Donovan's Bed: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 1 (21 page)

He was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Some fence was down in the south pasture, and part of the herd had wandered off. It took us a while to round them all up again.”

“I knew it had to be something like that.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re not mad at me. I was afraid you would be.” He took her hand. “What say we get on to the festival? I’m supposed to judge the pie-baking contest at twelve-thirty.”

“No, you go on without me.” She tugged her hand loose and clenched all ten fingers around her purse. “I have some work to do at the newspaper office.”

His grin faded, and he studied her closely. “You
are
mad at me.”

“No, really, I’m not.” She tried to smile. “Look, Jack, I’ve simply changed my mind about going to the festival. Just let it go.”

“I can’t let it go. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

“Jack, I’m
not
angry with you! I just…changed my mind is all.”

“Uh-huh.” He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “About the festival? Or about me?”

She couldn’t look at him. “The festival, of course.”

“You’re a rotten liar, sassy girl.”

She glared at him. “All right, here’s the truth: I’m still not sure that a relationship between us would work. This morning seemed to only make it more obvious.”

He raised his brows. “Well, I’ve got news for you, Sarah Calhoun. We already have a relationship. And things seemed to be going just fine to me—except for you not making up your mind about marrying me.”

“I don’t want to make a hasty decision,” she insisted. “I did that once before, and I’ve regretted it ever since. And what about you? What if I can’t be the kind of wife you want?”

He advanced, his dark eyes fixed on her as if he could see right into her soul. She retreated until her back hit the door. Still he came forward, flattening his hands against the door on either side of her and leaning down until their gazes were level.

“Don’t you worry about what kind of wife you’ll make, sassy girl,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You just say yes, and I guarantee that neither of us will regret it.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, and her lips trembled. He was so close that she could feel the heat of him. She wanted to step forward into his arms and let him take care of everything, but she couldn’t do that. What if she fell in love with him, and he decided that she wasn’t right for him after all? He’d break her heart.

“I need more time, Jack,” she whispered.

“You can have all the time you need, sweetheart. Just don’t push me away.” He touched her cheek as gently as a snowflake drifting to earth, and she felt herself weakening.

“I just don’t know if we should be seen together yet,” she insisted, closing her eyes against the tenderness she saw in his face. She had to remain in control. “Not until I make up my mind.”

“Avoiding me isn’t going to help you make up your mind.”

“Maybe not.” Grasping at the fragments of her determination, she met his gaze firmly. “But I don’t want to fuel any more gossip.”

“It’s not the talk that you’re worried about,” he murmured, playing with a strand that had come free of her braid. “You’re just scared that this might actually work out.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Actually, it makes a lot of sense. But I’m not going to let you be a coward, sassy girl.”

The gleam in his eyes alarmed her in a purely feminine way. “What do you mean by that?”

“Either you come with me to the festival like we agreed, or I’m going to pick you up and carry you there. And that will definitely cause gossip. It’s your choice, Sarah, but either way, you’re going.”

Was
she being a coward? With a sigh of surrender, she nodded. “Fine, I’ll go.”

“I thought you’d see it that way.”

It seemed all of Burr had gathered at the church square. Sarah itched to take notes, but Donovan’s unyielding grasp on her hand would not allow it. Just a few moments ago, young Kevin O’Brien’s turtle had won the turtle race. The youngster carried his champion around with a fat blue ribbon tied around its shell, and Sarah wanted to interview the boy for the paper. One steely-eyed look from Donovan had quelled that notion.

Just who did the man think he was, she fumed, to stop a journalist from performing her job? But deep down, she knew that wasn’t it. He just didn’t want her sneaking off.

She scowled at her escort, wondering how he’d seen through her so completely. But before she could start a nice, lively argument with him, Reverend Westerly hurried over to them.

“Mr. Donovan, there you are! We’ve been looking for you. The pie-baking competition is about to begin.”

“Already?” Donovan squinted at the sky, as if gauging the time.

“Yes, indeed. Are you ready to judge the contest?”

Donovan looked at Sarah, obviously torn.

She gave him a sweet smile. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Oh, I won’t. You’re coming with me.”

Before Sarah could protest, Donovan was guiding her through the crowd. He stopped beside the platform where the judging would take place and gave her a hard look. “Stay here, Sarah. You don’t want me to come looking for you.”

She merely gave him a telling look and turned away to study the table, which was laden with pies of all varieties. He made a sound of frustration—music to her ears—and mounted the platform.

Smothering a victorious grin, she glanced around. Hopeful women crowded the vicinity, whispering and giggling. Sarah raised her eyebrows and wondered if they were more eager for the results of the judging, or for the judge himself.

“Now, ladies,” the reverend called out. “Back off a bit and give Mr. Donovan some room.”

The herd of skirts and petticoats shifted. Inch by inch, the ladies moved back from the platform. Finally Sarah had a clear view of Donovan.

He looked so handsome, like a gentleman desperado. He’d slicked back his hair beneath the brim of his black hat, and a few strands blew in the gentle spring breeze. His dimple flashed as he conversed with Reverend Westerly, and as he picked up the first piece of pie, she noticed how strong and masculine his tanned, callused hands looked next to the dainty white china plate.

It was no wonder the women were all panting to catch his eye.

Donovan lifted a forkful of flaky-crusted blueberry pastry to his mouth. His gaze met hers as those sensual lips closed over the fork, sliding the pie between his teeth. He chewed, his expression thoughtful, the muscles of his jaw and throat working in a way she found strangely arousing. He swallowed and nodded, then took a drink of water and went on to the next slice of pie.

