Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1 (15 page)

“There’s no talking to you.” He threw his hands up in surrender.

“I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need your advice,” she snarled, stabbing a finger into his chest. “And I’ll thank you to keep your distance from me in the future.”

“It’s not pity!”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. I’m done playing your games, Jack Donovan.” She swept her reticule off the blanket. “The sooner you get yourself married, the happier I’ll be!”

She stormed off, leaving Donovan standing amid the ruins of the meal he had purchased for thirty dollars.

Chapter Ten

Jack Donovan was a man to admit his mistakes and learn from them, but since he’d met Sarah Calhoun, it was getting to be a damned habit.

As he steered his brand-new buggy down the road, he admitted to himself that he had bungled things with Sarah at the box social. He had bought her lunch with the idea of wooing her, so she would see that he was serious and not just teasing. But then he had touched her—and all his good intentions had gone to hell.

He knew Sarah misunderstood his reasons for not wanting to marry her. And from her frosty attitude toward him over the past week, it was clear she had misinterpreted his irritation with himself as rejection.

Yessiree, he had made a mess of things for sure. But he had come up with a plan to convince Sarah that he was serious about courting her. There would be no misunderstandings this time. Whatever the trouble in her past, he would prove to her that he wasn’t ashamed of her. That he saw her as a lady as well as a desirable woman. This time, he would do it right.

The shiny new buggy was the first step in his campaign to woo Sarah Ann Calhoun. If a man wanted to keep a wife, he figured he should keep her in style. Any woman would be impressed with the smooth ride of the carriage and the comfortable seats. And a man come a-courting, freshly shaven and wearing his Sunday best, could make even the stubborn heart of his sassy girl flutter a time or two. With a wide grin on his face, he steered toward the church, determined to take Miss Sarah Calhoun for a leisurely drive around the countryside after the service.

Whether she liked it or not.

As the bell tower of the church came into view, he smiled and snapped the reins over the backs of the twin brown geldings, anticipating an interesting afternoon in Sarah’s company.

At the top of the rise, he saw something at the side of the road—a strange patch of brown that disturbed the green of the countryside. At first he thought it was a downed deer, but as he drew closer, it became recognizable as a man lying at the side of the road wrapped in a long, fawn-colored coat.

Donovan slowed the horses. The stillness of the figure bothered him. It was early enough that a man too drunk to stumble home might still be passed out where he fell. But he would think that the sound of horses’ hooves almost on top of him would wake even the drunkest of drunks.
 

He pulled up on the reins. The fellow could come to harm lying at the side of the road like that. He ought to at least see if the man needed help. Donovan hopped down from the buggy and moved swiftly to kneel beside the prone figure.

He pressed his fingers to the man’s neck and found a weak pulse. Good. Then he turned the fellow on to his back. And cursed.

Blood soaked the right side of his white shirt near the shoulder and stained his coat. He’d been shot. The man wore a pair of .45 Colt army revolvers, which by some miracle had not been stolen, and his clothing was sturdy and made for life on the trail. His skin was bronzed from lengthy hours spent outdoors, and his long, light brown hair was clean and streaked with strands of gold. This was no drifter, but a man accustomed to having money in his pocket as he traveled the trails for reasons of his own.

And he was slowly bleeding to death at the side of the road.

Donovan shoved aside the ruined coat and ripped open the man’s shirt. The ugly hole in his shoulder oozed blood. Donovan dug out his new white handkerchief and pressed it against the wound.

The man’s eyelids flickered, and he moaned softly, his breath hitching in his throat. A good sign, Donovan thought. He pulled out his knife and sliced off the sleeve of the man’s ruined shirt, using it as a crude binding for the injury. Then as gently as he could, he picked up the unconscious man and loaded him into the buggy.
 

Swinging up into the driver’s seat, he snapped the reins over the horses’ backs and raced for town.

The ringing of the church bell echoed off the mountains, summoning the parishioners to Sunday service. It had been a week since the box social, and Sarah still smarted over how the picnic had ended. Donovan had tried to talk to her several times over the past week, but she told herself she didn’t want to hear anything he had to say.

Her heart disagreed, but with an iron will, she ignored the longings of that treacherous organ.

As she walked beside her mother toward the church, she told herself it was for the best. There were volatile emotions at work between them, and Sarah knew it was safer if they stayed apart.

They could never be alone together again.

“You’re very quiet,” June said.

Sarah shrugged.

“Are you still angry at me for putting your basket in the auction?”

“You had no right to do that,” Sarah replied with bitterness in her tone. “I told you—”

“I had every right,” June snapped back. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, causing Sarah to halt as well. Oblivious to the fact that they stood on Main Street in full view of everyone on their way to Sunday service, June lit into her daughter with a tone Sarah hadn’t heard since she was in pigtails. “I am sick and tired of the way you lock yourself away from life, Sarah Ann Calhoun. And speaking as your mother, I have had enough of it.”

“Mama, I know you want the best for me, but you’re not being realistic.”

“Don’t you start with me, Sarah Ann. No one understands realistic more than I do. I left my family in Philadelphia to come west with your father. It was dangerous, and it was a risk. And then he died and left me alone, and I had to find a new way to go on.” She paused. “You are
not
the only one who’s suffered in this.”

“I never meant that I was the only one—”

June went on as if Sarah hadn’t spoken, her blue eyes flashing with a ferocity she only showed in regard to her children. “You were young, and you made a mistake. We all do; it’s how we learn. But that is no reason to stop living.”

“I haven’t stopped living,” Sarah replied, stunned by her mother’s impassioned words. “I have a good life running the newspaper.”

