But it was easier said than done.
Sarah dared a quick glance behind her. Juliana’s face was beet red, but Sarah couldn’t say whether it was from embarrassment or anger. Emmaline whispered in Juliana’s ear while Mrs. Castor patted the younger woman’s arm in sympathy.
“Come, sister,” Emmaline finally said. “We’re leaving.” The swift tap of footsteps and the scrape of the door punctuated her words. After a moment the slower treads of Mrs. Castor followed. Sarah looked up in time to see the three of them pass her window, heads bowed as they whispered amongst themselves. With a sigh, she put down her work and covered her face with shaking hands. Already she could imagine the rumors blowing through town.
In refusing to apologize to Juliana Tremont, she taken control of her life. She only hoped she would not regret it.
Late Thursday afternoon, Donovan rode into town, tired, dusty, and thirsty. As he passed the church, Mrs. Tillis stepped outside and rang the bell, dismissing the students from their makeshift classroom. Eight months big with child, it was obvious the blacksmith’s wife would not be able to teach for much longer.
The clanging of the bell was drowned out by the excited shouts of the children as they flooded from the church. Shrieking and calling to one another, they raced in all directions, some in groups and some alone. Beneath him, Donovan felt the gelding tense. He pulled up on the reins and patted the horse’s neck as a stampede of youngsters galloped past. The animal shuddered, tossing its head and snorting, but all four hooves remained on the ground. Compared with the adventurous ride he had just had, Donovan considered this a huge improvement.
Murmuring reassurances, he continued to stroke bay’s satiny neck. As the last of the children scurried past, the horse settled down, though his ears flicked back and forth as if on the alert for another invasion. Donovan set him to an easy walk down Main Street.
It felt good to have his own mount again. His last horse, Seven, had been a bay, and the best damned horse he’d ever had. They’d been through a lot together. But Seven was gone now, the victim of a bullet from a madman’s gun. So when Matt had told him about a homesteader who wanted to sell a spirited bay, he’d ridden for a full day to meet with him. And he’d come back with Senseless.
Senseless was exactly that. A beautiful animal, the gelding reminded him of Seven in a lot of ways, except for the fact that he was a lot more high-strung. The ride back had been an adventure, what with the darnedest things rattling the horse. But he was a fine animal for the most part, and Donovan was pleased with his purchase.
He had intended to hitch up outside the saloon, but one glance at the crowded hitching post changed his mind. He saw a good place a couple of doors down, just outside the mercantile and across the street from the newspaper building. As he dismounted and looped the reins around the post, he couldn’t help but glance over at the office of the Chronicle. He wondered if Miss Sassy Calhoun was still put out with him. He grinned. The woman had a fire burning inside her. He just couldn’t help stoking it now and again.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Donovan.”
Senseless snorted and shifted at the unfamiliar voice. Donovan patted the bay reassuringly and turned to see the Turner twins, Minnie and Mabel, standing just outside the mercantile. As usual, they were dressed identically, today’s ensemble consisting of blue sprigged muslin dresses with matching flower-decked bonnets. The pretty blondes were barely sixteen, but since they were the daughters of Ross Turner, one of the wealthier cattle ranchers, they already had a flock of suitors around them. Even so, Donovan hadn’t bothered to add their names to his list. Out west many girls married at a young age, but he wanted a woman who could pull her weight, not a schoolgirl who would cry for her papa when the going got rough.
Besides, the Turner sisters tended to do everything as a set. And he didn’t even want to think about what that might mean.
“Well, hello to you, Miss Minnie, Miss Mabel.” He reached up and touched his hat brim. The two girls beamed at him with identical smiles that bordered on adoring. He slowly lowered his hand, puzzled by their behavior.
“We were hoping to see you, Mr. Donovan.” The speaker—he thought it was Mabel— fluttered her eyelashes at him in an unmistakable attempt at flirtation.
