Walker's Widow Read online

  "I don't think so."

  His low voice ran like syrup down her spine, warming her at the same time the dangerous tone brought out chicken flesh on her skin.

  She forced herself to swallow past the lump in her throat. “I really do have things to do."

  "That's right. Which is why I followed you out here.” His hold loosened a fraction, but then he further impaired her concentration by rubbing his thumb back and forth along her arm. Back and forth, as though they were flesh to flesh, with no fabric whatsoever between them.

  The very thought caused her mouth to run dry. She hadn't been touched since James died. Not intimately, the way Clay was touching her now. Oh, he was only stroking her arm, and they were both fully clothed, but the heat in his eyes and the reciprocal pounding of her heart told her this was much more than a casual caress.

  She could deny it. She could fight it. She could dredge down deep for some modicum of guilt over betraying her late husband by lusting after Clayton Walker.

  Or she could admit—if only to herself—that she wanted him. Craved his touch. Had been attracted to him from nearly the moment they'd first met.

  It was wrong, it was dangerous, it could potentially shorten her life on this side of prison bars. But that didn't keep the tips of her fingers from tingling, or heat from pooling low in her belly.

  "Let's get started."

  Clay's words broke into the myriad images cluttering her mind and brought a light stain of embarrassment to her cheeks. “Started?” she almost croaked.

  He chuckled, as though he'd seen inside her head and knew exactly what she'd been thinking.

  "You fetch some water for these poor thirsty plants, and I'll gather what I can. Then I'll dig the potatoes while you tell me what you know about this thief who's been stealing from your neighbors."

  The increased temperature of arousal that had engulfed her body only moments ago now plummeted to near-freezing. “I thought you spoke to Sheriff Graves about that,” she said carefully.

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Your sheriff wasn't as forthcoming as I'd hoped,” he told her wryly.

  That sounded like Jensen. He never worked any harder than he had to, and if things got too wild in Purgatory, or someone caused more trouble than he cared to handle, he did his best to convince the miscreant to move on. He'd even point him toward Hell, where he could find harder liquor, more willing women, and higher stakes poker than in Purgatory's Painted Lady saloon.

  "What do you want to know?” she asked, because she knew trying to avoid the topic any longer was futile.

  When Clay wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to his side, she struggled to break away. But he held her tight and steered her toward the tool shed. Once there, he gathered a rope-handled bucket and large dipper, and pushed them into her hands. Then he grabbed a shovel and turned her back around to head for the garden.

  "Get some water,” he instructed. “I'll begin over here."

  Regan stood for a confused second, wondering how Clay had gone from stoic lawman to light-hearted farmer so suddenly. How she had gone from avoiding him to working side-by-side with him in the sweltering Texas sun.

  Ah, well, she sighed. It was bound to happen. From the moment she'd met him, she'd known he was no easier to deter than his aunt. Both Gay and Martha would forever get their way in all things. They had the determination and obstinacy of a hundred mules.

  Heading for the barn on the other side of the house, she worked the pump, then hauled the full bucket back to the garden. Clay was several plants ahead of her down the row, breaking off ripe tomatoes and pulling up clumps of fat orange carrots as she began tipping the ladle to circle each set of roots with fresh water. The ground soaked up the moisture gratefully.

  From the corner of his eye, Clay studied Regan as he shook loose dirt off a clump of freshly yanked carrots. She must be sweating like a chicken on the chopping block under that heavy black dress.

  He had to admire her doggedness, though. He'd given her the harder job—lugging a full bucket all the way from the barn—while he'd stayed put to do nothing more than clip vegetables from the vine. But she hadn't uttered a word of complaint.

  It was obvious she didn't want to talk to him, that she would much prefer to remain half a mile from him at any given time. And yet she was sticking around. Biting the bullet, so to speak, in order to answer his questions about Jensen Graves and the robberies he and the sheriff were supposed to solve.

