Walker's Widow Page 13

  "I suppose I should thank you for that,” Regan said, her tone uncertain. His actions seemed to have thrown her for a loop. “Thank you."

  Her throaty, just-awakened voice was all it took to tear his attention from the matter of his aunt's breakfast to the fact that Regan looked beautiful, all mussed and sleep-tousled. Her hair was a wild crown of rampaging red all about her head, and her robe was a wrinkled mess. He wondered if she was still wearing her colorful dainties beneath.

  Just the thought of those fancy purple drawers rubbing against her silky white skin, and then being pushed down her legs was enough to bring him to full, instant arousal. If he never saw another piece of women's unmentionables, the memory of those satiny violet underthings would have no trouble carrying him to his grave.

  "Where's Mother Doyle now?” Regan asked, breaking into the sudden silence.

  Which reminded him of his original reason for coming to her room. “She's downstairs. With Father Ignacio."

  "Father Ignacio?” Her brows knit. “This early in the morning?"

  "It's nearly ten,” he informed her, and smiled at the stunned expression that crossed her countenance. “And the padre needs to talk to you about the orphanage. I guess the storm did some damage over there last night."

  Regan's reaction was immediate, as he'd expected. It didn't take a top-notch investigator to recognize that the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children held a prominent place in her heart.

  "What kind of damage? How bad is it?” she asked, racing around the room looking for a change of clothes.

  "I'm not sure, but I take it a tree came down and caved in the roof."

  His poor choice of words struck him the minute he saw all the color drain from her face and she started to sway. He leapt forward, hoping to catch her this time before she hit the floor nose-first.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For a few short seconds, the room seemed to swim around her, the yellow bud roses of the wallpaper swirling into fuzzy, nauseating streaks.

  Clay rushed forward to grasp her arms and keep her upright, but despite past incidents in his presence, she wasn't going to swoon. Far from it. The news frightened and sickened her, but with the orphans in danger, possibly hurt, she was infused with the need to move, to take action, to do something.

  "The children,” she forced past her tight throat. “Were any of the children hurt?"

  "No,” Clay responded quickly. “Everyone's fine. I don't know all the details—I came up to wake you as soon as I realized you'd want to talk to the padre yourself—but from my understanding, the portion of the roof and wall that came down were well away from where the children sleep."

  "Thank God,” she breathed. She dumped a pile of fresh clothes in the middle of her bed and began shrugging out of her robe. She was about to let her robe fall to the floor when she noticed Clay was still in the room and it doubtless wasn't a good idea to strip in front of him.

  Doing her best to cover her barely concealed chest with her hands and arms, she shot him an uneasy look. “If you'll give me a minute,” she prompted, “I'll be right down."

  A devilish glint came into his kohl-gray eyes. “You don't have to hide from me, Regan. I recall seeing just about all of you last night."

  His voice was low, suggestive, and she flushed to the roots of her hair. She thought about castigating him. Or going ahead and dressing, ignoring him altogether. But despite the intimacies they'd shared, she couldn't bring herself to be that bold. And she was in such a hurry to get downstairs, to see what could be done to help the children.

  "Please,” she finally managed, the word quavering slightly on her tongue.

  Clay seemed to sense her urgency and discomfort. He stepped close and lifted a hand to cup her cheek. “You're a beautiful woman, Regan. You shouldn't be so shy about letting people see that."

  And then he stepped back. “I'll keep Aunt Martha and Father Ignacio occupied until you're ready.” With a gentle smile, he pulled the door closed behind him, leaving her alone to dress.

  Once again, he'd left her speechless. He had a way of doing that. No matter the situation ... no matter how confident she might be feeling at the moment ... the barest touch, the simplest word from Clayton Walker, and she was struck dumb.

  He'd told her she was beautiful—both the night before and just now. She didn't know if he meant it, or if he was merely trying to soften her up for the next time he wanted to seduce her, but regardless, his compliment seeped into every pore of her being. Warmed her through and through, and made her feel beautiful.