He blinked, unable to believe that had just happened, and glanced at the other twin. She fixed him with worshipful blue eyes and stated proudly, “That’s right. I made Papa bring me to town just so I could see you. Then she decided to come along.”
“Is that so?” He tried to glare—the same expression that had made armed men back away with shaking hands. But the girls appeared oblivious to the subtle shift. Reckless youth, he thought with a sigh.
“It was my idea.” Minnie attached herself to his arm, and he glanced with shock from her small fingers gripping his shirtsleeve to the look of ardent admiration on her face.
“No, it was mine.” Mabel leaped forward and latched on to his other arm. “I would make a better wife than you, anyway. She always burns the biscuits when it’s her turn to cook supper.”
Minnie glared at her sister. “Well, at least I don’t giggle all the time. You’d probably drive him crazy with all your little girl antics.” Giving Donovan a look from beneath her lashes, she said throatily, “She’s just a child. I’m all woman.”
He was out of his depth. He knew it and had no idea what to do about it. “Where’s your father?”
“Oh, he’s down at the bank.” Mabel sighed and linked her elbow through his. “He’ll be there for hours.” She smiled meaningfully.
Donovan cleared his throat and took a step away. Unfortunately, that brought him into contact with Minnie, who was on his right. He flinched as he felt her press her budding breasts against his arm. Jerking his head around, he grew even more alarmed at the blatantly passionate look the girl gave him.
“I sure wouldn’t mind a closer look at that gorgeous bed of yours, Mr. Donovan,” she murmured.
Mabel gaped at her sister, blue eyes wide with shock. “Minnie Jean Turner!”
Minnie cast her twin a superior look. “Oh, go play with your dolls!”
Enough was enough. Donovan slipped from Minnie’s grasp and dodged out of the way as Mabel surged forward, face red.
“You take that back!” Mabel yelled.
“You’re such a child.” Minnie sniffed.
Unsettled by the commotion, Senseless chose that moment to shift and bumped Mabel. She squealed as she tripped and flew into her sister. The two of them landed in the dirt in a flurry of petticoats and screeches. Senseless snorted, further startled by the noise, and tossed his head. At that moment, Donovan could have kissed the animal.
“You ladies had best get out of the way,” he said, moving to help first one, then the other, to her feet. “Senseless here gets a mite riled at loud noises.”
Mabel clutched her skirts and scrambled for the walkway. Minnie brushed off her dress, then leveled a contemptuous look at the bay. “When we get married, that horse is going to go.” She shifted her glare to Donovan, then stalked after her sister, who had fled toward the bank.
Donovan took off his hat and combed his fingers through his hair. “What the heck was that about?” he muttered. With a shrug, he replaced his hat, patted Senseless on the flank, and slipped him a piece of carrot from his pocket. “Thanks, pal. I think you just saved me from a heap of trouble.”
Still bemused, he set off for the saloon. It had been a long dusty ride, and now he really needed a drink.
By the time Donovan got to the saloon, two more marriage-minded females had accosted him. One had offered to cook him supper; the other had offered something of a more intimate nature. And both had remarked on how much they liked his new bed. What the hell was going on?
Stopping outside the swinging doors, he took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh to shake the dust loose. The checker players, sitting in their usual spot outside the Four Aces, looked up from their checkerboard.
“Hey there, Donovan,�
�� Mort called.
“Mort, Johnny, Gabriel.” The latter two nodded in greeting and went back to their checker game, but Mort tilted his chair on to its hind legs and gave him a wide smile.
“Haven’t seen ya around.” Mort clenched a toothpick between his teeth, his blue eyes twinkling. “Heard ya were on the market for a prime filly.”
“Actually I just bought a gelding.” He indicated the bay, whose ears twitched as a wagon rumbled by.
Mort squinted at the horse, then chuckled. “Well, that’s not what I meant, but that’s a fine piece of horseflesh, Donovan. It surely is.”
“He’s a beautiful animal,” Donovan agreed, admiring the way the sunlight played over the horse’s coat. “He’s a bit high-strung, though. I’m gonna have to work with him.”