  "Tell me what you know about these burglaries,” he ventured out of the blue, hoping to catch her off guard, keep her from thinking before she spoke.

  It didn't work. At least not completely. He saw her body tense at the sound of his voice, her muscles tighten as she let the rest of the water in her dipper trickle into the earth. Then she returned the scoop to the bucket and turned slowly to face him.

  "I don't think I know anything more than anyone else. We believe they began a year or so ago. That's about the time people started talking and admitted some of their things had gone missing. After that, more and more people came forward to report thefts.” Her mouth lifted in a gentle smile. “I'm sure some of those claims are exaggerated, but everyone wants to be a part of the excitement. Everyone wants to be able to say they were victims of the Ghost of Ol’ Morty Pike's antics."

  She laughed at that, bending slightly to set the bucket of water on the ground. “You've heard that rumor, haven't you? That a ghost is the culprit?"

  Clay returned her grin. “The sheriff mentioned something of the sort."

  "Sheriff Graves would love a ghost to be responsible for the burglaries. Then he wouldn't have to do anything to stop him.” She slanted him a sly glance. “In case you haven't noticed, Sheriff Graves doesn't move around much more than he has to."

  "I noticed. ‘Course, I can't blame him. Just getting that wide girth out of bed in the morning has to be a full day's work."

  Regan chuckled. The first humorous, all-belly laugh he'd heard from her since his arrival.

  "0l’ Morty Pike was Purgatory's first undertaker. He died long ago, but the townspeople still love to blame him for assorted peculiar and unexplained occurrences. Or rather, they blame his ghost. You wouldn't believe the things Pike's ghost has been accused of."

  Having abandoned his vegetable picking when she first started to speak, Clay nudged the basket a little to the side with the toe of his boot and hitched his thumbs over the edge of his pockets. “Do you believe in ghosts, Regan?” He wasn't sure if he was serious or teasing, but awaited her response with curiosity.

  "I believe in rambunctious spirits,” she answered lightly. “I'm not so sure about actual ghosts."

  Clay was mesmerized by her beauty. She stood there in the sun, her wide-brimmed straw bonnet shading her eyes, her pale Irish skin dappled with perspiration. Her cheeks were flushed with healthy color, her full pink lips tipped up in merriment. Joking about ghosts and the town's rotund sheriff.

  He didn't want to mar the moment with more interrogative questions, but he couldn't think of a single other thing to say. He wanted to march over, tip that hat off her head, and kiss her breathless. He wanted to rip the pins from her swept-up hair and tangle his fingers in the mass of tight red ringlets.

  His aunt would kill him, and he'd probably burn in hell for all eternity, but at the moment, Clay didn't much give a shit. White-hot desire did that to a man.

  "Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked, drawing his attention straight to her mouth. He watched her tongue dart out to wet her lips and nearly groaned. That one small movement had sucked all of the blood out of his brain and sent it straight to his groin. If Regan lowered her eyes even a fraction, she'd notice his aroused state and run screaming. Then his aunt would wheel herself out to the porch with a shotgun and fill his ass with buckshot.

  Funny how that thought didn't help to thin the blood flow in that region any.

  Regan cocked her head and studied him. “Clay?” she prompted.

  "Hm?” The sound passed his lips without a conscious thought on his part. His attention was still stuck on her mouth and the slow rise and fall of her breasts.

  "I asked if you believe in ghosts."

  He imagined she used that same tone with the younger or less attentive children at the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children, but damned if he could work up an intelligent response. So he settled for a firm shake of his head. He believed in a lot of things, but ghosts weren't one of them.

  "What would you do if this thief broke into your house in the middle of the night?” he asked, his voice sounding harsh and gravelly even to his own ears. He imagined Regan sound asleep in bed, stripped down to her camisole and drawers, covered with little more than a sheet while a stranger tiptoed around her room. The idea caused a jolt of anger to pummel his solar plexus.

