Donovan’s Angel Read online

  Donovan’s Angel

  Peggy Webb

  The Donovans of the Delta – Book 1

  Copyright 2011 Peggy Webb

  Cover art design 2011 Kim Van Meter

  Publishing History/Bantam Books, Inc.,/Loveswept

  Copyright 1986 Peggy Webb

  All rights reserved

  Smashwords Edition

  Dedication

  For the real Baby, who inspired the book.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The crisp, dry leaves rattled like old bones as Martie swung her rake briskly back and forth. She sang as she worked, lifting her lusty contralto voice in joyful abandon. Nearby, a large blue-gray Siamese cat gingerly tested the growing pile of leaves with a delicate paw.

  Plop! A tattered marigold landed at Martie’s feet. “Why, thank you, Baby.” Dropping the rake, she knelt beside her gangly-legged golden retriever puppy and playfully scratched the soft, pale fur under her neck. “Where have you been this morning?”

  Baby’s tail thumped the ground as she bathed her adored owner’s hand with a wet, pink tongue.

  Giving her puppy one last pat, Martie picked up the drooping yellow flower and stuck it behind her ear. Baby pranced happily around the yard, stopping long enough to give the cat a thrill by nipping at his tail, and then she disappeared through a gap in the tall clapboard fence.

  Martie finished raking and sat beside an unkempt flower bed to attack the weeds that had established residence there. She reveled in the feel of the black, loamy earth under her hands. Her patch of earth, she thought. Her house. Her town. It felt wonderful to belong someplace, and she was glad all over that she had chosen this little town to settle down in after all her vagabond years. The minute she’d seen Pontotoc she had known that this was a good place to hang her hat. There was a feeling of permanence about it, a solid sense that generations had sat under its ancient oak trees and that countless others would come along to enjoy the splendid rapport between civilization and nature in this sleepy Southern town.

  Absorbed in her work and her thoughts, Martie was completely unaware of the growing pile of marigolds behind her. Marigolds without leaves, marigolds with roots, marigolds with tattered heads, homeless marigolds gasping for breath in the jaws of Baby. As Martie turned to reach for a trowel, she saw the mountain of wilting flowers and the golden wave of Baby’s tail as she disappeared through a hole in the fence.

  “Good grief! What have you done?” She clutched a mutilated marigold. “Come back here!” The dog blissfully ignored the command.

  The quickest way to see what her rambunctious pet was up to was to climb the oak tree, jump down on the other side of the fence, and follow her. She just hoped an irate gardener with a gun wasn’t waiting on the other side. Knotting her bright peasant skirt between her legs, she grabbed a low-hanging branch and swung up the tree. Quickly she shinned up the trunk, her legs navigating the limbs with ease. Branches snatched at her topknot of white-gold hair, pulling random curls down around her neck and forehead. She straddled a fat limb and inched along until she was on the other side of the fence. Parting the leaves, she peered down into total devastation. A once proud flower bed was almost naked, and her pet was digging with a vengeance, determined to strip the bed of its few remaining flowers.

  “No, Baby,” she called sharply.

  Doleful brown eyes lifted up to the sound of a familiar voice. There was a moment’s pause as clouds of dust settled to the ground; then, reluctantly, Baby stopped digging and scampered back through the fence.

  Martie judged the distance to the ground. It was time to face the music. Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe the owner of this flower bed was allergic to marigolds and had been planning to have them dug up anyway. She looked at the ground again. The fence was taller than she had imagined, and the tree trunk was on the other side. She would have to swing down from the limb, Tarzan style. Of course she had done more daring things in her lifetime, but she was partial to her bones. She didn’t relish the idea of breaking them for the sake of a few flowers.

  The bark scraped her knee as she shifted her legs and dangled from the limb. She lost her precarious grip, and the upturned earth met her body with a soft whump! With her face in the dirt and her rump saluting the breeze, she wriggled experimentally. Thank goodness, nothing seemed to be broken.

  “Well, hello there.”

