Walker's Widow Read online

  The voices grew even closer, and she began to draw great gasping gulps of air into her lungs.

  "I don't care what you want!” she heard Nolan bellow. “You're not getting another damn dime from me, you stinking bastard."

  "You owe me,” the other voice barked.

  The doorknob rattled as someone grabbed it and began to twist. Sheer terror shot through Regan and she threw herself against the opposite wall, behind the door, not knowing what else to do.

  "I don't owe you anything. Now get out of my house before I throw you out."

  "I won't let you do this, Updike,” the stranger replied in such a cold, savage tone, Regan shivered.

  The brass knob rattled again and the door opened a fraction, sending Regan's heart into her throat. Then she heard a thud and the sounds of a scuffle in the hallway.

  "What are you doing? Dammit, get your filthy hands off of me!” And then Nolan gave a shout of horror. “No!"

  Thump, thump, thump....

  My God! Was that what she thought it was? With a hand clamped tight over her mouth to keep from crying out, she envisioned Nolan falling down the steep stairs.

  "Now who's the bastard?” she heard through the crack of the door, followed by a satisfied grunt. Then a muffled noise, like something falling to the carpeted hallway on the other side of the door, and heavy footfalls leading back downstairs as the killer left the scene of his crime.

  Killer. Dear God, it was true. She wanted to deny it, but deep in her gut, she knew what she'd heard. Nolan had been pushed down the stairs—and it didn't sound like he was getting up anytime soon. Had she just witnessed a murder?

  Squeezing her eyes tight for a moment, she took a deep breath and gathered her courage. She had to go and check on Nolan. What if he needed her help?

  Worse, what if he was dead? He had always been a kind, decent man. Why would anyone want to hurt him?

  Shaking off the disturbing thoughts, she pushed away from the wall and wrapped her hand over the edge of the door. She peeked around the corner to make sure the hall was empty. When she saw that it was, she made her way slowly, reluctantly to the top of the stairs.

  She could see Nolan, sprawled on the floor below. His leg and neck were twisted at odd angles, confirming her worst fears. He was dead.

  Even so, she bit back a sob and started carefully down the stairwell. Clinging to the wall at her back and listening for the sounds of another person in the house, Regan crouched beside the body and felt for a pulse in Nolan's neck. Her touch met with nothing but the cold stillness of death.

  The house was eerily quiet and Regan sensed the man who'd pushed Nolan was already gone. She was safer that way, certainly, but she hadn't even caught a glimpse of the man who'd murdered Nolan.

  She rose and hurried to the foyer. The front door stood wide open and she quickly scanned the outside area for some sign of movement. There was no one there and she instinctively knew the killer had escaped.

  Her shoulders slumped as she sighed in defeat. Cautiously, she checked the rest of the house in case she'd been wrong about the killer fleeing, but, as expected, found nothing.

  What should she do now? she wondered. If she alerted the sheriff he would wonder how she'd come to be in the house in the first place while most of the family was in town. But she couldn't very well leave Nolan to be discovered by his family. What a horrible scene to come home to.

  No, she couldn't do that to Veronica and the children.

  She wracked her brain for several long minutes until she devised a plan that she thought might work. She would hurry home and change garments, then she would come up with some reason that she needed to visit the Updikes immediately. Once she arrived at her neighbors’ home, she would “discover” the body. Perhaps she would even take Clay along with her. Being a lawman, he would know how to handle the situation and no one would ever suspect she'd been in the house when the murder took place.

  Yes, she thought, that seemed plausible.

  With a strategy planted firmly in her mind, she quickly sneaked back out of the house and raced toward home. By the time she reached her secret stash of nightclothes beneath the pecan tree, she was panting with exertion. She hastily traded her robbery outfit for the black shift and robe she'd hidden earlier and headed for the back of the house.

  Her breathing was still ragged and uneven when she opened the door to the kitchen—and came face to face with a visibly perturbed Clay Walker.