  Her gaze darted away while she seemed to consider his question. When her eyes met his once more, he could see they held a wariness that hadn't been there seconds before. “I can't say the prospect frightens me much,” she said in a forced bright manner. “Mother Doyle and I have very little of value these days. Neither of us buys expensive jewelry or other trinkets; we both like to put most of our extra funds into the orphanage. So, you see, even if a burglar did make his way inside, he would be disappointed by what he found."

  Clay disagreed with that statement. Even if they had no gold or jewels in the house, their most prized possession was standing right in front of him. A man could easily hurt her, use her for his own filthy pleasure. And what was to say this robber—who had held himself to merely stealing useless baubles thus far—wouldn't increase his crimes to rape or murder?

  His brows knit in consternation. What the hell was he doing, expanding this string of fairly minor robberies into something much darker and more dangerous?

  Had Regan crawled so far under his skin that he was beginning to worry about her, concern himself with her welfare? His legs moved him forward of their own accord and he realized the answer to that question was a resounding yes.

  Yes, he wanted her to be protected. Yes, he wanted to catch Purgatory's housebreaker if it would keep her safe. And if that deed forged him as a hero in her eyes, all the better. But mostly, he just plain wanted her, dammit.

  He stopped not an inch from her black-clad form. Her eyes widened at his sudden advance and she leaned back a fraction, watching him carefully.

  His hand came up to caress her face, his fingers stroking the long line of her jaw, the determined tilt of her chin. Her skin felt like satin against the rough, callused pads of his fingertips.

  Her eyes dilated, the emerald green irises growing wide. Her lips parted in a tiny O of anticipation, and his gaze zeroed in on the innocent lure. “What would you do if I kissed you, Regan Doyle? Right here between the sweet corn and tomatoes."

  He saw the muscles in her neck contract as she swallowed and he wanted to press his lips to the pulse point there, feel the beat of her heart pounding through every vein of her body.

  "I ... I don't know,” she admitted softly, cautiously.

  His thumb brushed over the warm flesh of her lips as he tilted his head closer. He could feel the warmth of his own breath fanning her face.

  "Let's find out,” he whispered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Regan's eyes remained open as Clay closed in on her, as his fingers cradled her cheek, as his face drew near and he leaned forward to kiss her. She watched his slate-gray eyes soften and felt the pad of his thumb drift across her suddenly dry lips.

  And then he kissed her and her heart stopped beating. The air froze in her lungs, her head began to spin, and she could do nothing more than lean against him and savor the flavor of his hot, sensual mouth.

  Her lids grew heavy. She heard a low moan of pleasure and realized it came from deep in her own belly. Her arms lifted to twine about Clay's neck as she parted her lips beneath the onslaught.

  His tongue delved inside, tangling with her own as his hands slipped from her waist to the curve of her hips. With his fingers digging into her buttocks, he pulled her forward to press against the hard swell of his desire.

  James had never made her feel like this. He'd never kissed her like this—so heated and desperate and passionate. He had never wanted her so badly that he'd grabbed her in the middle of the vegetable patch, out in the open where people might see them. His tongue had never mated with her own the way Clay's was right now.

  And all she could think was, Oh, what I've been missing!

  She'd been raised in poverty, her parents barely able to put enough food on the table for their seven children. Her youngest sister had died of a fever when Regan was only five because Da and Mum hadn't had the money for proper medical care. Soon after, her parents had passed away, and she and her brothers and sisters had had to fend for themselves.

  At the age of only thirteen, Regan had ended up working for Madam Pomfrey at her Hospitality House—a polite expression for nothing more than an upscale whorehouse. Regan's position at the brothel had been innocent enough in the beginning; serving drinks, laundering the girls’ clothing and bedlinens, keeping the house clean. But she'd never deluded herself about her future prospects. She was being cultivated to one day be a prostitute, as well.

