Walker's Widow Read online

  But Clay didn't know the area, the terrain, and wasn't willing to risk a broken leg by pushing Caesar to unsafe speeds. Still, he kept his target in sight, watching as he darted left, darted right, ducked and weaved.

  And then they entered another stand of trees and Clay lost him. One minute the thief was there, the next he'd disappeared. Vanished like so much smoke.

  Clay cursed, long and steady, and pulled Caesar to a halt. Where the hell could the bastard have gone?

  He began walking his mount in short paces from side to side, covering the periphery of the wooded area. Then he moved in, studying every shadow, every outcropping. He searched the area twice, to no avail, and drove a fist down hard on the pommel of his saddle in frustration.

  One impeccable chance to capture the thief plaguing Purgatory; the perfect opportunity to cut his forced stay short, and he'd blown it. Now in all probability he would have to endure an extended visit with dear Aunt Martha.

  Damn.

  Regan held her breath until her lungs burned. Until her arms shook and her eyes crossed. Even after her pursuer seemed to have called a halt to his chase and vanished back into the dark of night, she released the air from her diaphragm only in low, short bursts.

  She listened carefully, pretended to be Lucy-fur, with pure, nocturnal cat-vision. She didn't hear or see anything, but that didn't mean he wasn't out there, watching and waiting.

  Who was that man? Dear God, she'd been so careful, so positive that she was alone. And then there he'd been, coming out of nowhere and chasing her until she'd thought her legs would buckle. Out of fear or physical exhaustion, she wasn't sure. But she had known that she couldn't run much farther when she'd landed on the idea of climbing this pine tree with the nice, low branches.

  This man, this pursuer who had frightened her more than the real Morty Pike's Ghost could have, was a complete stranger. In the fraction of a second she'd whipped around to look at him, she'd caught a glimpse of his narrow face with its high cheekbones and intense eyes, glowing almost silver in the moonlight. She wasn't sure, but she thought his hair might be dark in color. From what she'd seen, anyway, beneath the brim of his well-worn Stetson.

  As dark as it had been, and as little time as she'd had to study him, she was fairly certain all of those features put together did not produce a face with which she was familiar. Definitely not the face of anyone she'd ever met, and she knew most of the residents of Purgatory.

  New neighbor or passerby, the fact remained that he'd scared the starch right out of her bloomers. Her heart was only now beginning to regain its regular rhythm, and her breath was still coining in quick, sharp pants.

  Several minutes had passed since her pursuer had presumably disappeared. She'd heard nothing, seen nothing. And though a jolt of panic raced down her spine at the idea of showing herself when the man could still be out there, she knew she couldn't stay in this tree all night.

  Forcing her fear-stiffened limbs to move, Regan unbent her legs and let them dangle from the branch where she perched. Cautiously, she reached out with one foot until she found a solid hold and then, wrapping her arms around the trunk of the tree, she scuttled her way down to the ground.

  The soles of her boots hit with a thump and she tensed a moment, wondering if the noise would attract the attention of her foe—if he was still out there.

  When no steely arms locked around her waist or grabbed her by the hair, she began to believe she might—just might—be safe.

  But she wasn't taking any chances. Without a backward glance, Regan turned and raced toward home as fast as her feet could carry her.

  She stopped several yards from the house, hunkering at the base of the pecan tree where she kept her stash of clothes. Pulling the dusty burlap sack from its hiding place, she removed a nightdress and robe.

  Both were black, as were all of her garments now that James had passed. But that simply made things easier for her. Whether wearing her nightclothes or her burglary outfit, all were dark enough to blend with the black of night and give her that much more protection.

  She tugged the coverings from her face and hair and stuffed them to the bottom of the sack. Her boots came next, followed by the black trousers and shirt until she crouched in nothing more than her sinfully scarlet camisole and drawers.

  Her flesh tingled wickedly at the decadence of the fancy, colorful satin underthings. They were her one indulgence. Given that every other stitch of clothing she owned was black, black, black, she'd discovered six months into her grieving that she had to wear something of color or go stark raving mad.