“That so?” Mort chewed on his toothpick and grinned like he knew some secret.
Donovan replaced his hat and gave the oldsters a nod. “See ya around.”
The two men engrossed in the checker game grunted in response. Mort touched his hat brim, still wearing that all-knowing grin. Donovan shook his head and went into the saloon.
The squeak of the doors swinging behind him melded with the familiar sounds of cards being shuffled and bottles clinking against glasses. Conversation hummed steadily, like a heartbeat, and cigar smoke tinged the air with wisps of gray fog. For a moment he was fifteen years old again, watching his mama all done up in satin and feathers, singing songs that no one could hear.
He closed his eyes against the painful memories. The liquor. The men. The murder. It was a time in his life he preferred to forget, though those incidents had led him to where he was today. His entire identity had been forged from spilled blood and steel-edged lust.
“Hey there, boss!” Amos called out to him.
The past dissolved into the present.
Donovan made his way across the room and edged up to the bar next to Amos. “Everything all right at the ranch?” he asked.
“Yep.” Amos tossed back a shot of whiskey and reached for the bottle.
“Must be, if you’re here instead of there.”
Amos grinned as he poured another shot. “Right as rain, boss. Get yer horse?”
“I did.” Donovan signaled the bartender. “He’s got a lot of spirit.”
Amos smiled, a gleam in his eye. “Betcha he does.” He gulped down another mouthful of whiskey.
Coralee, one of the saloon girls, sidled up to Donovan and smiled with blatant invitation. “What’ll ya have?” she purred, pressing her scantily clad bosom against his arm.
“Harve’s getting it.” Unlike many of the girls, Coralee was actually pretty, with big brown eyes and bouncing chestnut curls. Any other time, Donovan might have considered taking her up on her unspoken offer. But he was plumb fed up with women for the day. “Another time, maybe.”
She drew a slender hand across his chest. “I’ll hold ya to that.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Maybe we can have a tussle in that purty bed of yours. I sure would like that.”
Before he could respond, Harve brought Donovan’s usual bourbon and shooed Coralee off with an impatient hand. “Get off with ya, Coralee. This one ain’t interested.”
With a pout, Coralee turned on her heel and stalked off in a flurry of satin and feathers. Despite himself, Donovan enjoyed the view of her retreating rump. Then he turned to Amos. “Something going on around here I don’t know about?”
“Naw. Word got out ‘bout you lookin’ for a wife is all. Was in the paper.”
“Is that so? Well, that might explain a few things.” Stifling a grin, Donovan took a sip of the bourbon. So, Sarah had advertised that fact, had she? Good. So far his list of eligible women was a mighty short one. He thought back to the incident with the Turner twins, then shrugged. It was worth a bit of bother if he ended up finding the right wife.
“Yep,” Amos said. “Folks been talkin’ since the paper come out on Wednesday.”
Better yet, Donovan thought, finishing off his drink. If the paper got out to some of the surrounding spreads, he might get lucky and marry himself a rancher’s daughter instead of a spinster from town. He placed his empty glass on the table and tossed some money down beside it. “I’d better get Senseless out to the ranch. See ya later, Amos.”
“I’ll come with ya.” Amos left his half empty glass on the bar, hitched up his britches and trailed along behind. It was unusual that Amos would leave a single drop of whiskey untasted, much less half a glassful, but Donovan didn’t comment. He walked out of the saloon, greeted the three men still engaged in their checker game, and headed for Senseless.
But his horse was gone.
He stopped and stared at the empty spot on the hitching post where he’d tied the bay. Rage rose, hot and fast. Who had stolen his horse? Six months ago, no one would have dared….
He turned and stalked back to where Amos was making conversation with Mort, Johnny and Gabriel.
“Mort, did you see who ran off with my horse?” Donovan demanded.