  So when James started visiting Madam Pomfrey's, then courting her in a manner that didn't lead to one of the upstairs rooms, she'd been filled with gratitude. His marriage proposal was one of the nicest things that had ever happened to her, and she'd accepted his offer with appreciation. She'd loved James, just not in the passionate way she'd always believed husbands and wives could love one another. But he'd rescued her from life as a prostitute, and provided her with a sense of security she'd never before known.

  And he'd been good to her. James had never raised a hand to her or spoken a cruel word. He'd given her everything a woman could ask for while he was alive. And after his death, he'd left her a fortune large enough to sustain her independence.

  But he'd never turned her knees weak, or made her heart pound like a drum. He'd never caused sweat to break out over every inch of her skin, or made her want to sink to the ground right here, right now and make love in the bright sun.

  And that was exactly what she wanted. With Clay. Only with Clay.

  Her eyes popped open and she gasped in stunned disbelief.

  What was she doing? Thinking? Picturing Clay and herself naked, writhing on the grass like crazed animals. Lord, but she should be ashamed of herself.

  Laying her palms flat on the solid expanse of Clay's chest, she took a decisive step backwards and broke the kiss. His breathing was as ragged as her own as they stood staring at each other, wondering what to do or say next.

  He was her mother-in-law's nephew, for heaven's sake. She was an independent, respectable widow ... who happened to break into houses around town and steal people's belongings. And Clay was a Texas Ranger who'd come to Purgatory with the sole intention of capturing her and bringing her to justice.

  And she'd kissed him. Worse yet, she'd liked it. She wanted to do it again. That and more.

  Mercy, the man addled her brain better than a four-day fever.

  Step by step, she began to retreat, keeping him in her sights the entire time. “I have to ... I'd better...” She waved a hand over her shoulder, pointing in the general direction of the house.

  She saw the Adam's apple bob in Clay's neck, which had already begun to darken with a day's growth of beard. He looked none too steady himself and merely nodded at her stuttered pronouncement.

  With that, she turned on her heel and ran the rest of the way to the house, locking herself away where it was safe.

  But there was no latch and key inside her head, and she couldn't stop the images that raced through her mind, making her wish she'd stayed outside to see where that kiss would lead.

  The next few days were so dull, Clay actually considered shooting himself in the foot just for a bit of excitement.

  He'd gone around town, questioning the handful of robbery victims for any information they might be able to give him about the Purgatory bandit. No one seemed to know anything and by the time he'd interrogated everybody, he was no further along on the case than before he'd begun. It was even possible he'd regressed.

  Despite all those visits to fill his days, time still seemed to pass so slowly that, at one point, he'd thought he actually witnessed the blades of grass growing. And Regan avoided him so completely, he might as well have been walking around in the shroud of a leper.

  She wouldn't discuss the kiss they'd shared, wouldn't meet his eyes, and wouldn't remain in a room alone with him if there was any way she could possibly avoid it.

  Even Aunt Martha seemed to sense the tension between them. She'd taken to her bed several times, forcing Regan to busy herself at some task that took her far away from his presence.

  He'd had no luck prying more information out of Regan about the local thief, either. He'd made a few trips into town, hoping to stumble across some new information, or a witness—even an unwitting one—to no avail. Sheriff Graves was worthless, Regan's lips were sealed, and no one else in the whole of Purgatory seemed to know a damn thing about what was really going on. They enjoyed blaming the Ghost of Ol’ Morty Pike more than they cared to catch the real culprit.

  Clay rolled over in bed, punching his pillow into an angry point. What the hell was he doing here? He didn't give a frog's webbed foot whether Purgatory's burglar was ever caught. His aunt and her assorted maladies were getting on his nerves. And Regan was a damn fine cook, but he sure as hell wanted more from her than a plate of fried chicken and stewed tomatoes.

  He wondered if Regan was sleeping peacefully in the room right beside his. He hoped not. If he had to spend his nights tossing and turning because he couldn't get the taste of her mouth and texture of her lips out of his head, then she should toss and turn with him.