Walker's Widow Page 3

  If it was possible, the Ranger's eyes grew even more intense, turning a stormy shade of slate and making her want to squirm.

  Wait a minute. Regan's spine snapped straight and her vision cleared. This was Mother Doyle's nephew? She didn't remember her mother-in-law ever mentioning a nephew, especially one who happened to be a Texas Ranger! If he was a relative merely here to visit his aunt, then maybe that badge wasn't a threat to her. Maybe it was just a coincidence and he wasn't here for her, after all. Oh, mercy, please let it be true.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Walker. I'm sorry about causing such a commotion. I promise you, I'm not usually inclined to swooning."

  "No need to apologize,” he offered in a low, bone-melting drawl. “I'm just sorry I wasn't a mite faster on my feet. I might have saved you a bloody nose if I had been."

  At the mention of her nose, Regan raised her fingers and felt a small trail of what was likely dried blood. Her cheeks heated in embarrassment, turning even hotter when Clay passed a sapphire-blue kerchief to her across the table.

  She wet a spot of the cloth with her tongue and dabbed it beneath her nose, hoping to erase all signs of her foolish accident.

  When her mortification had passed enough to meet the man's eyes again, she raised her head and made herself ask the question foremost on her mind. One of the questions, anyway. “Are you just passing through, then, Mr. Walker?"

  Please say yes, please say yes....

  "Call me Clayton, or just plain Clay,” he told her, flashing a grin that revealed a set of straight white teeth against the sun-dappled bronze of his skin. “And, actually, it seems I may be staying for a while. That is, if you don't mind my imposing on your hospitality."

  Regan opened her mouth to reflexively assure him that his visit would be no imposition whatsoever. Even though it would be, and every fiber of her being was screaming for her to tell him so.

  "Now, Clayton,” Mother Doyle interjected, patting an age-spotted hand over his. “You know good and well you're welcome to stay as long as you like. I invited you, after all."

  That news had Regan swinging her head in her mother-in-law's direction, wondering what in all the heavens would possess Mother Doyle to invite a man—a man who also happened to be a Texas Ranger—into their household.

  And then Mother Doyle answered Regan's unasked question, and Regan wished the thought had never even crossed her mind.

  "Clayton here is a Texas Ranger,” Mother Doyle confided, as though the silver badge declaring just that hadn't put Regan in a spin all night. “And I asked him to come because of all the trouble that's been going on around here lately. Why, this boy is going to catch that terrible thief who's been plaguing our town. Isn't that wonderful, dear?"

  Chapter Three

  Regan didn't look like she thought it was wonderful. She looked like she'd just swallowed a bug.

  This was not going well, not well at all. Martha wrung her hands and tried not to let her concern show on her face.

  When Clayton had arrived less than an hour ago, all of her dreams had materialized in her mind's eye and taken root in her heart. She'd been eager for Regan to get back so she could introduce the two. The idea of them discovering a mutual attraction that would lead to courtship, marriage, and babies had her so excited, she'd sat Clayton right down and started listing all of Regan's countless admirable qualities one by one. And she thought Clayton had been suitably impressed. If he had any sense whatsoever, he certainly would be.

  But then Regan had come in through the back kitchen door, taken one look at Clayton, and swooned like an overprotected maid at her first glimpse of a naked man on her wedding night. Martha still didn't know what that had been about. No matter her inexperience before marrying James, Regan was not one to turn into a wilting water lily at the mere sight of a man sitting at her kitchen table.

  Regardless, of the reason for Regan's fainting spell, however, the fact remained that Martha had not handled the situation well at all.

  She wanted Clayton to fall in love with Regan, to see her as the answer to his every hope and desire. He may well have been on his way to thinking just that, too—until Martha had taken to swatting at him and ordering him away from her injured daughter-in-law.

  Good lord, what had she been thinking? Regan's fainting spell—whatever the cause—had been an ideal chance for Clayton to play hero. To run to Regan's rescue, nurse her back to consciousness. For Regan and Clayton to look deep into each other's eyes and see the generations of children they would create by their coming together.