  "Where the hell were you?” he snapped the minute she shut the door behind her. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, reminding her of an ancient Roman sentinel ordered to guard the royal palace.

  Her mind raced for a plausible explanation. It took all of her willpower to keep from fidgeting with the sleeves of her wrap. “I was ... out looking for Lucy-fur."

  He narrowed his eyes and pinned her with a suspicious glare. “Don't give me that,” he forced past tightly clenched teeth. “Your cat is asleep on your bed, right where she's been since before I got home."

  Knowing she had no choice now but to stick with her original story, she pressed a hand to her heart and feigned relief. “Is she? My heavens, I looked everywhere for her. She certainly wasn't there earlier.” Hoping this confrontation could be put to rest with a few more guileless words, she stepped around him as though nothing was out of the ordinary. “Mother Doyle has a tendency to put Lucy out for the night, but I prefer she remain inside. It's not easy to track her down once she's been let loose, though,” she ended with a chuckle.

  "Regan."

  His tone sent coils of apprehension spiraling down her spine, but she pasted a smile on her face as she turned back to him. “Yes?"

  "I don't believe you."

  Chapter Eighteen

  "You don't believe me?” she retorted with a nervous giggle while caterpillars did somersaults in her belly. “That's the silliest thing I've ever heard. What is there to believe?” She shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly and sauntered to the stove to put on water for tea. Anything to keep from having to meet Clay's accusatory gaze.

  "No one has that much trouble with one pint-size feline, Regan."

  She tossed him a placating smile. “I take it you haven't spent much time around cats,” she said amicably. “I admit, Lucy-fur can be more vexing than most, but that's part of the reason I love her. I'm afraid she's never been much of a lay-about lap cat. Even when she was just a kitten, I spent a fair amount of time rescuing her from trees or the corners of horse stalls before she got trampled. And she almost always thanked me for my efforts with a nice dead bird or mouse at the foot of my bed.” The kettle began to gurgle and she removed it from the hot burner. “Who wouldn't dote on such a generous pet?” she finished with a smile.

  Unfortunately, Clay wasn't buying her story for a minute. He stood in the center of the kitchen, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

  "You're not going to tell me what you were really doing out there this late at night, are you?"

  "I told you,” she insisted, pouring water over the loose tea at the bottom of her cup. She took a seat at the table to let the shredded leaves steep and met his belligerent gray stare. “It's not my fault you think I'm lying."

  "Then you have no plans to go back out,” he stated, leaving her little to no room for negotiation.

  She had meant to go back out, of course, had even intended to ask him to go with her as a second witness when they discovered Nolan's body. But as suspicious as Clay seemed this evening, she thought it wiser to go along with his proposal.

  "Not at all. As you can see, I'm already dressed for bed. Which is where I'm headed as soon as I finish my tea. Would you care for something?” she asked casually.

  Taking a seat across from her, he stacked his arms on the rim of the table and studied her intently, giving a stiff shake of his head in response to her question.

  She thought the silence might strangle her. They sat in the stuffy kitchen, gazes locked on each other while Regan sipped her drink and Clay surveyed her as though she was about to sprout wings.

  After fighting the urge to flee as long as humanly possible, she gulped down the last of her tea—which was supposed to calm her, not set her nerves even more on edge—and jumped to her feet. “Well. I think I'll peek in on Mother Doyle and then go up to bed. See you in the morning."

  Clay watched her brisk movements as she took her empty cup and saucer to the cast iron sink, then darted out of the room.

  She sounded sincere. Looked as innocent as a newborn babe. And even though his instincts and inherently doubtful nature told him there was something going on, he couldn't honestly picture any sinister reasons for her to be running around in her nightclothes after dark.

  So maybe she had simply been looking for her cat.

  God knew, he wanted to believe her, but damned if something in this household didn't feel out of place.

  Extinguishing the kitchen lamps, he ambled toward the front of the house in time to see Regan slipping out of Martha's room. She pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for him to be quiet to keep from waking his aunt.