  And so she'd begun to order rather expensive, wanton unmentionables through the mail. From catalogs her mother-in-law didn't realize she had and likely didn't even know existed.

  James would roll in his grave if he knew what lay beneath her proper and respectful widow's weeds, but he'd left her enough money for this one small extravagance. And she had to admit that the caress of soft, slinky material against her skin made her feel more feminine than her late husband, with his effusive compliments and tender touches, ever had.

  And all the rest of her inheritance she put towards caring for Mother Doyle or the orphans at the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children. That had to count for something.

  Embarrassed to be crouching in the dark in ruby red drawers, Regan quickly shrugged into her gown and wrap. With comfortable ebony slippers on her feet, she palmed the stolen necklace and earbobs, shoving her burglary clothing back into the hutch at the base of the tree and straightening.

  And then, running a hand over her mass of unruly corkscrew curls, she made her way to the back entrance of the house.

  Lucy-fur sat waiting on the porch step, right where she always was when Regan returned from her late-night excursions. Regan smiled broadly and scooped the drowsy feline into her arms.

  "My sweet girl,” she cooed as she ruffled Lucy's soft, midnight fur. Even her beloved pet was black, she noted—not for the first time—with irony.

  But though she needed an occasional reminder, she really did like her life this way. The simplicity, the privacy, the freedom. She had no room to complain, which was why she rarely did so.

  Even with tonight's frightening events, Regan had escaped unscathed and doubted anything like that would ever happen again. That man had stumbled upon her quite by accident, after all, and had likely given up and moved on. Her identity was safe, as was her secret sideline.

  Dorisa's emeralds rested securely in the pocket of her soft cotton nightrail, the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children could continue to provide for the orphans a while longer, and Lucy-fur once again seemed content to act as her alibi for being outside so late at night.

  Regan couldn't wait to visit the orphanage tomorrow and deliver her latest donation to Father Ignacio. He and the children would be thrilled, even if the contribution was made anonymously.

  "Come on, Lucy-fur, let's go check on Mother Doyle."

  She pushed open the back kitchen door with a smile on her face. Only to drop both the grin and Lucy as soon as she got a clear glimpse of the two people sitting across the room, porcelain cups and saucers on the table before them.

  "Reee-ow!” The cat hit the floor with a screech of annoyance and raced to safety. Likely upstairs beneath Regan's bed.

  Regan couldn't work up even a token of concern for her beloved pet. Because there, making himself at home in her very own kitchen, was none other than the man who had chased her from the Finch house.

  He gave a polite nod and rose to his feet to greet her. And that's when she noticed his chest. Or more to the point, the silver star pinned there, glinting in the bright lamplight.

  It was the badge of a lawman. But not just any lawman—a Texas Ranger.

  Regan swayed for a moment and then toppled over, hitting the floor with a loud thump.

  Chapter Two

  Clay lurched forward and almost caught the woman before she went down. He was a fraction of a second too late, though, and the passably attractive r
edhead fell like an oak. Flat on her face.

  Ouch. That had to hurt, Clay thought. And then he remembered his gentlemanly duty—partly because of his Aunt Martha screeching at him over his shoulder to help her dear, sweet daughter-in-law—and went to her aid.

  He rolled the woman to her back, cushioning her head with the palm of his hand. Her tight, flyaway curls caressed his skin and caused him to rub a strand, for just a moment, between his fingers.

  She was really quite beautiful. Clay had thought her only passably attractive a moment ago, what with all that rusty-gold hair sprouting out around her head like a forest fire, but now that he had her literally in the palm of his hand and took a moment to study her delicate features, he found himself willingly elevating his opinion of her looks.

  During the fifteen to twenty minutes before Regan's arrival, Martha had talked his ear off about her daughter-in-law. And whatever other personality traits Martha might have embellished, she was right about one thing: The woman had fine Irish skin and bone structure. Not to mention pouty pink lips.