  It had been so perfect! And Martha had let her natural protectiveness toward Regan ruin the whole thing. If she hadn't been confined to her invalid chair at the moment, she would have kicked herself. The only solution was to repair the damage, though she hadn't one iota of an idea how to go about it.

  From the looks of things, Clayton and Regan weren't exactly taking to each other. She'd seen warmer looks in icehouses in the dead of winter. And Regan kept shifting wary glances from Clayton's face to his silver star and back again.

  Martha found the gesture more than a little odd. If she didn't know better, she would almost suspect that Clayton's position with the Texas Rangers made Regan nervous. But that was a ridiculous notion. Regan had never been frightened or intimidated by lawmen before. Whyever would she start now?

  Maybe it was simply Clayton's standing as a man that had Regan acting so skittish. It had only been two years since her dear James's death. Martha knew her son and his wife had shared a true marriage in every sense of the word. She also knew in her heart that James had treated Regan kindly in their marriage bed. Martha would have given her son a stern dressing down if she had suspected he'd been anything but gentle with the girl.

  Even so, Regan had been significantly younger than James. James had loved Regan, and if she hadn't exactly returned that love, Regan had certainly respected her husband and been grateful to him for all he'd done for her.

  The possibility existed, however, that even though Regan had shared an intimate relationship with her husband, she was not comfortable with a gentleman her own age.

  Why, that must be it! Regan was apprehensive. She was so used to being a dutiful wife to James, and now to being totally independent these past two years, that she didn't know how to act around an attractive, unattached male. Especially one who sent shivers down her spine. And Martha so hoped Clayton sent shivers down Regan's spine!

  Martha cheered inwardly. It was all she could do to keep from rubbing her hands together in glee. Now that she understood the dilemma, she knew precisely how to solve the problem. Regan and Clayton needed to spend time together, to get to know each other and become comfortable with one another. And Martha knew exactly how to give them the necessary privacy.

  She opened her mouth and feigned a loud yawn, using the back of her hand to add to the performance. “Oh, I'm so terribly tired all of a sudden."

  Her declaration brought both youngsters’ gazes around to her. It took a moment for Regan to remember herself, but as soon as she did, she jumped up and moved to Martha's aid.

  "I'm so sorry, Mother Doyle. I should have realized how late it was. And tonight's events must have taken a toll."

  On the contrary. Martha hadn't felt this invigorated in years. But if her plan was to work, she had to feign exhaustion as an excuse to leave Regan and Clayton alone together.

  Regan turned Martha's wheeled chair with a low squeak and pushed her toward her first-floor bedroom. Clayton, Martha was delighted to notice, trailed close behind.

  Regan positioned the chair close to the bed, turned down the quilted coverlet, and circled around to help Martha onto the feather mattress. Martha had donned her nightdress hours earlier, before Regan had gone out looking for Lucy, so there was no reason to ask Clayton to leave. In a gentlemanly manner, as she'd known he would, Clayton slipped his hands beneath Martha's arms and lifted, and they had her situated in record time.

  "Now, Re
gan, dear. You'll be sure to get Clayton settled, won't you? I thought he might be most comfortable in the Cherub Room next to your own. Fresh sheets and extra blankets are in the hall linen closet."

  She didn't miss the withering look Regan shot in Clayton's direction.

  "Regan is a wonderful hostess,” Martha added as she laid back against the pillow and pulled the covers up to her neck. “If you need anything ... anything at all, Clayton ... you just tell Regan and she'll see that you get it."

  There. That should do it. She'd opened the door to all kinds of interesting opportunities for Clayton and Regan to get to know each other. They would have to manage the rest on their own—at least for tonight.

  Mother Doyle's comment made Regan's mouth turn down in annoyance. She would rather suck lemons than cater to her mother-in-law's nephew. But she made a conscious effort to mask her expression as she turned toward Martha.

  "Do you need anything before I go, Mother Doyle?"