  She started up the stairs and he followed suit, not missing the gentle back and forth rhythm of her hips only inches ahead of him. He wondered what she would do if he swept her off her feet and carried her into his bedroom. Would she throw her arms around his neck and nuzzle his ear?

  He gave a mental scoff. Not likely, given the way he'd browbeat her downstairs. Chances were, she'd scream her lungs out and punch him in the head for daring to touch her two minutes after interrogating her like an accused horse thief.

  You're an idiot, Walker, he chastised himself. If he had half the brain God gave a tumblebug, he'd have kept his mouth shut when Regan came in through the back door. He'd have kissed her and run his fingers through her hair and done his best to woo her into his bed for the night, to hell with figuring out what she'd been up to. After all, a good lawman knew that if you kept your mouth shut and your eyes open, you'd eventually find what you were looking for.

  But he'd been so damn concerned about her when he'd arrived home to discover Aunt Martha asleep in her room and Regan nowhere to be found. At first, he hadn't thought much of her absence. Then, as the minutes ticked by and there were no signs of her, he'd gotten worried. Scratch that. He'd been downright frantic, imagining any number of horrific things that could happen to a woman left alone—things he'd been unfortunate enough to encounter on more than one occasion during his years with the Rangers.

  Still, he'd ruined his chances of seducing her tonight. He'd envisioned so many nice fantasies of repeating last night's experiences, too.

  He sighed.

  Out loud, apparently, because Regan stopped on the second floor landing and turned to regard him with shadowed, doe-like green eyes. He loved those eyes.

  "Are you all right?” she asked.

  "Fine.” Except for the fact that he would never be able to sleep tonight without a nice, cold dip in the horse trough.

  She walked the last few steps to her bedroom door, tilting her head for a last glance in his direction. “Goodnight, then,” she said softly.

  He stood where he was, waiting as she stepped into her room and closed the door behind her with a gentle click.

  This was not good, he thought to himself, panic skittering through his blood. He was watching her much too closely, found her much too attractive. Wanted her way too much. And he was starting to worry, which meant he cared for her.

  No, this was definitely not a reassuring turn of events. If he knew what was good for him, he'd get on the ball about catching Purgatory's resident thief and hightail it out of town with all due haste.

  Then maybe a green-eyed, flame-haired Irish beauty would stop haunting both his waking and sleeping moments.

  A pounding on the front door woke everyone early the next morning. Clay was the first out of bed, and made his way drowsily down the stairs. He was barefoot, wearing yesterday's dungarees and working at buttoning the shirt he'd grabbed from the back of a chair. Regan trailed close behind, struggling to properly lace the ties of her robe.

  Clay opened the door to Father Ignacio, who was once again wearing his dark brown vestments, tied at the waist with thick rope, and displaying much the same expression as when he'd come to announce the collapse of the orphanage.

  Clay ran his fingers through his hair. Was it just the priest, or did everyone come to Regan with their problems? “Howdy, padre. You make a habit of visiting all your parishioners this early in the morning?"

  "My apologies, Senor Walker. I know I have made a pest of myself these past few days, but I must speak to Regan. It is muy importante. Is she at home?"

  "Where else would she be at this hour?” Clay snapped, even as he admitted he was being unaccountable surly. Especially to a man of God. But, dammit, he hadn't slept well last night, and just about the time he'd drifted off, the padre here came banging on the door. He had a right to be cantankerous.

  "I'm here, Father,” Regan put in gently—and pleasantly, Clay noted with a glower—from behind him. “What's wrong?"

  Martha chose that moment to shriek from the other side of her closed door.

  Regan started to turn, but Clay put a hand on her arm to stop her. “You see what Father Ignacio wants, I'll get Martha."

  Needing no further prompting, the priest stepped over the threshold and began chattering. “Have you heard? No, of course you haven't,” he hurried on, answering his own inquiry. “It's such a tragedy."

  "What? What's happened, Father?"