  The resonant tones of that voice vibrated all the way down to her toes. She twisted her upended bottom so fast that she made lightning look slow. Underneath the smudges, her face was bright pink. “Hi,” she said as she looked up into the face of a very large man. He had a pair of silver-gray eyes that were startlingly light in the deep tan of his face, and a lock of black hair hung down over his forehead as if mussed by the careless hand of a loving wife. Martie felt a quick flash of irritation at the loving wife, and the unexpected thought muddled her usually sharp mind. “I’m planting flowers.” Her hands sifted aimlessly through the dirt.

  “I beg your pardon.” His lips curved upward into the most remarkable smile she had ever seen. Sunshine and rainbows and Christmas-morning joy all seemed to be wrapped up in that smile.

  Her violet eyes widened a fraction as she met that disconcerting smile. Reluctantly she tore her eyes away from the mobile mouth and focused her attention on his chin. It was square and steady, with a cleft on its beard-shadowed surface. A small puff of wind whispered through the leaves of the tree and playfully lifted the gleaming tendrils of hair off her forehead as she sat silently, acknowledging the presence of the man standing above her. Theirs was a meeting as ancient as time, a primitive recognition of the magic that flows between man and woman.

  As the knowledge surged through her, her confidence returned. “I’m Martie Fleming, your new backyard neighbor.”

  “I’m Paul Donovan.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Botticelli-angel face. It was the first time in his thirty-five years that he’d felt tongue tied. There must be something that he needed to say, but all he could think of was bending down to wipe the smudge from her suntanned cheek. Instead, he extended his hand. “Here,” he said. “Let me help you up.” If he thought it was strange that a woman had fallen from the sky into his flower bed, he didn’t say so. He was too busy counting his blessings.

  Martie took his hand and sprang lightly to her feet. “I came to apologize about your flowers. My dog decided to do some fall gardening. I’m afraid that all your marigolds are in a dying heap in my backyard.”

  He decided that her voice was like music. Angel music. She could have told him that his blue jeans were on fire and he wouldn’t have moved a muscle. He was too entranced by the vision that had dropped into his life. “I was never partial to marigolds.”

  “What a relief. I expected at least twenty lashes.”

  “Apparently so did your dog. Where is he?”

  “He’s a she. A four-month-old golden retriever puppy who has her lovable moments. Today is not one of them.” She scanned the immaculate yard. “She never hangs around when she knows justice is at hand.”

  Paul’s smile widened. He couldn’t imagine her meting out justice. She seemed so much more at home with laughter. Gray eyes met violet, and the Indian summer day took on a golden hue. Martie forgot about the marigolds, and he forgot that he had come outside to get his socks off the clothesline.

  “I’m glad you did,” he said.

  “Did what?”

  “Hang around.”

  “For my punishment?” She had a generous smile, a perfect showcase for teeth that were even and as white. Paul decided that everything about her was perfect. Even the dirt on her face suited the gamine he saw peering out of her remarkable eyes. Such eyes! As if God had mixed a bit of sky with dark purple flowers and thrown in a dash of sunshi
ne for good measure.

  “No, for a cup of tea.”

  Martie swiped the dirt on her cheek and smeared it behind her ear. “It’s the best I can do on such short notice.” The pixie smile flashed again. “And I do adore get acquainted parties. Do you have lots of sugar? If we’re going to make this a neighborly tradition—sharing tea—I have to warn you that I consume more sugar than a honey bear.”

  Paul loved the way she talked with her whole body. Rows of plastic bracelets jangled on her arm, her long dangle earrings swayed with the motion of her head, and the ruffles on her off-the-shoulder blouse floated around her, punctuating her phrases. Somehow it seemed perfectly natural to him that she would wear such a flamboyant outfit to climb a tree. “I’ll remember that,” he replied.

  The screeching of tires shattered their magic world, and they focused their attention on the impressively large woman emerging from an antique baby blue Cadillac. “Yoo-hoo!” she called. Her voice was only twice as loud as the orange flowers on her tent dress. The slamming of her car door resounded in the still October day, and she rolled toward them with the purposefulness of an army tank. “I have to talk . . .”