Sarah stood captivated as he slowly lifted a bite of Emmaline Tremont’s lemon meringue to his mouth and slid it between his lips, his tongue darting out to catch an escaping crumb. He sent Sarah a cocky grin, then deliberately licked the fork. Her heart did a little flip in her chest.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he moved to the next pie. He was seducing her without laying a finger on her. No man had ever affected her like this before. And while the other women in the crowd sighed and murmured, it was Sarah he watched. It was Sarah he invited to come closer with a mere flash of a dimple and a gleam in his eye. It was only Sarah he tempted to join him in the sensual promises he made without speaking a word.

She laid a hand on her bosom, her pulse pounding. She had never imagined she could feel this way just from watching a man eat a piece of pie! She wanted that sexy mouth savoring
her
, tasting and licking
her
, as if she were a delicious morsel he couldn’t get enough of. Her hand shook as she made notes in her pad.

At the last entry, she found herself holding her breath when he once more raised the fork to his lips, holding her gaze, and she had to close her eyes when he started chewing. Good Lord, the man would think her crazy if he knew what she was feeling! But when she looked again, he was smiling at her, and his eyes glowed with a hot need that matched her own.

By the time he ruled an ancient widow named Mrs. Pepperidge the winner of the pie contest, Sarah was ready to drag him into an alley and gobble him up like peach cobbler.

She turned away quickly from temptation and headed across the square.

While she knew they were well-matched in passion, it was the day-to-day living that she wasn’t sure about. Seeing him doing something as domestic as judging a pie contest made her sway toward accepting his proposal. But other times he got that mean and edgy look on his face, and she wasn’t so sure.

She had made two errors in judgment when it came to the men in her life. With both Luke Petrie and Ross Turner, she had discovered the hard way that the relationship would not work.

She wanted to be very careful with Donovan. He mattered too much.

“Yoohoo, Sarah!” Mrs. Castor descended on her from the nearby refreshment table. Sarah turned, determined to pretend she hadn’t seen the mayor’s wife, but then she spotted Donovan heading toward her like a bullet from the opposite direction. The look on his face echoed the hot need that throbbed through her. She whirled to face Mrs. Castor with a wide smile.

“Mrs. Castor, how are you?”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Sarah,” the mayor’s wife said, just as Donovan caught up with them. “The Ladies’ Auxiliary could certainly use your help at the refreshment table this afternoon.”

Sarah’s jaw dropped. For the past three years, the Ladies’ Auxiliary for the Betterment of Burr had made it quite clear that they would sooner accept a mule as a member than Sarah Calhoun. Yet here was the president of the organization herself, requesting Sarah’s help with a committee project.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Castor,” Donovan said, taking Sarah’s hand and firmly placing it on his arm.

“Well, hello, Mr. Donovan.” Mrs. Castor’s bright, inquisitive gaze went from Donovan to Sarah and back again. “I was just asking Sarah if she would be willing to help out the committee. Though if the two of you have plans…”

“We don’t,” Sarah interjected, her pulse skipping from the mere pressure of Donovan’s hand pressing hers on his arm. Lordy, she had to get away from him before she forgot herself and did something disgraceful—like eat him alive. “I’d be happy to help out, Mrs. Castor.”

The mayor’s wife beamed and clapped her pudgy hands together. “Well, then, that’s wonderful!”

“Sarah,” Donovan warned.
 

But Sarah merely smiled, mocking him with her eyes. Deliberately, she pulled her hand from his arm. “Now, now, everyone should help out the community.”

“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Castor linked her elbow through Sarah’s. “We’re so happy to have you with us, Sarah, especially after the misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Perplexed, Sarah barely enjoyed the thwarted look on Donovan’s face as Mrs. Castor led her off.

“Yes, that misunderstanding about what happened three years ago. It’s amazing how one man’s lies can ruin someone’s reputation.”

“Isn’t it,” Sarah murmured, still confused.

Mrs. Castor pursed her lips. “That Art Foley’s been telling tales about you all this time. But Mr. Donovan set him straight.”

“He did?”

“Oh, yes, he got Mr. Foley to confess to lying right in front of everyone in the saloon last week. Not that a lady talks about what happens in saloons—but this is just between you and me now, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“And we’re all sorry about misjudging you. But it’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? And we’d all love to make amends.” Mrs. Castor patted Sarah’s hand. “Not that I ever really believed any of those lies.”

“Of course not.” Sarah’s mind was in a whirl. Donovan had done something that had somehow erased the stain on her reputation. How? And why?

The instant she could slip away from Mrs. Castor, she would ask him.

Escaping Mrs. Castor was easier said than done.

Manning the punch bowl for an hour was not Sarah’s idea of a good time, but the mayor’s wife ran the refreshment table like a general commanding the troops. Sarah found herself trapped between Mrs. Castor’s watchful eye and Donovan’s brooding stare.

Not that he was lacking for company.

Donovan couldn’t turn around without bumping into a woman hopeful of capturing his attention. Any other day, Sarah might have enjoyed the spectacle of seeing him besieged by marriage-minded women. But today she was nagged by lustful impulses, and she felt oddly proprietary toward him—which both confused and frightened her.

What she needed more than anything was a few quiet moments to get her emotions under control. Or maybe just a few moments alone with Donovan.

She also wanted to ask him what he had done to repair her reputation.

The opportunity for retreat arrived when Buford Beaumont’s prize hog escaped and disrupted the three-legged race, sending people sprawling everywhere. In the commotion, Sarah slipped away from the refreshment table. Now if she could just catch Donovan’s eye before Mrs. Castor realized she was gone…

“Sarah Ann Calhoun, you stop right there!”