  Clay came back into the entryway, pushing Martha ahead of him in her chair.

  "It's Nolan Updike,” Father Ignacio went on. “His family returned home from town last evening to find him dead. It seems he fell down the steps and broke his neck."

  "Fell?” Regan repeated.

  Something about the tone of her voice caught Clay's attention.

  "Si, it is terrible. Veronica and the children are devastated."

  "He fell?” Regan asked again.

  At her second utterance, the hairs on the back of Clay's neck gave a tiny tingle, the way they often did when something was afoot. He'd been a lawman too long not to heed his body's natural reaction to such things.

  "Si, si,” the father responded distractedly. “That is why I am here. I know that you sat with little Theresa last year when she had the croup. I thought you might like to stay with the family until funeral arrangements can be made.” He made the sign of the cross. “God rest his soul. I know some of the ladies in town will drop off baked goods at the house later. It would be a big help if you could go over now, though."

  "He fell? Are you sure?"

  This time the words were strained. Clay's brow knit. She seemed either unwilling or unable to come to terms with the details of this Updike fellow's death.

  "I can't believe it,” Martha breathed. “I've known the Updikes for years."

  "Who's Nolan Updike?” Clay asked, wondering why Regan seemed so incredulous at the news of this man's passing.

  "He worked at the bank in town,” Martha said. “Ran the place, really. Veronica, his wife, organizes Purgatory's harvest festival every year. She must be just beside herself."

  Working the wheels of her chair on her own, Martha moved forward a couple of paces, then started to turn in a tight circle. “Clayton, you get the wagon ready while Regan and I get dressed. We won't be long, Father. Then we'll all head over to see what we can do to help."

  Regan stood to one side of the room, never so uncomfortable in her life. Veronica Updike sat hunched in the center of the forest green brocade settee, her face buried in her handkerchief, sobbing her heart out. Martha, who had insisted on leaving her invalid chair, sat beside the grieving widow, patting her back and attempting to quell her river of tears. Veronica and Nolan's three children, Adam, Oliver, and the youngest, Theresa, were hunkered in the corner of the parlor, confused by their mother's behavior and not really understanding that their father was gone forever. Regan felt most aggrieved for them.

  And worst of all, she was the only one who knew Nolan hadn't truly fallen, but had been pushed. In her wildest imaginings, in the many scenarios that had run through her head when she'd considered herself, Clay, Veronica, or one of the Updike servants finding Nolan's body, it had never occurred to her that people would think his death an accident. Chastising herself for her naivete, she now realized how unlikely it would have been for them to think anything but.

  The problem was, she knew the truth. And she had to tell someone ... or find some way to help them figure it out on their own. She couldn't let them go on thinking he'd merely tripped and broken his neck on the way down the stairs. Not when that option meant a murderer would be allowed to roam free, never punished for his crime.

  She'd opened her mouth to admit what she knew a dozen times since arriving on Veronica's doorstep. As Veronica had collapsed against her, soaking the front of her dress with tears. As Martha had ordered her into the kitchen to fix a pot of tea for the adults and a plate of shortbread cookies for the children. As Clay had stood off to the side, clutching the brim of his hat and shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

  But how could she tell them the truth when that would mean opening herself up to any number of questions about how she knew what had happened? About what she was doing in the house—at that hour of the night, when no one was supposed to be home, upstairs in the master bedroom where she had no business being even if she bad been invited. She couldn't risk raising suspicions, having someone—someone like Clay, with too much time on his hands and so much distrust in his heart—put two and two together and figure out that she was Purgatory's housebreaking bandit.

  Stepping closer to the open pocket doors of the parlor, she started to make her way out of the room. She'd been trapped by Mother Doyle and Father Ignacio's demands and Clay's penetrating gaze all day, with no chance to explore the rest of the house. Between sitting with Veronica, playing with the children, and answering the door when other neighbors dropped by to bring food and pay their respects, she'd been trying to think of a way to slip upstairs and see if she could find evidence of the intruder.