  She stopped in mid-sentence as she became aware of the silver-blond haired woman standing in the ruined flower bed. As her eyes roamed over the dirty face, the flashy jewelry, and the skirt, brazenly tied between the woman’s bare legs, Miss Beulah Grady’s nose seemed to rearrange itself on her face.

  “I wasn’t aware that you had company.” Coming from her pursed lips, company sounded like the biggest scourge since the bubonic plague.

  Unaware of the hurricane brewing behind Miss Beulah’s tight face, Paul made the introductions. “We were just going inside for a cup of tea, Miss Beulah. Won’t you join us?”

  “As a matter of fact, a spot of tea might help. I didn’t sleep a wink last night for thinking about the disaster that has struck our little community. It’s a sin and disgrace. A dis-grace.”

  She billowed along behind Paul and Martie, talking every breath. The screen door banged shut behind her as they entered a high-ceilinged parlor. Miss Beulah Grady settled into an overstuffed chair with sagging springs and propped her hands on her fat knees. And continued to talk.

  “You two make yourselves at home while I get the tea.” Paul winked at Martie. He had no qualms whatsoever about leaving her with Pontotoc’s self-appointed watchdog of morality. Anybody who could fall out of a tree and handle herself with such aplomb would be safe with Attila the Hun. He whistled as he worked. Life was full of wonderful surprises, he reflected. And today’s surprise had come in a package that fairly took his breath away.

  o0o

  Martie only half listened to Miss Beulah’s chatter as she studied the parlor. Odds and ends of furniture that looked as if they had recently come from somebody’s attic were scattered around the large room. A brand new sofa occupied the center of the room, its unsullied brightness making everything else seem faded. She smiled. Whatever else his vices were, it couldn’t be said of Paul Donovan that he craved material possessions. Oh, she liked the man. She liked him immensely.

  Miss Beulah interrupted her thoughts. “What do you do, Miss Fleming? You never did say.”

  “What do I do about what, Miss Grady?” Martie didn’t know why she said that. On occasion her impish sense of humor had caused her friends to call her perverse. She leaned back in her chair and noticed that her skirt was still knotted between her legs. She might as well leave it, she decided. As a matter of fact, she kind of liked it that way.

  “For a living.” Miss Beulah had a habit of emphasizing words when she was riled. And there was no doubt about it: the woman sitting in the parlor riled her considerably.

  “I teach.”

  “You don’t look like any teacher I ever saw . . . that funny-colored hair and all. I was telling Essie Mae the other day. . . Essie Mae, I said, what’s this world coming to when a woman can go down to the drugstore and buy her hair color in a bottle?”

  “My hair is natural.”

  “You sure could have fooled me. And those clothes. I never saw any teacher wearing such a getup as that.”

  “I wasn’t teaching today. I was working in my yard.”

  “You do yard work in that . . . that gypsy skirt?”

  “Of course. I’m not bound by convention. I wear whatever suits my mood.” She glanced up as Paul entered the room. He had overheard her last remark, and his eyes were crinkled at the corners and twinkling with mirth. Martie flashed a radiant smile in his direction and wished she had fallen out of his tree sooner.

  “Here you are, Miss Beulah. With a twist of lemon, just the way you like it.” Then he turned to Martie. His hand touched hers as he gave her the chipped china teacup. “And lots of sugar for you, Martie.”

  She wanted to grab his sun-warmed hand and hang on. It was electric, dynamite. This man pulsed with energy and strength. And that voice! It made her want to stand up and cheer. She wondered if he were a singer.

  Miss Beulah ignored her tea and focused on Paul. “I’m so glad you’re back, Reverend . . . .”

  “Damn!” Martie’s back stiffened as the shocked whisper echoed in the room.

  “Did you say something, Miss Fleming?” Miss Beulah lifted her eyebrows until they disappeared into her Mamie Eisenhower bangs.

