Walker's Widow Read online

  She also wanted to return Nolan's pocket watch—resting even now in one of the deep pockets of her gown—to its place in the cherrywood and crewel box where she'd found it. Finding another way to pay for the repairs to the orphanage roof wouldn't be easy, but she couldn't sell Nolan's watch now, not after the way he'd died and knowing how much his family was suffering from the loss. The very thought soured her stomach.

  She didn't know what she expected to find. Probably nothing. But she had to be sure. If she could find something, anything, she would be able to point Clay and Sheriff Graves in the right direction and let them announce to the town that Nolan's death had not been an accident.

  She'd just cleared the parlor doors and turned toward the stairwell at the back of the house when a smooth, masculine voice halted her progress.

  "Going somewhere, green eyes?"

  Chapter Nineteen

  Regan stopped in her tracks and took a deep breath, curling her fingers into the folds of her skirts while she struggled to compose herself. She'd been so close, but once again Clay had managed to foil her plans. That was fast becoming one of his most annoying traits.

  Turning to face him, she searched for a reason to be heading toward the rear of the house. Everyone had been avoiding the region of Nolan's demise throughout the day. And the stairs to the second floor were situated far opposite the kitchen and dining room, so she couldn't use the excuse of going for more snacks for the children.

  "I thought I would ... check the area,” she said, dropping her voice to little more than a whisper and rolling her eyes in the direction of the parlor where

  Veronica's weeping echoed into the hallway. “I don't want Veronica and the children to run across something they shouldn't see on their way to bed tonight. It will be hard enough as it is for them to walk through that part of the house."

  Clay took a step forward and leaned the right side of his body against the wall, essentially hemming her in as he tapped his dark brown Stetson against his denim-clad thigh. “That's very thoughtful of you,” he almost drawled.

  She wasn't sure if he meant it as a compliment or was attempting to draw her out, but she had to be extra careful now. It was quite possible that she was closer to being found out at this very moment than the night Clay had chased her from the Finch home.

  Hoping she could continue this charade long enough to distract Clay, she feigned morbid curiosity and asked, “Have you seen it yet? Did you see where he actually ... died?” She glanced down at Clay's dusty boots, not wanting to think about how she had last seen Nolan Updike.

  "I took a look around,” Clay answered, keeping his tone low so as not to be overheard. “Didn't see anything in particular, why?"

  Swallowing hard, using the fear she'd experienced last night, she asked a question she thought a meddlesome observer might. “So there wasn't any...” she swallowed again, “blood?"

  Her innocent inquiry must have relieved any doubts Clay harbored, because he lifted a hand and ran the knuckle of one finger along the line of her cheek. “No blood, sweetheart,” he assured her softly. “He fell and broke his neck, but he didn't bleed. And if it makes a difference, I don't think he suffered any."

  She nodded. He was right about that. Nolan Updike hadn't suffered, but he hadn't simply fallen, either.

  "Do you still want to see where he died?” Clay asked softly.

  She did, but not with him. And not for the reasons he thought. He would never understand her desire to go all the way upstairs to look around. And she couldn't replace the watch with him hanging over her shoulder. Maybe she could sneak around the corner later, without Clay tracking her every move.

  "No,” she told him quietly. “It's all so incomprehensible. I guess I thought that if saw where it happened, it would make the whole thing more real. I just can't believe he's really gone."

  "Were the two of you close?” Clay asked, and she could have sworn a note of aggression tinged his tone.

  "To Nolan?” She shook her head. “Not any closer than to anyone else in town, no. Nolan ran the First Bank of Purgatory, so we spoke occasionally when I had business there. I probably had more contact with his wife. Veronica loves organizing social functions, so I often helped with baking or sewing or decorations, along with some of the other women from town."

  The muscles of Clay's diaphragm relaxed as he released a pent-up breath. He didn't know why it was such a relief, but hearing Regan shrug off her relationship with the Updikes so easily went a long way toward loosening the tight knot in his gut.

  From the beginning, her reaction to the incident had struck him as being a bit off-kilter for the loss of a mere neighbor. He wasn't proud of it, but he'd started to wonder if something had been going on between Regan and Updike before his death. Now, he felt certain his misgivings were unwarranted.

  Thank God. He wasn't particularly happy with how relieved he felt—it indicated how attached to Regan he had become. An emotional attachment that scared him.

  "How about a walk?” he suggested suddenly, needing to get out of the house. And yes, wanting to be alone with Regan. There, he'd admitted it, he thought bitterly. Now maybe his conscience—which kept telling him to pull Regan close and never let her go—would shut the hell up.

  She'd just begun to relax, but his question had her spine snapping ramrod straight. “A walk? We can't.” And then she seemed to reconsider. “Can we? I mean, we shouldn't. It isn't right to leave Veronica and the children."

  Just then, the widow in question gave a wail of despair and Martha could be heard doing her best to comfort her.

  Lips curving upwards, Clay pushed himself away from the wall and clamped his hat down on his head. “I doubt we'll be missed, sweetheart. Come on,” he encouraged, linking his fingers with hers and dragging her along behind him.