  Of course, that could be partially due to the swelling. Her nose was a big round cherry at the tip, with blood trickling from one nostril, and it looked like her mouth might have taken a bit of the blow, as well. She'd be black and blue in the morning, but she'd survive.

  He untied the blue bandanna from around his neck and used it to dab at the blood. Martha was still screaming frantically behind him, working to move the squeaky wheels of her invalid chair in their direction.

  "She's fine,” he assured his aunt. “Just a bit of a fainting spell."

  "A fainting spell?” Martha cried, shrilly enough to send coyotes running. “Regan has never fainted in her life, not even at my dear James's funeral.” And then she spotted the blood, giving Clay a swift cuff to the shoulder. “What did you do to her, you ruffian? She's bleeding!"

  His head whipped around and he fixed his aunt with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Me?” he said, offended. “I didn't do anything. She dropped like a stone. I'm trying to help!"

  "Well, you're only making matters worse,” she blasted him. “Move. Move away, let me see her."

  Martha was tugging on his arm and before he could warn her to be careful, she'd pulled him away from Regan, causing his hold on her head to slip and her skull to hit the hardwood floor with another sickening thud.

  He winced ... and then gave an approving grunt when the second blow actually seemed to rouse the unconscious woman.

  "Uhhhhhh,” she moaned.

  "Regan. Regan, dear, are you all right?” Martha wheeled her chair as close as possible to her prostrate daughter-in-law, and then, because she still couldn't reach her with her hands, took to nudging her gently with the toe of her shoe.

  Clay roiled his eyes. What in God's name had he gotten himself into? A woman who passed out cold at the sight of a man in her kitchen and an aunt who thought kicking an accident victim was the best way to revive her. He'd have to remember to thank his mother for sending him into this mess—if he ever spoke to her again.

  With a hand pressed to her obviously throbbing temple, Regan sat up. Clay didn't miss the slight shift of her body that took her out of range of Martha's pointy-toed shoe.

  Ignoring his aunt's proprietary manner, he went down on one knee beside his cousin's widow. “Are you all right?” he asked gently.

  Regan lifted the hand that partially covered her eyes and fixed him with a wary, confused gaze. Her eyes were a beautiful, sparkling green that put him in mind of soft, cushiony moss, tall, majestic fir trees, and hot, passionate evenings spent tangled in the sheets.

  Clay sat back, his chin jerking up with a snap. Where the hell had that thought come from? And why did he have the rather jarring impression that the young lady he'd been about to picture in those twisted bedlinens with him would look suspiciously like the woman sprawled on the floor in front of him?

  "Are you all right?” he asked again, clenching his fists to keep from reaching out to touch her.

  Her glance held his for a moment before traveling down to his shirtfront and then a little to the side. If possible, her already pale face blanched even more and her eyes rolled in their sockets like marbles.

  Fearing she was about to swoon again, he reached out to grasp her upper arms and steady her. But the minute his fingers came in contact with the soft, thin material of her black wrap, she bolted backwards and scurried across the floor.

  Clay's brow furrowed. Just what the hell was going on here?

  First his aunt seemed ecstatic to see him, insisting he push her wheeled chair into the kitchen and sit with her over, a cup of tea until Regan returned from her search for a missing cat. Meanwhile, Martha couldn't say enough about her daughter-in-law, even hinting that he might find the woman attractive.

  Well, he did that, but it would take more than a comely face to cause him to make advances toward his cousin's widow. His cousin's widow, for god's sake! Though he hadn't been close to Aunt Martha's son, he didn't even want to consider how many commandments he might be breaking by thinking so much as one improper thought about a relative by marriage.

  Then the mysterious Regan returned from her task with the elusive black cat in hand, took one look at him, and immediately set about introducing her nose to the floorboards. And his aunt, who only moments before had been gushing over what a wonderful nephew he was to come for a visit, acted as though he'd hit her beloved daughter-in-law in the face with a skillet and knocked her bodily to the floor.