  Given her provincial lifestyle and two years of wearing nothing but black, she hadn't felt comely in a very long time.

  Her stomach gave an excited little flip, and she quickly shook off such distracting thoughts. She didn't have time to stand here mooning over her mother-in-law's nephew. Father Ignacio and the orphans needed her.

  Scrambling out of her wrap, she hurriedly washed with tepid water from the bowl and pitcher on her dresser before outfitting herself in a sunflower yellow camisole and drawers, and a lightweight black cotton gown that would hopefully be comfortable for a trip into town and any work she had to do to assist in the restoration of the orphanage.

  Grabbing a bonnet from the top shelf of her closet and pulling on her walking boots as she hopped down the stairs, she burst into the kitchen already short of breath. Clay and Mother Doyle sat at the uncovered oak table nursing steaming cups of tea and coffee while Father Ignacio paced back and forth, wringing his wrinkled hands. He looked much more upset than she'd expected, given Clay's description of the storm's damage to the Home.

  "Regan! Oh, Regan,” he exclaimed the moment he saw her, rushing forward. “It's terrible, simply terrible. The storm, it was so violent, the wind so strong it woke many of the children. Gracias Dios, no one was sleeping on the side of the building that collapsed."

  The priest clutched Regan's wrists as she tried to calm him. “Clay told me no one was hurt, Father Ignacio."

  "Si, si, it is true.” His voice was filled with relief. “Sweet Madre de Dios, no one was harmed. For that, we are all grateful. But the orphanage ... Regan, it is destroyed. The tree fell into the west wall, and a great portion of the roof has crumbled around us. The wind and rain flooded everywhere. The children have no decent place to stay."

  "Where are they now?” she asked, remaining composed even though she was gravely concerned.

  "They are in the church. The Sisters and I collected all that we could—blankets, pillows, food—and settled the children on the pews. But this will not do for long, Regan, and we do not have enough money to rebuild."

  Regan cast a glance over her shoulder at Clay and Martha. Licking her lips, she carefully inquired about the cash she knew she'd been leaving for the orphanage on a fairly regular basis. “What about the poor box, Father? Or the money from the collection plates?"

  "We have been very lucky in that regard, I admit.” He made a sign of the cross in thanks. “We have had enough to care for the children very well. Very well, indeed. But it is not enough to pay for repairs. Believe me,” he said fervently, “I have counted and recounted, trying to find a way to stretch every peso. I simply do not see how we can have the orphanage rebuilt and still feed the children. Oh, Regan.” He grasped her hands and squeezed. “What will we do?"

  Regan took a deep breath. “We'll do what we have to. The children will be fine, Father Ignacio, I promise."

  And it was true. She would see that the Home was repaired and the children cared for, no matter what she had to do.

  She turned a wary, sidelong glance in Clay's direction. Since his arrival, she'd put a halt to her late-night excursions in hopes of convincing him the robberies had stopped, and making him lose interest in catching the burglar. Now, though, she suspected the Ghost of Ol’ Morty Pike would have to reappear.

  She wasn't sure she had any other choice.

  After Martha assured them she would be fine at home alone, Regan and Clay returned to town with Father Ignacio and spent most of the day calming the children and trying to figure out what could be done in regard to the collapsed portion of the orphanage.

  Clay thought it best to clear away the fallen tree and rubble first so they could see just how many repairs needed to be made and how to go about them. He, Father Ignacio, and a few of the men from town who'd offered to pitch in, spent several hours removing broken boards and crumbled stone.

  For the most part, Regan stayed inside the church, helping to make up a number of pallets for the children, playing, reading stories, and assisting the Sisters at meal times.

  When the sun was beginning to set in a breathtaking splash of orange and lavender, Regan took a platter of sandwiches out to the men, along with a stack of glasses and a pitcher of fresh lemonade.

