Walker's Widow Read online

  Bad choice of words, Walker, he thought grimly. Because now all he could see was a splendidly naked Regan tossing and turning with him. On the bed, on the floor, across the grass of the yard ... His forehead crinkled with a scowl that would have sent grizzlies scurrying.

  The sky overhead rumbled, as though mimicking his dark mood. The skies had been gray all day, warning of an impending storm. And now it seemed the clouds were about to part and send the rain the parched fields could certainly use.

  He was just flopping back to his other side when he heard the creak of a floorboard. He cocked his head to listen and this time heard the squeak of hinges on what sounded like the door of Regan's room.

  Was she up and moving about? Or was someone breaking in?

  The tail end of that thought had Clay swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and quickly shrugging into his trousers. He grabbed his gunbelt, which was always close at hand on the bedside table, and tiptoed across the room.

  He put his ear to the door, but didn't hear anything. No footsteps or signs of an intruder. Maybe he'd imagined the noise altogether.

  Another bout of thunder shook the house and a flash of lightning lit the night sky. He'd better check, just to be sure everything was all right.

  He pulled the door back, thankful for its silent hinges, and stepped into the hall. Two steps showed him that the door of Regan's room stood open and her bed was empty. He cursed beneath his breath, not knowing if this meant she'd simply gone downstairs for a cup of warm milk, or if something was wrong.

  Careful not to make a sound, he headed for the stairwell and made his way down to the first floor. He used the walls to guide him through the pitch dark house, checking every room, listening at his aunt's closed door for any sign that she was awake. He met with only empty rooms and more silence.

  What the hell was going on? Where had Regan disappeared to?

  Clenching his jaw in frustration, he yanked open the front door and stepped onto the porch.

  Wind buffeted his half-dressed frame and rattled nearby tree branches, and the sky flashed in fury. Summer rain was falling in torrents, hitting the ground with hard, staccato splats and soaking into the thirsty earth.

  A light flickered inside the barn, visible through the partially opened door, and Clay moved forward, certain he had found Regan.

  Damn woman. What the hell was she up to now?

  Then the far side of the barn came into view and Clay's heart stopped.

  Regan was halfway up a rickety wooden ladder, the rain tangling her skirts about her legs and the laces of her too-big boots threatening to trip her up. And if that wasn't bad enough, she was trying to hold on to the sides of the ladder with a hammer in one hand and a small sack of what he assumed was nails in the other.

  Clay's heart started again, tripping over itself to see her in such a precarious position, and he found himself bellowing to be heard over the noise of the storm. “What the hell do you think you're doing out here?"

  Regan gasped and swung toward him, grasping the sides of the ladder as she began to lose her balance.

  Clay lurched forward, ready to catch her. She caught herself just in time and readjusted her footing, all without dropping a thing. Jesus, she was a one-woman walking disaster, he thought with disgust.

  "Good lord, Clay, you scared ten years off my life,” she scolded, the hand with the hammer in it pressed to the area of her heart.

  "Just returning the favor,” he said through clenched teeth. And then louder, he asked again, “What are you doing out here?"

  "There's a hole in the roof that we haven't gotten fixed yet, and I forgot to cover it before the storm hit."

  "And that's a reason to come out here in the dead of night, in your nightclothes, in the pouring rain?” he demanded.

  Even in the dark and rain, he saw her shoot him a quelling glance.

  "If too much water gets in, it will turn all the hay and straw and feed moldy,” she replied primly. “Then we'll have sick horses—if they haven't already caught pneumonia from spending the night in a damp barn."

  Regan stood in the middle of the ladder, rain pouring down on her, and Clay thought he'd never seen anyone more beautiful or more all-fired independent and donkey-stubborn in all his life.

  "Get down from there,” he ordered. Surprisingly, she didn't argue, but began backing her way carefully down the rungs, and he moved to the base of the ladder to hold it while she descended. As soon as she reached the ground, he took her elbow and propelled her around the corner and into the barn.

