, but I’m not at all attracted to him. There’s something about him that bothers me.”
Donovan came over and sat on the corner of her desk. “You don’t say.”
She laughed. “I see you trying to hide that smirk, Jack Donovan.”
The grin escaped, spreading across his face as his heart lightened. “So tell me what bothers you about the marshal.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
He snagged her braid and tugged her face close to his. “Is that like irresistible?”
“No, it’s more like impossible.”
He brushed his lips against hers. Just touching her made his heart sing. “What didn’t you like about the marshal?” he persisted.
She laughed and pushed him away. “All right, I’ll tell you. He’s dangerous—that’s what I don’t like about him.”
“Dangerous?”
“Yes, dangerous. He’s a man who lives by the gun, and I swore when my father died that I would never again become involved with a dangerous man.”
The song in his heart stopped on a clang of discordant notes.
Sarah continued.” I’ve seen too many widows out here, too many children without fathers. Look what happened to my mother and me, all because I got tangled up with the wrong man.”
“Lawmen may fall into your ‘dangerous man’ category, but if they didn’t carry guns, things would be a lot worse.”
“I know that, and I’m not saying there isn’t a need for men like that, what with all the criminal sorts who seem to find their way out here. I just wouldn’t get personally involved with one again, even if he was on the right side of the law.”
Donovan stood, suddenly too restless to stay still. “Well, sweetheart, the only man you’re personally involved with is me, and it had better stay that way.”
She laughed. “As if any other man would have me.”
“You might be surprised.”
Her expression grew thoughtful. “You know, come to think of it, everyone has been unusually kind to me this week. Even old Mrs. Meltzer, who always crosses the street when she sees me, stopped to say hello and ask about my mother just the other day.”
“I’d say that’s progress.”
“Maybe. Or maybe her memory’s failing and she forgot I was in disgrace.”
He took her hand and pulled her into his arms. “Don’t talk about my intended that way.”
“Your intended?” She tilted her head back to look up at him. “I don’t recall saying yes, Mr. Donovan.”
“And I suppose you don’t recall what I said about the snooty way you say my name.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and a sensual smile pulled at her lips. “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.”
“Let me refresh your memory.” He pulled her close for a satisfying kiss, more comfortable now with the simmering hunger that flooded his veins whenever he touched her. He wasn’t as used to this need to have her in his life, but he imagined he’d adjust to it. He would convince her to marry him, and they’d live on his ranch and raise children and cattle. His dream was about to come true.
He’d just make sure she never found out about his old life. Because if she did discover who and what he used to be, he knew he’d lose her forever.
Everyone watched the stagecoach come through town.
Outside the Four Aces, Mort, Johnny and Gabriel paused in their checker game to stare as the Friday afternoon stage, which usually flew nonstop through town like a burning hay cart, ambled down Main Street like Cleopatra’s barge floating down the Nile. Leaning back in his chair, Mort squinted to see who was inside.
“Sweet mother—!” He was so surprised at the passenger’s identity that he let his chair leg fall forward right onto Gabriel’s foot. While Gabe hollered and Mort stammered out an explanation, Johnny crawled on his hands and knees, searching for the checkers he’d dropped when he’d gotten a glimpse of the passenger’s face.
The Tremont sisters were gossiping with Mrs. Castor by the picket fence outside their home, but when the stagecoach passed by all conversation came to a halt, then started up again in a flurry of voices.
“Did you see who that was?”
“It couldn’t be!”
“Good heavens!”
Like startled crows, the three women scattered in different directions to pass along the newest gossip.
Locking up the bank for the day, Mr. Castor glanced up as the stage passed by, just in time to see the passenger give him a smile and a wave. His mouth fell open, and his cigar tumbled to the ground as his keys slipp
ed from his hand.
The stage halted outside the mercantile where Nate Pearson was sweeping his walk. Old Abe jumped down from the driver’s seat and hurried around to open the door. Abe offered his hand to his passenger—which in itself was enough to make Nate stare—but then she alighted, and Nate positively gaped.
Mr. Castor arrived, huffing and puffing from his sprint across the street. He cleared his throat and swiped his hat off his head. “Ma’am, as mayor of the town of Burr, allow me to be the first to welcome you—”
“Take care of my baggage, would you please?” the woman asked with a flirtatious pat on the arm that made the mayor stutter into silence. “There’s a dear.”
The portly banker found himself nodding as she turned away.
“So,” she said, removing her gloves one finger at a time as she looked around, “I see everything’s the same.” Her gaze lit on Nate, and she sent him a dazzling smile that made him drop his broom. “I’ll have to change that, won’t I?”
With a jaunty wave she sauntered across the street to the newspaper office, leaving the three men staring moonstruck after her.
Sarah set the type with swift and nimble fingers. The click-click of the pieces was normally as soothing as a lullaby, but not today. Not since her short conversation with the marshal had confirmed her worst fear: Luke Petrie had indeed broken out of jail and was back in the area.
She hadn’t dared let her disquiet show to Donovan, lest he take more measures than he already had to handle the situation. She couldn’t let him do that, not when she hadn’t made up her mind about marrying him yet. But terror clutched her with icy talons, making her want to rage and scream. Instead, she worked.
But even as her hands laid out the first page for Wednesday’s edition of the Burr Chronicle, her thoughts whirled in an emotional tornado. Luke Petrie. Dear God.
Her father’s murderer.
Her ex-lover.
What did Luke want? What was he doing here? She knew Luke had never loved her, though he had certainly wanted her. She had the feeling that his return to the area could only mean trouble. And even though she knew Donovan would protect her, even though he had men watching her house, she was still afraid. Luke Petrie was ruthless and would stop at nothing until he got what he wanted.
Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1 Page 14