“Running the newspaper was your father’s life, not yours. And at least he knew to separate work and home.” June took her hand, her voice thickening with emotion. “Sarah, you’re my daughter, and I love you. Please don’t expect me to stand by and watch you waste the best years of your life.”

Sarah stared at her mother as if she had never seen her before. Why hadn’t she ever noticed the steel beneath the sweet smile and ladylike demeanor? Why hadn’t it occurred to her that one reason she had been accepted back into society was June Calhoun’s unyielding support?

“Oh, Mama.” Sarah reached out to hug her mother, and she felt the comfort of June’s hand stroking her hair. “I don’t want to waste my life,” she murmured, like a little girl just waking from a nightmare.

“You won’t, sweetheart. You’re my daughter, and I don’t remember teaching you to give up.”

The thunder of horses approaching drew Sarah’s attention. Pulling back, she watched as a shiny black buggy drawn by a matched pair of Morgans sped past them and bulleted toward the church.

“Good gracious, wasn’t that Mr. Donovan?” June asked, shading her eyes with her hand.

“Yes, it was.” Sarah watched the buggy pull up outside the church in a cloud of dust. Donovan leaped from the vehicle and hurried inside the building. He emerged seconds later with Doc Mercer.

“Something’s going on,” Sarah murmured. Her investigative instincts hummed as both men climbed into the buggy. Donovan wheeled the vehicle around and dashed down the street to the clinic. He hitched the horses quickly, then hurried around to the other side of the buggy to help Doc Mercer carry a man into the physician’s office.

“Someone’s hurt,” June said.

“I’m going to go find out who,” Sarah said. Lifting her skirts, she ran down the street.

“Sarah Ann Calhoun,” her mother called after her. “Just what do you think you’re doing? You’re going to miss church!”

Sarah just waved and made a beeline for the door of the clinic.
 

Not only was a story brewing, but somehow Jack Donovan was at the heart of it.

“Good thing you found him when you did,” Doc Mercer said. He worked steadily on his patient as he spoke. “Bullet went clean through, but he lost a lot of blood. Much longer and he would have bled to death.”

Donovan mumbled a response, his attention distracted. The doctor had shed his Sunday coat and donned a snow-white apron that was now splattered with crimson. As the short, balding man stitched the wound with his usual care and precision, Donovan had gone through the stranger’s coat pockets in an effort to find out who he was. He had his answer now in the small piece of metal that he held in his palm.

“Looks like we know something at least.” Donovan threw the object on a table with a tinny clang. “He’s a lawman.”

Doc glanced up from his work and noted the details of the badge. “U.S. marshal,” he said. “Well, well.”

“A U.S. marshal?”

Both men looked up at the feminine voice. Donovan scowled. Sarah Calhoun, all done up in her brown poplin Sunday best, watched them from the open doorway of the clinic.

“Good morning, Sarah.” Doc Mercer smiled and went back to his stitching. “I figured you’d be along.”

She came into the room and closed the door behind her, her eyes on Donovan. “A wounded U.S. marshal is big news in Burr,” she said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Donovan nodded and wished she didn’t look like something in a confectionery window. His mouth watered with the need to taste.

She turned her attention to the man on the examining table and stepped closer. “How is he, Doc?”

“Weak,” the physician replied. “But I think he’ll pull through. His type usually does. But it’s still a lucky thing Donovan here found him when he did.”

“You found him?” Notebook in hand, Sarah glanced at Donovan. For an instant there was a flicker of something warm and wild in her eyes, then she was all business.

He tensed at that look, remembering it well from their encounter beneath the tree at the box social. But she was trying to ignore the sensual pull between them, and he had to do the same. Clearing his throat, he answered, “Yeah, I found him.”

“Where and how did you find him, Mr. Donovan?”

Mr. Donovan. When he’d held her in his arms, she had called him Jack in that sweet, husky voice…
 

He jerked his mind away from that dangerous territory. “I found him on the road, just outside of town.”

“Was he conscious? Did he say anything to you?”

“No, he’s been unconscious since I found him.”

Sarah jotted something in her notebook. “And you, Doctor Mercer? It’s your opinion that he will live?”

“Yes, I believe so.” The physician finished dressing the man’s wound, then turned to pour water from a pitcher into a basin.

“Do we know his name or what he was doing in the area?”

“We know nothing about him other than what we told you,” Donovan said. “We’ll have to wait until he comes to before we can find out anything else.”

“Hmmm.” Sarah came over to the table and looked down at the sleeping lawman. “Who are you? Who are you looking for?” she asked aloud, more to herself than him.

A soft moan answered her. Donovan glanced at the doc, who looked equally startled, before moving over to the table.

The lawman’s eyelids flickered, then opened, and a shuddering breath escaped him. His lips moved.

“What?” Donovan leaned closer, trying to hear. “What did you say?”

The marshal’s lips moved again, his voice a mere whisper. Then his eyelids slid closed and his breathing steadied.

“He’s out again,” the doctor observed.
 

“What did he say?” Sarah asked. “Did you hear?”

“Yeah.” Donovan straightened. “It sounded like ‘Luke Petrie’.”

“Dear God.” Sarah’s notebook fell from her fingers.

“Well, well,” said the doctor.

Sarah gave Donovan a frightened look and bolted from the room.

Donovan picked up her fallen notebook and hurried after her.

Sarah fled to the one place where she felt safe, where she had control of her life. The newspaper office.

She slammed the door behind her and stood there for a moment, looking around the room, her heart pounding like that of a jackrabbit with a hound on its trail. She took comfort in the sight of her sturdy wooden desk with its collection of pens and the small glass vase of wildflowers. Her printing press dominated half of the working area, strong and powerful, grotesquely beautiful in its black steel majesty.