  "What are you doing?” she asked, balking now that she was out of the elements. “I have to get that hole covered."

  She stood only a few feet from him, arms crossed over her chest as she waited for him to respond. He tried not to notice how the stance lifted the swell of her breasts. Or how the thin, soaked-through fabric of her black nightrail showed the shape of those tautened swells and perfectly outlined her pebbled nipples.

  He grew hard within the confines of his own rain-tightened trousers and prayed to God she didn't notice. He'd better help her get the roof covered and get them both back to the safety of their separate beds before something happened. Something he knew she'd regret in the morning.

  "Fine. Where's your tarpaulin?"

  Shaking a clump of hair away from her face, she blinked at him. “On the roof, of course. Emmett spread it out a few weeks ago, but it's since come loose and I forgot to fasten it down again. Why? What are we going to do?"

  "We.” He gave a contrived chuckle. “I like that, we.” Turning serious, he took the hammer and nails from her and said, “I'm going to climb up that stupid ladder and tie down the tarpaulin so your hay doesn't get moldy."

  A surprised expression widened her eyes. “You'd do that? You don't have to. I don't mind taking care of it; that's what I'd do if you weren't around. It would be fine until Emmett could get here to repair the damage."

  She sounded like a child desperate to convince an adult that she didn't really need something she wanted so badly her mouth watered. Which swung his mood right back from furious to half-smitten.

  This woman had his insides twisted up in knots. He wanted to leave so he wouldn't be tempted by her bow-tie mouth and fiery red curls, but the idea of actually mounting Caesar and riding off for good caused a physical clutch of pain in his gut. He wanted to make love to her more than he recalled ever wanting anything in his life. And yet he knew it would be a mistake because she was his cousin's widow and his aunt's companion, and his job took him far away for long periods of time—if he came back at all. It was just as likely he'd be killed on one of his missions for the Rangers.

  "I don't mind,” he told her quickly, before his hands shot out and pulled her against him. Before his mouth started betraying the secrets of his mind and promising her things he could never deliver.

  Despite his protests, she accompanied him back outside into the drenching rain. He readjusted the ladder against the side of the barn and began his ascent, with Regan cautioning him about his bare feet with every step on the slippery wooden rungs.

  Lightning crackled overhead, lighting his way. The hole was close enough to the edge of the roof that he could stay on the ladder and reach out to grab the flapping corner of the tarpaulin. Pulling the hammer from the waistband of his pants and a nail from his pocket, he began to hammer down the protective covering. It wasn't an ideal remedy, but it would do until he or the man Regan called Emmett could permanently repair the damage. And it would keep any more rain out of the barn for tonight.

  That taken care of, he carefully began backing down the ladder. Regan stood at its base, her hands curled around the sides as though she had a prayer of keeping the thing upright if it started to topple.

  It was sweet, though, that she would stand out in the drenching rain while he covered the hole in her barn roof. That she would worry about his safety and want to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't get hurt.

  He hit the ground with a splat. He had mud up to his ankles, and even though Regan wore an old pair of what looked to be men's work boots, she hadn't fared much better. She let go of the ladder and rubbed her arms for warmth. Her hair was plastered to her head, straighter than he'd ever seen it—or ever would again, he'd wager—and her teeth were chattering.

  But she smiled at him and blinked the rain out of her eyes. “Thank you."

  The muscles in his throat suddenly spasmed and he wasn't sure he could speak. Before he even realized he was doing it, he'd reached up to push a swath of hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear. He didn't move away, and she turned her face a fraction into the warmth of his palm.

  She blinked again and he saw a chill shake her body.

  "Let's get inside.” His voice sounded husky even to his own ears. “We should make sure no water is leaking in at the edges of the tarpaulin."

  They turned and raced back to the barn. Regan was laughing and squeezing water out of her long hair when he slid the door closed behind them.

  "It's not cold until you get soaked to the bone,” she chuckled as she faced him.