  "No, no, dear. You go on and get Clayton settled, I'll be just fine."

  "All right.” Regan moved toward the door with steely determination, giving Clay no choice but to back into the hall. As she passed the bedside table, she turned down the oil lamp, casting the room into a shimmering darkness, lighted only by a pale shaft of moonlight spilling through the window opposite the bed. “Goodnight,” she whispered and pulled the door closed quietly behind her.

  Clay stood in the shadowed hall, his thumbs hooked over the well-worn leather of his gunbelt, and watched her. The steady, penetrating heat of his gaze caused gooseflesh to break out over her arms and made her want to squirm.

  And then Mother Doyle's voice broke through the heavy silence, raised so they would both hear her words through the closed bedroom door. “That Regan is an absolute gem, she is. A gem."

  Regan closed her eyes and sighed at her mother-in-law's antics. Martha had turned quite vocal this evening and seemed to be striving to make a point. Regan couldn't for the life of her figure out what that point was, but knowing Mother Doyle, she would keep at it until everyone saw it clearly.

  When she lifted her head, she found Clay grinning at her, obviously as amused by Martha as she was. She almost smiled back ... but caught herself just in time.

  What was she doing nearly smiling at this man? A Texas Ranger who could hog-tie her to his horse and drag her to jail for theft, no less. Lord have mercy.

  "I suppose I should show you to your room,” she said, guarding herself against those silver-gray eyes and the even more powerful force of his smile.

  "Actually,” he drawled, pushing himself away from the wall with his elbows, “I was hoping you'd point me toward the barn."

  "The barn?” she asked, confused. Why would he want to stay in the barn when Mother Doyle had already told him there was plenty of room for him in the house? Granted, Regan might prefer he spend the night with the livestock—and after he got a good look at the Cherub Room, he might decide a pallet of straw was less frightening than Martha's decorating skills—but she wouldn't feel right leaving him out there after Mother Doyle had been so specific in her orders for Regan to see to Clayton's comfort.

  "I need to unsaddle my horse,” he told her, “and grab my saddlebags before I settle in for the night."

  Ah, yes, the horse he'd used to chase her. Regan concentrated on keeping her expression neutral as she moved away from the stairwell leading upstairs and instead headed in the opposite direction and out the front door. Down the steps and only a short walk away stood the large, weather-worn barn. It had been built at the same time as the house and so was fairly new, but already the wind and rain had turned the unpainted boards a dull grayish-brown, and in tonight's moonlight, the wood seemed almost silver.

  Clayton retrieved his mount from where the animal was tied tight to a front porch post, grazing contentedly, and followed a few paces behind her to the barn door. Grasping the heavy iron handle, she threw her weight backwards and pulled open one side of the large double doors.

  The inside was black, with only a few thin slivers of light spilling in through gaps in the walls. One horse nickered softly at their entry, another shuffled her hooves in the straw bedding of her stall.

  More than a little familiar with her surroundings, Regan moved directly to the lantern hanging on the center post, raised the perforated tin, and struck a match. She turned the wick up just enough so that they could see, then replaced the lantern on its hook and stuffed the burnt wooden match into the pocket of her dressing gown. Her fingertips brushed Dorisa Finch's jewels as she did so.

  Glancing over the edge of several empty stalls, she found one with a soft layer of straw on the floor and swung the door open for Clay. “This one looks clean. You can keep him in here,” she said.

  Clay led his horse into the enclosure and began to loosen the saddle's cinch strap.

  Regan moved to the feed bin and filled a metal bucket with several scoops of oats sweetened with molasses. “What's his name?” she asked as she dumped the contents of the pail into the trough built along one wall of the stall.

  "Caesar. But he also answers to Jackass."

  Her brows knit while she stroked the horse's warm muzzle. He looked like a perfectly delightful animal to her. “Whyever would you call him that?” she asked, a tad annoyed by his owner's seeming insensitivity.

