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  RAVE REVIEWS FOR HEIDI BETTS!

  "Nobody spins an entertaining, sexy yarn better than Heidi Betts, and Walker's Widow is her best to date."

  —Reader to Reader

  "Almost a Lady is a top-notch winner."

  —Romance Reviews Today

  "Cinnamon and Roses is an engaging and fast-paced tale ... a well-crafted debut novel that will leave readers eager for Ms. Betts's next one. Excellent!

  —Rendezvous

  "Books like Cinnamon and Roses are few and far between. The story will tug at your heartstrings and tickle your fanny bone. . . . Cinnamon and Roses is a keeper."

  —Reader to Reader

  "A delightful romance that enthralled and enchanted me from the beginning. An outstanding read."

  —Rendezvous on A Promise of Roses

  "Snappy dialogue makes this a quick read."

  —Romantic Times on A Promise of Roses

  "The dialogue is dynamic, the writing superb! Ms. Betts is an absolutely wonderful writer. . . . Don't miss any of [the Rose trilogy]! FANTASTIC! 5 BELLS!"

  —Bell, Book & Candle on A Promise of Roses

  "Ms. Betts's Rose trilogy is well worth reading."

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  NEEDLESS WORDS

  "You could tell them all to go to hell," Clay suggested.

  Regan gasped, her mouth falling open in astonishment. "I could never to that."

  He took a step toward her, dipping his head a fraction and fixing her with a determined glare. "Sure you could. You just say, 'Go to hell.' Try it."

  An appalled puff of air escaped her lungs. "I couldn't."

  With her back to the barn wall, Clay took the opportunity to move closer, laying his hands flat against the rough planks on either side of her head.

  "What are you doing?" she rasped.

  "Maybe you just need the proper motivation," he told her, slanting his head to one side and studying her mouth. "I'm thinking about kissing you, Regan Doyle. And if you don't want that, then you're going to have to tell me, plain and simple, to go to hell."

  Her eyes widened and she kept her gaze locked on his lips as they descended toward her own. He stopped a hairbreadth from her mouth, giving her one last chance to deter him.

  Her fingers curled into his shirt. Her breathing was shal­low.

  "Too late," he murmured as he captured her lips with his own.

  Other Leisure books by Heidi Betts:

  ALMOST A LADY

  CINNAMON AND ROSES

  A PROMISE OF ROSES

  A LEISURE BOOK®

  January 2002

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  276 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10001

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publish­er has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  Copyright © 2002 by Heidi Betts

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the pub­lisher, except where permitted by law.

  ISBN 0-8439-4954-6

  The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  This book is dedicated to two of the educators

  who had the greatest impact on my writing career:

  To my sixth-grade teacher, Miss Shoemaker (now Mrs. Judy Larson)—thank you for making every Friday "Creative Writing Day " and helping me to discover my love of story­telling. I promise never again to write about poison pepper- oni at the school carnival.

  And to my typing teacher, Mrs. (Sheila) Kovalcin—thank you for giving me a valuable tool I use every single day. (Who knew I would spend this much time at a keyboard, huh? ) If not for you, I would be destined to a life of two-finger typing and could never meet my deadlines.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to extend a very special thanks to my editor, Kate Seaver, who increased the potential of this story ten­fold by uttering two simple words: "cat burglar." As soon as you said that, Kate, a lightbulb went on in my head, and Walker's Widow took on new and even more exciting dimensions. Thank you.

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Martha Doyle gazed out the window of her bedroom on the first floor of the sprawling, two-story house that her son had built more than seven years before. James had been a good boy. A loving son, a decent husband.

  Just not the ideal husband for dear Regan.

  Martha studied the figure of her daughter-in-law for several minutes more, watching as she weeded Martha's favorite flowerbed—the only one she could see from the confines of her room. She took in the fading fibers of Regan's black daydress, worn for grieving a full two years since her husband's passing. The tight, fiery red curls pulled tightly into a chignon at the top of her head and already escaping to run riot around her pretty Irish face.

  Regan had been as good to her as James, Martha thought. Better, if the truth be known. Even after James's death, when Regan could have gone off on her own and abandoned her aging, decrepit mother-in-law, she had stuck around and cared for Martha. Been a friend to her.

  But it had been two years since James's death. Time enough for Regan to put away her widow's weeds and move on with her life. To find another husband. A young, sprightly one who could give her love and laughter and the children she deserved. The children Martha suspected Regan wanted ... badly.

  Martha smoothed a hand over her sister's most recent letter, hoping her plan wouldn't fail. Hoping Regan ... or worse yet, Clayton ... wouldn't balk too badly when they found out what she'd done.