  To escape the notice of those in the parlor or others milling around the house, he kept a swift pace, pulling Regan with him. Surprisingly, she didn't struggle as he'd expected. She was probably as eager to get out of the stuffy, grief-ridden house as he was.

  They ran through the dry grass skirting the yard, past the wagon and horses they'd left in the shade of a juniper tree, and around the weathered barn a good distance from the house. By the time they'd ducked behind the outbuilding, Regan was laughing and trying to catch her breath at the same time.

  Clay watched her press at an apparent stitch in her side, then lean against the barn wall, twining her hands behind her back in a pose of easy friendliness.

  She looked breezy and beautiful. Breezy, he thought, rolling the word around in his mind. That suited her, with the hair at her temples pulled back and tied behind her head. The rest was left loose, the long copper ringlets falling about her shoulders and tiny bits of curl coming free around her heart-shaped face. Even in her characteristic black day-dress, she looked young, and for a change, carefree.

  He grinned at her wide smile. “Having fun?” he asked.

  Caught, her lips immediately thinned and she tried for a more stoic demeanor. It was too late, though, for he'd already gotten a glimpse of the lighthearted young woman hidden beneath the shroud of her widow's weeds.

  "I don't think it's at all appropriate that we sneaked away like that,” she said, trying to sound prim, but missing proper by a mile when the gaiety in her eyes didn't dim a whit.

  "You've spent all day comforting Mrs. Updike, and running around doing both Aunt Martha's and Father Ignacio's bidding. Don't you think you deserve a few minutes to yourself?"

  "Time to myself? What a rare and curious concept."

  She said it so cheekily that he burst out laughing. The look in her eyes told him she knew perfectly well Martha and the townspeople took advantage of her generous nature.

  "So why do you let them run roughshod over you like that? Whenever anybody needs anything, they head straight to you. Even the town preacher comes to you for help and advice."

  "They're my neighbors,” she replied simply. “If I needed something, they would be there for me."

  "And how often do you go to them with your problems?"

  Her silence and the slight pinch of her lips was all the answer he needed. She'd never gone to anyone for assistance. Not when her husband died, not when Martha's health deteriorated so much she became nearly house-bound, probably not even for a cup of sugar for a cookie recipe.

  But she was always there for others, wasn't she? Martha depended on her to get dressed in the morning, to get ready for bed at night, to prepare her meals and keep the house. Father Ignacio depended on her for financial help with the orphanage and emotional help with the orphans. The Updikes—like most of her other neighbors, Clay would wager—depended on her for support during times of need. And Regan seemed more than happy to comply-But who took care of her? When would she be pampered and catered to? When did her needs come first?

  And if they did, what would those needs be? Clay wondered. Would she long for fancy dresses and fine jewels, or someone to help around the house and with Martha? Maybe she wanted nothing more than to be left alone by friends and family a like. Or perhaps she wanted things exactly as they were; perhaps she liked being needed, wanted people to come to her for help.

  Could be, but he didn't think so. Not totally, at any rate. He'd seen the look on her face a time or two when Martha had demanded to be taken to town or wheeled to a particular spot. He'd heard her sigh of resignation today when Martha had sent her off to make tea for Mrs. Updike, or Father Ignacio had listed all of the things she would need to do to help the widow and children get through their bereavement.

  "You could say no,” he suggested quietly, hitching a thumb in the pocket of his jeans because he itched to run his fingers through the long spirals of her hair.

  "Say no?” The tiny spot of skin between her two slightly arched, auburn eyebrows crinkled with perplexity. “To what?"

  "Anything. Everything. The next time someone asks you to sit with a sick child or hold the hand of a grieving widow. The next time someone's roof caves in or their cellar floods. The next time someone wants directions to the nearest saloon. You could tell them all to go to hell."

  She gasped, her mouth falling open in astonishment. “I could never do that."

  He took a step towards 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."

  "Come on, Regan. At least give it a shot. Repeat after me: ‘Go to hell.’”

  She shook her head in denial.

  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."

  He stepped even nearer, until her skirts wound around his legs and her breasts pressed against his chest. “Ready?"

  Her eyes widened and she kept her gaze locked on his lips as they descended toward her own. He stopped a hairsbreadth from her mouth, their warm exhalations of air mingling. Meeting her gaze, he gave her one more opportunity to deter him.

  "Last chance, sweetheart. Are you going to say it?” His tongue darted out to wet the spot just below the tiny indentation of her upper lip.

  Her fingers curled into his shirt on either side of his waist. Her breathing was shallow and desperate.

  "Too late,” he murmured as he closed his eyes and let himself be branded by the hot lash of her lips.

  She felt like fire, smelled like rain on a hot summer day, and he wondered how he'd gone so long without holding her this way. He'd told himself not to touch her. Not to press for anything she might not be willing to give. They'd made love once, but that didn't mean she ever wanted to repeat the performance. In fact, if her body language the last couple days was any indication, it was entirely possible she regretted letting him near her in the first place.