  Clay hefted the scuffed brown leather saddle from Caesar's back and carried it outside the stall. Then he returned and began to rub down his mount with the remaining saddle blanket. “Caesar has a tendency to wander off if he's not tied tight enough. It's not the best habit for a Ranger's mount to have.” Though he cast a scowl at his four-legged companion, his strokes across the horse's back remained gentle and caring. “I've been in a fair share of scrapes where it would have been nice to jump on Caesar and race to safety. But Caesar, here, seems to think that once he gets me to my destination, his job is over. Don't you, boy?” He gave one of the gelding's ears a quick squeeze and Caesar snuffled in reply, blowing bits of oat and corn out of the trough where he was busy eating.

  "I guess I lost my temper a few times and called him some choice names once I tracked him down. Now if he hears the word ‘jackass’ he comes trotting."

  Regan chuckled. “Why don't you just get a new horse?"

  Clay's head whipped up at that, and his dark eyes bored into her. She didn't miss the sidestep that brought Clay close enough to loop his arm over Caesar's neck. “A man doesn't just dump his mount at the nearest livery. Caesar and I have been together since I joined the Rangers."

  "Sorry, I didn't realize,” she said solemnly, but inside she was biting down on a laugh.

  She stopped petting Caesar and wiped her hands on the sides of her robe as she moved out of the stall. “I'll get some hay and a pail of water to hold him through the night.” Grabbing the same bucket she'd used to hold Caesar's feed, she headed for the pump, which was outside at the corner of the barn.

  She heard the crackle and snap of straw beneath heavy bootsteps only a second before Clay came up behind her. His quick movements and close proximity made her jump and she pressed a hand to her heart to slow its hastened beats.

  "Let me get that,” he said softly, taking the bucket and heading outside.

  Regan stood for several moments, watching him move with fluid grace through the wide open doorway, watching the moonlight gild with silver his inky black hair.

  And then with a huff, she shook off whatever had possessed her to stand there ogling a near stranger and turned toward the pile of hay at the back of the barn.

  Retrieving a pitchfork from its hook on the wall, she moved to scoop up her first load of hay when she heard a movement behind the great mound of dried grasses. She paused, waiting to see if the noise would come again.

  It had sounded like a horse shuffling in its straw bedding, but the stalls were behind her. Perhaps it was one of the barn cats or a rodent it might be chasing. But the noise hadn't sounded like a cat or a rat. It had sounded much larger.


  After several long moments of silence, she decided she must have been hearing things and resumed the task of gathering hay for Caesar. But just as she heard Clay returning through the barn door at her back, she both heard and saw something moving around the hay stack. And it wasn't a horse or a cat or a rodent. It was a person.

  Before she could stop herself, she let out a short shriek of panic. The shape shifted from a crouched position to standing at his full height, moving toward her.

  Behind her, she heard the pail of water drop from Clay's hand and the distinct sound of a gun being whipped from its holster, the hammer being cocked.

  "No!” she cried out. Letting the pitchfork fall from her grasp, she turned toward Clay, throwing up her hands and blocking his shot at the trespasser with her body.

  "Get the hell out of the way, Regan,” he snapped, taking a step forward and adjusting his aim.

  The form behind her moved, made a dash for the back entrance to the barn. “Don't shoot,” she ordered Clay before twisting around once again. “Don't run,” she told the shadowed form. “Please, David, don't run."

  Chapter Four

  The boy stopped with his hand on the latch of the back barn door. Then he turned slowly to face her.

  With a sigh, Regan moved forward and brushed specks of hay away from his long, straight hair. “What are you doing here, David?"

  His eyes darted over her shoulder toward Clay and she could feel that he wanted to run. She half-turned to look at Clay who, sure enough, still had his revolver aimed directly at David. She tried not to be offended or frightened by the fact that in order to hit him, Clay would have to shoot through her.

  "You can put the gun away, Mr. Walker,” she told him softly but firmly. “David is one of the children from the local orphanage. He isn't here to hurt anyone."

  "I'm not a child,” the boy said. “And my name isn't David. It's Little Badger."