  Now Regan was leaning against the cookstove, looking at him like horns had sprouted from the sides of his head. All because she'd gotten a glimpse of his badge.

  Hmm.

  "Clayton. Clayton, dear, help Regan to her feet and then to a chair,” his aunt instructed.

  Clay wasn't so sure Regan would appreciate his help, so he stood where he was and held a hand out to her, offering peace as well as assistance, if she wanted it.

  Regan studied him cautiously, but started to rise, using the stove at her back for leverage. She didn't take his hand, moving under her own steam toward the kitchen table.

  Afraid of once again incurring his aunt's wrath, Clay followed close behind, his arms out in case Regan lost her balance and started to sway.

  She made it all the way to one of the spindleback chairs and plopped down on the seat. Clay released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding and began to lower himself into the empty chair opposite her.

  Only to notice his aunt, still facing the other direction in her invalid chair. He jumped up and made quick work of turning Martha around and wheeling her to the edge of the table near Regan.

  Martha reached out a hand to cover Regan's where it rested on the tabletop. “How are you feeling, dear?"

  Regan lifted wary eyes to Clay where he sat across the long oaken table from her. “I'm fine.” She offered a small, fragile smile to Martha, turning away from Clay.

  "That's quite a bump on the nose you've taken,” her mother-in-law pointed out.

  Regan lifted a hand to her face to find that her nose was about twice its normal size. It felt bulbous and throbbed painfully. It would likely be worse in the morning, however. Her top lip was sore, too, and she tested her front teeth to be sure she hadn't knocked anything loose.

  She still couldn't believe she'd fainted. She'd never fainted before in her life. Never even suffered a dizzy spell and thought she might faint.

  Not when her older brother had held her upside down by her ankles over the bridge near their childhood home. Not when James Doyle—thirty years her senior—had taken her from the brothel where she'd been serving drinks and brought her home to meet the rather intimidating Mother Doyle. And not when she'd walked into James's office one afternoon, only to find him slumped over on his desk, dead.

  Why, then, had her pulse fluttered and her brain become fuzzy the minute she'd spotted the man who'd chased her sitting at the table with her mother-in-law?

  Well, because he'd chased her, for one thing. The p
ursuit had scared her witless, and just when she'd thought she was safe, she'd opened the door of her very own house to find him staring right back at her.

  But it wasn't that. Or not that entirely, at any rate. The dizziness had only truly begun when she'd recognized that tin star pinned to the left breast pocket of his shirt. That had frightened her even more than being chased in the dark because, for one split second, prison bars had danced in front of her eyes and she knew she'd been found out. She knew he was here to arrest her and drag her off to jail.

  Even now, fear pumped through her. She looked at Mother Doyle, then the dark-haired stranger, then back to Mother Doyle. Why weren't they saying anything? If he was here for her, why didn't he say so and get it over with instead of sitting there, drilling that heavy gray gaze into her trembling body?

  He hadn't arrested her yet. Why not? Maybe he didn't recognize her. He hadn't gotten a dear look at her tonight, of that she was sure. Her mask covered all of her face and hair, and the men's clothing she wore should have been enough to throw anyone off her trail unless he already suspected a woman of committing the crimes. Regan was equally confident that he hadn't followed her. Unless he was very, very good and very, very quiet.

  So maybe he wasn't here for her at all. The wave of relief that washed through her body at that thought took Regan by surprise. It was almost too much to hope for. But if he wasn't here for her ... if he had no idea that the woman sitting across from him was the same person he'd chased earlier tonight ... then what did he want? What was he doing in her house?

  She cast a questioning glance at her mother-in-law.

  "Regan, dear,” Mother Doyle said, taking the cue, “if you're sure you're feeling better, I want to introduce you to my nephew, Clayton Walker. Clayton, this is James's wife, Regan.” She cast Clay a sidelong glance. “He had excellent taste, didn't he, my James?"

  She didn't give Clay a chance to answer Mother Doyle's question. “Your nephew?” Regan asked loudly.