  Welcoming the much-needed break, the men took their food and drinks and found places to sit while they ate dinner. Clay, however, remained standing at Regan's elbow, chewing slowly on a bite of bread and cheese, washing it down with a long gulp of cool, sweet lemonade.

  "You're really making progress,” she said by way of conversation. The wall that had been nothing but a pile of rubble hours before was nearly down to bare ground, and most of the cracked rafters had already been carted away.

  "Uh-huh."

  "There's still a long way to go."

  He grunted and took another bite.

  Regan refilled his half empty glass. “I thought it might be a good idea for me to go home and check on Mother Doyle,” she began. “Will it be all right if I leave you here?"

  He gave her a crooked smile. “I think I'll survive your absence,” he teased. “Besides, that's why I brought Caesar along into town. The question is, will you be all right taking the buckboard back by yourself?"

  "I'll be fine. I've driven the wagon plenty of times."

  Glancing past her to the horizon, he nodded. “You'd best get going, then, if you want to make it home before dark. We'll likely keep working here several more hours. We've already gathered some lanterns to light once the sun goes down."

  Confident that Clay would be stuck at the orphanage for a few more hours, at least, and that she could get Mother Doyle settled soon after she arrived home, Regan started to turn away. Only to halt mid-step and turn back.

  "Clay, I just want you to know ... I really appreciate ... I can't thank you enough...."

  He chuckled over her stuttered attempt at conveying her gratitude. Still holding his glass of lemonade, he ran his knuckles along her jaw. “Do you realize, green eyes, that this is the third time you've thanked me in the past twenty-four hours?"

  Regan opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She didn't have the foggiest notion how to respond. Once again, he'd left her speechless.

  This time, however, she wasn't as enamored as the last. In fact, she was beginning to feel like an imbecile, unable to form the simplest thought when Clay was near.

  "If you're not careful, I'm going to get a swelled head. Then what will you do with me?"

  Brow winging upward, she studied him, thinking this at least was an easy enough question to answer. “Drill a hole in your skull to relieve the pressure?” she ventured.

  He threw his head back and laughed. A loud, booming chortle that brought the other men's gazes swiveling in their direction.

  "You're quick, sweetheart, and so funny, I could kiss you."

  Her eyes flew wide and she stepped away, afraid he might do exactly as he threatened, out here, where everyone would see.

  He took a step toward her and she started to retreat again, but he grabbed her wrist. Lemonade sloshed at the bottom of the near-empty pitcher she was holding.

  "I won't, of course,” he added softly. “It wouldn't do for all these nice people to see me kissing the curl from your hair. But tonight..."

  He paused and the effect was immediate; her breath caught and her heart's natural pace doubled, maybe even tripled.

  "Tonight,” he went on, “we may just have to take another trip out to the barn. I'm thinking that tarp might have come loose again."

  His tone ran like honey through her weakened bone structure. The imagery he created, the memories of what they'd done together in the barn while rain beat down around them nearly caused her knees to give.

  In the same tone he'd used to make those highly erotic propositions, he flawlessly returned to the earlier thread of their conversation. “I'm glad you appreciate what I'm doing here, but I'm happy to help out. Now you'd better head out before it gets too dark to see the road. And when you get home, leave the wagon and horses out front; I'll unhitch them when I get there."

  His hold on her wrist loosened, changing to a slow stroking of her fingers between his own. “Sound good?"

  She inclined her head, too thrown off balance to speak. Moments ago, she'd had a distinct plan and was prepared to carry out that plan. She'd only come outside to see that the men got something to eat and let Clay know she was heading home to check on Mother Doyle.

  Now, her blood was pounding in her veins, her mouth was dry as a gulch, proving Clay was a dangerous distraction.

  She needed to shake free of him and get back to the matter at hand—locating cash for the repair of the orphanage.