  She cast one final glance out the window to where her daughter-in-law knelt, covered in damp soil. And then she began to write out a very special request of her sister. And her sister's son.

  Chapter One

  No one locked his doors in Purgatory. Not even after eleven incidents of burglary had been reported.

  This made The Ghost of Ol’ Morty Pike's job much easier.

  Regan stifled a giggle at the ominous nickname as she crouched in the bushes outside the kitchen of Dorisa Finch's luxurious home, dressed in black trousers, black shirtwaist, and dusty black boots. A black kerchief was tied about her head to hide her hair. The tightly knotted mass was so bright, so red, that she suspected it could be seen for mi
les, no matter the time of day or night. That alone would identify her to anyone who happened to catch her sneaking about, which was why she took such pains to cover every stray strand.

  She also had been cursed with pale, porcelain Irish skin that she knew would glow like a full moon in the darkness. It had taken her two or three of these excursions before she'd come up with the idea of fashioning a bit of a mask out of yet another black handkerchief. She'd cut out two small holes for her eyes, and tied the material at the back of her head. It was folded so that it ran all the way to her hairline and then hung down in a point to cover the rest of her face. All in all, she thought it did the job quite well.

  And she had to admit that it made her feel just a bit ... wicked. Like an outlaw or highwayman. Or the Ghost of Ol’ Morty Pike.

  To think that someone thought her dangerous enough to link her with the long-dead and much-feared specter of Mortimer Pike. Pike had been Purgatory's first undertaker, setting up shop soon after the town was founded, and who—it was rumored—enjoyed his occupation a little too much. The parents of Purgatory used stories of Ol’ Morty Pike and his ghost to scare their children into behaving properly. And the children of Purgatory used stories of Ol’ Morty Pike's ghost to scare each other.

  Now, due to her recent vocation, tales of Morty were making the rounds again. The Purgatory Prophet had even begun to print weekly reports of his supposed activities.

  While her only true crime was walking off with one or two valuables from the households of the town's wealthier residents, the Prophet seemed to enjoy blaming the ghost for any number of misdeeds. At last count, he was accused of stealing Ida Jefferson's wedding dress and replacing it on the scarecrow in her husband's sorghum field, spiking Mrs. Shoemaker's batch of lemonade so that she got all of the Sunday school children snookered, and spooking Joe Don Hawbaker's cattle through Eldon Carter's sheep field and nearly sparking a range war.

  In reality, Regan Doyle had done none of those things. But it was kind of fun to think that everyone in town believed she had.

  Not that they had any idea the thief they called 01’ Morty's Ghost was really the woman they knew as sweet, innocent, still-grieving Widow Doyle, wife of the late James Doyle, whom everyone in Purgatory had liked and respected.

  Regan popped her head out of the shrubbery where she hid and peeked in the nearest window to make sure the house was vacant. No light shone from within. The Finches were in town this evening, celebrating little Cissy Finch's eleventh birthday with a family dinner at the Eat ‘Em Up Cafe. A big party with all of Cissy's school friends would follow this Saturday afternoon—Regan should know, she was baking six dozen tiny, individual frosted cakes for the children—but tonight's outing gave Regan the perfect opportunity to sneak into the house and steal a bit of the fine jewelry Dorisa Finch had been so enamored of after church last Sunday. Poor Dorisa would be terribly upset to discover that Morty Pike's ghost had walked away with her favorite, rather expensive necklace and earbobs.

  Let that be a lesson to Thomas and Dorisa Finch that they should be more generous with their money when Regan asked—quite politely—for a donation to the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children. And less inclined to brag about their newest high-priced baubles only moments after declining to contribute to a very worthwhile fund.

  Sneaking around the side of the dark house, Regan opened the back door to the kitchen and slipped inside.

  This was the hard part, she thought. Making her way through a strange house, around unfamiliar obstacles without the aid of a lantern. Even though she'd been a guest in many of these homes, she had gotten a number of nasty bruises on her shins and upper thighs from crashing into tables and other unseen furnishings while she skulked around her neighbors’ dwellings.

  The discolorations always caused her a pang of guilt when she saw them, reminding her that she was committing crimes.

  But the orphanage was in need. And her neighbors didn't seem inclined to help, even though she knew perfectly well many of them had the financial advantages to do so.

  Which was why she found herself once again breaking into a home to take personal items worth just about as much as a donation that should have been given willingly.

  Feeling her way in the dark, Regan moved through the kitchen and into the foyer. From there, it was easy enough to climb the stairs to the bedrooms, though it took her a little longer to find the room Thomas and Dorisa shared. Once she did, she moved directly to the bureau where she suspected Dorisa kept most of her jewelry.