  He nodded brusquely, mesmerized by her beauty. She looked like a drowned rat, with one long, bedraggled plait of hair thrown over her shoulder, her black robe so wet it clung to every inch of her body, and scattered drops of rain rolling down her face, her arms, her chest.

  "I'll go up in the loft and check the roof. You should try to get dry."

  Her head bobbed in a positive gesture and she walked across the barn to a distant stall. Clay followed her with his eyes, drawn by the sway of her hips in the water-tight garments.

  Then he shook his head and headed for the loft. The tarpaulin was working just fine, and as Clay turned to call down the good news to Regan, she appeared at the top of the ladder clutching a rough woolen Army blanket around her shoulders. Their eyes met and a bolt of awareness shot between them. It rocked him to his toes, and he knew she felt it, too.

  He grasped her hand to help steady her as she stepped into the loft. Her eyes never wavered from his, and it seemed only natural to release her fingers and take her into his embrace.

  Her arms wrapped around his waist, her chin tilting upwards as she strained to hold his gaze. The length of her feminine body pressed against the planes and angles of his own.

  "I tried to resist this,” he muttered.

  "I know,” she whispered softly.

  "Are you sure?” he asked. He wouldn't go any further if it wasn't what she wanted, too. He would release her and watch her walk away ... and then he would go outside, into the storm, and pray for lightning to strike him dead.

  "I shouldn't,” she said carefully. “But I want to. More than you can imagine."

  One corner of his mouth quirked up in a grin. “Oh, sweetheart, if you want me half as much as I want you, you've got to be in a terrible, terrible state."

  Her face remained impassive, but her green eyes danced with merriment. “I am,” she replied solemnly. “A terrible, terrible state. You do know how to remedy that, don't you?"

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Darlin', I'm sure as blue blazes gonna try."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Regan twined the fingers of one hand with Clay's and led him to the middle of the loft. She didn't need seduction and romance, or rose petals and satin sheets. She just needed Clay.

  Except for a thin layer of straw cluttering the floor, the loft was empty. When James was alive, it had been used to hold extra hay and straw. But knowing what a chore stacking the bales on this level was, Regan let Emmett keep them on the main floor of the barn.

  She shook out the blanket and started spreading it on the ground when she felt Clay's hands slip around her waist. She straightened and leaned back against him, letting her head rest in the curve of his shoulder. His lips brushed the side of her neck and she moaned in pleasure.

  He turned her in a pirouette. His chest was bare and covered in raindrops, but radiated heat right through the dampness of her cotton robe. She lifted her arms to toy with the wet strands of hair that curled around his ears and dripped onto his forehead. Her fingers drifted down to his shoulders, his biceps, the tapering line of his waist. She could feel the even ridges of his ribs beneath the warm skin and heard him suck in a breath as she ran her nails lightly over the slight delineations.

  His hands rose to the nape of her neck, sliding into the tangle of her heavy, rain-logged hair and holding her face so that he could stare into her eyes. “You're too beautiful,” he whispered, kissing one corner of her mouth and then the other. “No one has a right to be this beautiful."

  His words warmed her like a crackling hearth, dispelling any remaining chill from the summer storm.

  "I'm glad you think so,” she responded breathlessly. “The first time I saw you, I thought you were handsome enough to make angels weep."

  He chuckled, still framing her face with his wide, masculine hands. “That explains your little fainting spell."

  Even his mention of that night—and the memory of her true reason for swooning—couldn't tarnish her spirits this evening.

  His head swooped down and their lips locked. She let him take her, mold her, concentrating on nothing more than her heightened senses and the havoc Clay wreaked on every nerve ending.

  Slowly, step by step, he backed her over to the blanket and carefully lowered her to the ground. Her legs parted, creating a cradle for his long frame as he settled atop her.

  The deep, soul-altering kiss continued as they explored each other's bodies, as her fingertips trailed up and down his abdomen and he loosened her wrap. Parting the ties all down the front of her robe, he slid his hands beneath—and jerked his head up in surprise.