“Nope.” Mort chewed on his toothpick. “Saw him loose himself from that hitchin’ post and go off down the road yonder.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Well, Johnny here had just kinged Gabriel, and—”
“Never mind.” Donovan had the suspicious feeling that everyone was laughing at him, and he knew this group well enough to understand that demanding answers would get him nowhere. “Which way did he go?”
“Thataway.” Johnny pointed down Main Street. “He was walkin’, not runnin’. You could probably still catch him.”
“Thanks.” Donovan set off after his errant horse.
Chapter Four
Sarah locked up the back door to the newspaper office and turned toward home. She walked along the back fence that set the Calhouns’ property away from the town by rote, her mind in turmoil.
The newspaper article had not generated the results she had intended. The gossip mill was grinding away with speculation over the article. No doubt everyone was wondering if Sarah intended to be a contender for the position of Mrs. Jack Donovan. Ever since Saturday night, she had noticed the pointed looks and overheard the urgent whispers as she walked by. And each incident chipped away at the fragile confidence that she had managed to rebuild since Luke Petrie.
It was as if the last three years had never happened.
The one redeeming feature of this entire mess should have been Donovan’s annoyance. She had imagined several scenarios, all involving a snarling, irate Donovan bursting into the newspaper office and venting his displeasure with much shouting and pulling of hair. And she would fend off his vituperations with witty, biting comments that would set his teeth on edge until he went mad with frustration.
But she’d been denied even that small pleasure. Rumor had it that the man was out of town—he didn’t even know about the article.
As she strolled toward the back of the Calhoun house, a whinny drew her attention, and she glanced over at the corral.
“Oh, no!”
Sarah picked up her skirts and ran over to the huge bay gelding standing outside the fence. Her own bay filly whickered at the other horse from inside the corral.
“Senseless?” she asked incredulously. Reaching out to grab his reins with one hand, she stroked his neck with the other. “What are you doing here?”
“That would be my question.”
Startled, Sarah saw Donovan approaching from the front of the house.
“I thought you were out of town,” she blurted.
“Keeping track of me, sassy girl? I’m flattered.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she snapped. When he extended a hand for the gelding’s reins, she held them out of his reach. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Taking back my horse.” He leaned over her, his broad chest a whisper from her face, and snagged the reins from her hand.
“Your horse? This horse belongs to Cutter Johnson.”
Still standing
only inches away, he arched a brow at her. “Accusing me of horse stealing now, Sassy?”
“Of course not. And don’t call me Sassy.”
“Sarah, then. I’m thinking that if anyone’s a horse thief around here, it’s you.”
“Me?”
“You’re the one standing here with my horse. What am I supposed to think?”
“You bought this horse from Cutter?”
“You bet I did.”
She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. Things had just gone from bad to worse. “Well, Mr. Donovan, you just bought yourself a passel of trouble. You can expect this to happen anytime you’re in town.”
“You plan to steal my horse whenever I come to town?”
Her eyes flew open, and she scowled up into his grinning face. That darned dimple conflicted with the wicked laughter in his eyes, giving his face a mischievous cast that she found all too attractive. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one stole your horse. Senseless used to belong to me, and he has a tendency to think this is still his home.”
Donovan glanced from Senseless, to the bay filly in the corral that was almost his exact match, and back to Sarah. “He used to be yours?”
“Yes. My mother and I had to sell Senseless three years ago when my father died. We needed the money. First we sold him to Mort Tanner.”
“Mort? Short guy, blue eyes, hangs out at the saloon?”
“Yes, Mort.” Sarah took a deep breath. “Well, that didn’t work out. When Senseless was ours, he developed a liking for my mother’s molasses cookies, so he ran away from Mort all the time and ended up here. We finally had to give Mort back his money, and we sold Senseless to Cutter Johnson, who was much farther away. We thought that might solve the problem. And until now, it did.”
Donovan was frowning at her. “So you mean to tell me that anytime I come to town, my horse is going to wander over here?”
Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1 Page 4