  Inhaling deeply, she set her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I'll see you at home, then.” She turned on her heel and practically ran from his too-charming countenance.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Regan crouched in the darkness, waiting for the carriage to pull away from Nolan Updike's house. The Updikes were fine, upstanding citizens of Purgatory and were usually quite generous when it came to local charities. They had actually been fairly low on Regan's list of possible marks for robbery.

  Until tonight. Tonight, she was desperate. She needed something valuable to turn over to Mr. Sawyer for cash, and she needed it now.

  She'd spent the entire ride home from town wondering whose house she could break into this evening, and the Updikes’ had come to mind again and again simply because it was common knowledge they spent every Wednesday night in town. After dinner Veronica attended a quilting circle, where the ladies chatted and worked, and the children played hard enough to fall straight into bed when they got home. And since the rest of the family was busy in town one evening a week, Nolan took the opportunity to put in extra hours at the bank and then ride home with his family.

  Regan had hidden in the bushes, watching as Mrs. Updike and the children bustled about the house getting ready. As soon as she heard their black landau rock into motion, she made a crouched run to the back of the house.

  There were lamps burning inside, which meant a servant or two might be around, even though Regan thought she recalled the Updikes mentioning they let their help go home early on quilting nights. Still, she would have to be extra careful to remain undetected.

  Sneaking toward a first floor window, she silently eased open the frame, then searched for some way to boost herself up to its level. This would take some doing, but it was better than going through the kitchen and risking being caught if some of the staff were still cleaning up from dinner.

  She ended up sprinting for the dark barn several yards away and returning to the open window with a bucket. Turning it over, she used it to boost herself onto the sill. It took some doing—several bounces on her precarious perch and a lot of stifled grunts as she braced herself with her elbows. Relying on her questionable upper body strength, she pulled herself through the opening and fell to the carpeted floor with a thump she prayed no one would hear.

  When no one burst through the door to catch her in the act, she straightened and brushed herself off. She was in a bedroom. One of the children's or servant's quarters, she suspected, but took the time to rifle through the things on the dresser, just in case.

  When she found nothing valuable enough to exchange for cash, she tiptoed to the door and opened it as quietly as possible, slipping into the hall. She stood against the wall, the waist-high molding digging into the small of her back. Slowly, step by step, she made her way through the dim passage toward the stairwell leading to the house's second story.

  Once upstairs, she began searching for the master bedroom. Nolan was a collector of expensive, intricately designed pocket watches, and she thought one of them might bring a hefty sum in St. Louis.

  She made quick work of navigating Nolan and Veronica's chamber, finding the very masculine cherrywood and crewel box that held Nolan's prized timepieces. There were too many to choose from, and she truly didn't want to take anything too valuable or sentimental. She liked the Updikes and didn't want to cause them any more distress than absolutely necessary.

  Without a lamp or candle, it was hard to distinguish one watch from the next. She could only carry the box to the window and use the moonlight as a guide. She handled each one, fingering the detailed etchings and trying to decide which to take. She checked for inscriptions or signs of age—anything that might hint of an emotional attachment. Finally, she settled on a fairly large one with the carving of a locomotive that looked to be made of real gold. At least she hoped it was real gold.

  She returned the box to the dressertop, and was about to sneak back out of the room when she heard raised voices drawing near. Before she could stop herself, she let out a small squeak of alarm.

  The house was supposed to be empty. No one should be tromping around below. And it wasn't simply a servant; this sounded like Nolan Updike himself. His hardy, rather nasally voice was quite distinctive. He was speaking to someone in a rapid, enraged timbre, and furious footsteps stomped up the stairs to the second floor, coming ever closer to the room Regan occupied.

  Her heartbeat raced out of control. A cold sweat broke out over her brow.

  What was she going to do? If Nolan and his companion came into the master bedroom, she would be found out. There were very few places to hide, and little time to do so even if she found a spot to conceal herself. Her only option might be to jump from the window, which would surely result in broken bones—possibly including the ones in her neck!