  God, he hoped not. The thought of not being able to kiss her like this, run his hands over her slim limbs and full curves, left him cold.

  When had she become such a compulsion for him? She was like whiskey to a drunkard, pennies to a pauper, redemption to a dying man. She was a fever in his blood, creating an inferno that threatened to burn them to cinders at any minute.

  And she felt the same. She had to, or she wouldn't be clinging to him like a second skin, winding her arms around his neck and pressing her pelvis into the rigid proof of his arousal.

  Their tongues dueled in an intimate battle of wills. But neither of them cared who won or lost. Instead, they were both intent on searching out the highest level of pleasure possible between a man and a woman. Clay had no doubt they would succeed.

  He shifted his hold from the barn wall to the flare of her hips, then up to the swell of her breasts, teasing her nipples through the thin fabric. She moaned in delight and he pressed his thumbs directly over the budding centers.

  In response to his increased caresses, her hands drifted from his sides to the front of his shirt. Her fingers moved over the buttons, one after another, all the way down to the waistband of his trousers. Curving the long, lady like fingers of one hand over his belt, she pulled him even closer, grinding their bodies together.

  Her boldness and the elevated friction against that part of his body, already hard and throbbing, made him gasp. He sucked air into his deprived lungs, but didn't stop kissing her. He dragged his lips over her chin, tipping her head back to allow him access to the elegant column of her neck.

  She tilted her head even more, inviting him to linger as her other hand burrowed into the opening of his shirt and began to explore. She stroked his chest, circling a nipple and raking her nails through the light matting of hair trailing down to his abdomen.

  He thought about lifting her skirts, opening his pants, and taking her right there against the barn wall in broad daylight. The picture they would make caused his hardness to throb even more mercilessly.

  Lowering his hand to her thigh, he began to bunch her skirt in one fist, dragging the folds of material up so he could feel the soft, bare skin beneath.

  Regan moaned, and it sounded a little too much like a protest for his peace of mind. Not giving her a chance to put voice to whatever thought was crowding around in her brain, he covered her mouth with his own, wrapped an arm around her back, and placed the other on her hip under the bunched-up skirt to direct her balance. Then he bent at the knees and fell backwards, hitting the ground bottom-first and letting her topple onto his chest.

  Regan tensed at the sudden lurch. She put her hands out to break her fall and ended up hovering on all fours above Clay. His fingers twisted into the hair at the nape of her neck and held her close as he deepened his kiss.

  What was she doing? He looked at her and her knees went weak. He touched her and every sensible thought in her head fluttered off like a flock of crows to a corn field.

  She was a grown woman, for pity's sake! And a widow, to boot. Yet here she was, straddling her late husband's cousin in the most unseemly manner. Behind her neighbor's barn. In the middle of the day. While said neighbor was in the house crying a river of tears over her recently deceased husband.

  Good Lord, Regan thought, she should be shot.

  Drawn and quartered. Dragged through the center of town and hanged for letting Clay muddle her senses again.

  And was that his hand sliding beneath the hem of her drawers to cup her exposed posterior?

  Aaack! She gave a screech of alarm and tore herself away from him. She sat above him, resting against the tilt of his bent thighs. When she realized the picture they must make—him on his back on the bare ground, shirt ripped open haphazardly to reveal his bronze chest; her sitting astride his hips, her skirts pulled up to her waist, her legs and bottom on display for anyone who might walk around the corner ... Merciful heavens!

  Blood pounding in her brain, she scrambled off of him, yanking her skirts back down as she staggered to her feet.

  Clay stayed where he was, letting his head drop with a thump to the ground and staring up at her. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession as he tried to replenish the oxygen supply to his lungs. And then he hitched himself up on his elbows, which only worked to bare even more of his broad, tanned chest.

  "Where are you going, sweetheart? Don't you think we should finish what we started?” He shot her a cocky grin. One she itched to slap off his face.

  This time, she had no trouble whatsoever getting the words out. “Go to hell, Clay Walker."

  Chapter Twenty

  When she stormed off—kicking him in the ankle as she passed, no less—Clay rolled quickly to the side and got his feet under him.

  "Regan,” he called after her retreating back. “Regan, wait!"

  Her hips swayed and her skirts swooshed as she marched across the dusty yard, in the direction of the house. Even peeved and prickly, she looked sexy as hell. He'd have liked to watch her backside swish all the way to Abilene, but figured he'd better smooth her ruffled feathers before she got it in her head to never let him touch her again. For he fully intended to explore every inch of her breathtaking body—as long and as often as possible.

  He quickened his pace and reached out to grab her elbow. “Will you hold on a minute?” he puffed out in exasperation.

  His hold on her arm effectively halted her progress and she spun around to face him. Frowning with fury, she stacked her balled-up fists on her hips and shot daggers at him from her mossy green eyes.

  "Damn, you sure do rile easy,” he said.

  Her hot-as-coals glare narrowed. “Excuse me?"