  She hadn't had a chance to change into her nightdress before she remembered the uncovered hole in the barn roof, and had simply thrown a wrap on over her camisole and drawers. She hadn't even laced up her boots, only slipped them on to protect the bottoms of her feet. And though her soles had been covered, mud and water had leaked in through the open fastenings. She'd shucked the awkward, waterlogged boots before climbing up to the loft.

  Clay stared at her face—his chest heaving from their vigorous kiss—then down at the soft satin of her special-order underthings. Today she'd worn the purple ones that reminded her of a queen's imperial robes.

  "What have we here, Widow Doyle?” Clay fingered the delicate material. “A wild streak beneath that dour exterior?"

  Was he serious or toying with her? “It wouldn't be right for me to wear anything but black this soon after my husband's passing,” she told him, striving for a dignified air.

  Clay quirked a brow and shot her a quizzical glance. “Your husband has been dead for two years now. The standard mourning period is only one year."

  She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything.

  "You know what I think?” Without waiting for her to answer, he continued. “I think you like wearing black because people leave you alone. If you came out of mourning and started wearing regular gowns with a bit of color again, men would look at you, maybe try to court you. People would expect you to move on with your life, probably marry again."

  His index finger slid down her bare torso and over her hip, raising gooseflesh everywhere he touched. When that devilish digit reached the bottom of one leg of her fancy drawers, it dipped beneath to bare skin and Regan sucked in a breath.

  "You don't want that, do you?” he went on, his voice deep and husky, seeping into every fiber of her being. “You enjoy living alone, with only Aunt Martha to care for. You enjoy your independence. That your time is your own. No one to ask permission of, and no one to answer to. Am I right?"

  She thought for a moment, afraid to give him any sign of just how independent she'd become—and how close to the mark he was in his speculations. “You're not ... wrong."

  He chuckled at her noncommital response. “I like that I'm the only one who knows your secret.” Then he looked at her, an expression of mock concern on his face. “I am the only one who knows about your purple dainties, aren't I?"

  She fluttered her lashes and averted her head, pretending to hide her true reaction from him. “The purple ones, yes,” she said slowly.

  His eyes widened. “You mean there are more?"

  Still acting the prim miss, she listed her inventory of erotic-colored unmentionables. “I also have some in red, and yellow, and blue, and green, and a sort of pink that's not quite rose and not quite magenta."

  "Lord, woman,” Clay groaned, resting his forehead against her own. “Now I'm really glad I'm the only man privileged enough to see them. Any chance you'll let me see them all?"

  Her lips lifted as she gave a low, throaty laugh. “If you're very, very good, I might."

  A wicked glint came into his eyes and she knew she was in trouble. “Oh, darlin'. You can count on it."

  His mouth returned to hers as he slid his hands into the waist of her satin drawers and pushed them down her legs. Then he lifted the hem of the royal violet camisole up over her breasts, pausing to stroke the soft globes before removing the item altogether.

  Although Regan was now completely nude, Clay's body pressed so closely against her own kept her quite warm. But something about their dissimilar states of undress seemed unfair to her. Curling her hands over his shoulders, she said, “You can't be the only one with clothes on."

  "No?"

  She shook her head, watching him intently.

  "What are you going to do about that?"

  Her heart fluttered at the obvious challenge. She'd never undressed James; he'd always met her in bed and they'd disrobed beneath the covers. Just coming up to the loft and agreeing to make love with Clay was aeons beyond the experience of her marriage.

  But that was the beauty of this moment, of her time with Clay. It was forbidden, yes, but it was also exciting and rash and more sensual than anything she'd ever done before in her life.

  Taking a deep breath, she let her hands trail from his shoulders to the band of his denim trousers and flipped open the top button before her daring deserted her. But, surprisingly, the action didn't send her courage scurrying. Instead, it increased by leaps and bounds, and she suddenly wanted to act the wanton. Wanted to do some of the things she'd seen and heard about while working at Madam Pomfrey's. And she knew that with Clay, she could. Without the fear of chastisement or embarrassment.