  “I said, damask. This chair is covered with rose damask.” Oh, damn the luck, anyway, she thought, taking a big gulp of her tea. A preacher! Stuffed shirts and stiff upper lips and going by the book and whatever happened to the carousel? Living in a fishbowl and being oh-so-correct and whatever happened to swimming naked in the moonlight? If she had been home, she would have kicked something. Instead, she lowered her eyes to her teacup and said goodbye to an improbable relationship before it had ever begun.

  o0o

  Paul watched all these emotions cross her face. He had half expected her reaction, but he was not prepared for the intensity of his own feelings. Why was she shutting him out without taking the time to know the man behind the profession? he wondered. Why was she throwing away magic—and he knew that together they would be magic—without a second thought? He would make her see him as a man. He had to.

  “Aren’t you curious about what’s underneath the covering, Martie?” he asked gently.

  She felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of her. The minister wasn’t talking about chairs. And that made him all the more dangerous. “Not in the least,” she lied.

  “Your actions belie your words. A woman who climbs a tree to see what’s on the other side of the fence exhibits a great deal of curiosity.”

  “I thought we were talking about chairs. How did fences get into this conversation?” Miss Beulah might as well have been a knot on the wall for all the attention she received. Paul and Martie were absorbed in one another, cut off entirely from the rest of the world. Even the furniture had faded into nothingness.

  “Evasive tactics won’t work, Martie. Tenacity is my strong point.”

  “And stubbornness is mine.”

  Miss Beulah Grady was completely unaware that she had witnessed a preliminary skirmish. Her eyes were shut to the lifting of the shield and the counterthrust of the sword. She didn’t smell the smoke or hear the battle cry. If she had, she would have run like hell. Instead, she stepped right into the fray. “As I was saying, Reverend, I have the gravest matter to report to you. One of absolutely cataclysmic proportions.”

  “I’m always here to listen to the problems of my parishioners.” Paul made the transition so smoothly that Martie almost believed she had dreamed their exchange. She thought of slipping quietly out the door, but discretion was not her style. It would be much more fun to go out with a drumroll and a trumpet fanfare. All she had to do was wait for the band to march by.

  She didn’t have long to wait.

  “I don’t know if you are aware of this, Reverend, but there is a honky tonk in this neighborhood.” Hot on the trail of scandalous doings, Miss Beulah was in her eleme
nt. Perspiration beaded her upper lip, and her hands trembled when she talked.

  “Are you certain, Miss Beulah? I’ve heard of no such establishment.”

  “Am I certain? Why, Reverend Donovan, that sleazy music well nigh blew me out of my bed last night. I never heard such whumping and pounding in all my life! For a minute there I thought it was Satan and his band marching through Pontotoc. Or at least the Russians.”

  Paul tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile behind his teacup, and Martie’s sides were shaking with laughter. She thought this was almost as much fun as falling over the fence.

  Miss Beulah took a gulping breath and continued her tirade. The orange flowers on her dress heaved up and down. “I’m telling you . . . something has to be done. It’s a sin and disgrace. A dis-grace. And right behind the parsonage, too. Just beyond that cyclone fence.”

  Martie met Paul’s gaze over the teacup. For a moment laughter bubbled up inside as she started to explain what was going on behind the cyclone fence. Then she thought she saw a question in his eyes. Well, damn it all, let them think she ran a honky-tonk. It was probably the quickest way in the world to put an end to the music she had been hearing ever since she’d met the man with the quicksilver eyes.

  Her cup rattled against the saucer as she plopped it down on a scarred end table. “I own that honky tonk behind the cyclone fence.” She glared defiantly at Paul. Now let him smile and talk about neighborly cups of tea and curiosity and fences and things that made her heart go bump!

  “I should have known,” Miss Beulah blurted out.

  Paul spoke quietly. “Just a moment, Miss Beulah.” Why was she doing this? he wondered. Women who adored golden retrievers and wore tattered marigolds behind their ears didn’t operate beer joints. “As a matter of fact, I heard the music myself. I thought it was rather lively and joyful sounding. I’m sure Martie is playing a joke on us.” He looked directly into her eyes. “Aren’t you?”