  Sure enough, an ornately carved teakwood box sat in the middle of the dressertop, and when Regan lifted the lid, an assortment of jewels—likely quite real—glittered in the pale moonlight spilling through the open window over her shoulder.

  She picked through the collection and found the lovely emerald choker and matching diamond-cut earrings Dorisa had been wearing the Sunday before when Regan had asked the Finches for a donation to the orphanage. It was just the set she'd been looking to steal.

  Slipping the cool jewels into the front pocket of her trousers, Regan left the teakwood box open—the Finches needed some small hint that their home had been broken into, after all—and turned to leave the room. She made her way downstairs as silently as she'd gone up and exited the house through the same back kitchen door she'd used to enter.

  These nighttime burglaries were going so well, she thought. It was almost routine now, from leaving her house with the excuse that she was looking for little Lucy-fur, to changing back into the night-clothes she had hidden beneath a burgeoning pecan tree.

  If she didn't feel so guilty for what she was doing, she almost would have been proud of her exceptional expertise at being the female version of a modern-day Robin Hood.

  * * *

  Purgatory might be smack-dab between Heaven and Hell on the map of Texas, but as far as Clayton Walker was concerned, it was much closer to Hell. The real one.

  Of course, that assessment could have something to do with the fact that Purgatory, Texas, was the last place he wanted to be right now. He wanted to be back in Sweetwater working at capturing the band of renegade Army deserters who had been terrorizing the local townspeople.

  And he would be if his mother hadn't demanded, harassed, and browbeat him into making this trip. If his mother hadn't gone to his superior, asking that Clay be given a few weeks away from his job to visit his elderly, ailing, hard-of-hearing, wheelchair-bound aunt who was concerned enough about the string of robberies in her town to ask her nephew to come and investigate.

  But instead of simply giving him some time off from his job to deal with this family situation, Jake had been so moved by Clay's mother and her lengthy diatribe that he'd assigned Clay to the robberies in Purgatory and ordered him to stay with his aunt until the culprit was caught.

  Caesar nickered softly and Clay grunted, agreeing with the gelding's sentiments at having to travel so far out of the way to catch a thief that any two-bit, small-town sheriff should have been able to apprehend.

  Spending the next few weeks with his taxing, needy, invalid Aunt Martha didn't exactly toast his oats, either.

  Clay was just about to start on another path of self-misery when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe he was desperate enough to capture this burglar that he was creating apparitions out of thin air. Because he could have sworn he saw a lone figure, crouched low, dashing across the dry, bare space between a shadowed, two-story house and a copse of trees several yards away.

  Pulling his mount to a halt, he blinked once and studied the area more closely. A moment later, he caught the movement again. There was definitely someone there, sneaking about in dark clothes near a seemingly empty house.

  Clay blinked again just to be sure.

  Could he be so lucky as to happen upon the thief his first hour in Purgatory? Before he even reached Aunt Martha's house?

  No one could be that lucky, could he?

  Of course, the way his luck had bee
n running lately, maybe he was due this one, blessedly fortunate event.

  And if this wraith like creature was the burglar vandalizing the town, and he caught the bastard tonight ... why, he could be on his way back home tomorrow morning after only a cursory visit with his aunt.

  That thought had Clay spurring his horse forward, in the direction of his coveted prey. The blood rushed in his veins as fast as Caesar cut across the field and around the tree where he'd last spotted the crook.

  Clay couldn't see him now, hidden in the dark and shadows of the trees. But he was here, Clay could feel it.

  He slowed Caesar, slowed his breathing, and listened. His eyes were already well-adjusted to the darkness, so he had no trouble watching for movement. The rustle of a branch, the flutter of leaves stirred by the slight breeze.

  And then there it was. An unnatural sound. One that had him urging Caesar forward another few steps.

  His quarry—seemingly unaware that he was being tracked—broke away from the cover where he'd been hidden and continued his crouched run. He moved at a quick, steady pace, but Clay didn't think he was running out of a sense of panic. Merely to get away from the site of his latest crime.

  Clay drew one of his Colts out of its holster, holding it flat against his thigh as he leaned forward over his mount's neck and spurred the horse even faster after their prey. Caesar's hooves pounded on the hard-packed earth, catching the stranger's attention. The man froze, arms out and legs bent. And then he turned—just his head—and Clay knew he was right. The mask alone identified the fleeing figure as the burglar who'd been robbing Purgatory blind. This was the criminal who would make Clay's life a hell of a lot easier just by being caught and thrown in a jail cell.

  Yes! he wanted to cry. He had him.

  Clay spent a moment too long rejoicing, giving the culprit a chance to dart forward and away from him. The man took off at a dead run and Clay kicked his mount to race after him.