Walker's Widow Read online

  His angry words drew her attention back around, but not before she saw Clay returning his pistol to the holster on his hip. “You're right, I'm sorry,” she offered amicably. “You're nearly an adult now, aren't you? But I first met you when you were still a little boy and didn't mind going by your Christian name, so you'll have to forgive me if I forget sometimes that you're growing like a weed. Do you think you can do that?"

  David's mouth was a thin line of rebellion, but he nodded. At sixteen, he was already taller than she was. Taller than all of the other orphans at the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children. Taller, probably, than a lot of full-grown men. Nearly as tall as Clay.

  And he was so very angry. When she'd first started visiting the home, David had been a fairly happy child. He hadn't yet realized his skin was a darker shade of brown than the other children's. That the straight black hair the Sisters insisted upon cutting short was a clear sign of his Indian bloodlines. That the name his mother had given him shortly after his birth—Little Badger—had been replaced by a white man's name—David.

  Now, though, he knew everything. And he hated it. He hated that he was a half-breed and that many of the townspeople, even some of the other children at the orphanage, never missed an opportunity to remind him of his heritage. He hated that he didn't know who his real parents were. He hated that the white man had taken his Comanche name and given him a new, Christian one they thought more appropriate.

  Frankly, Regan didn't blame him a bit. Which was why, more often than not, when David ran away from the orphanage, he ran to her. Especially if twelve-year-old Hannah just happened to be staying in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs.

  "Have you eaten yet?” she asked, hoping to draw the look of abject hurt and betrayal from his dark eyes.

  Shoving his hands into the front pockets of his threadbare trousers, he hunched his shoulders and shook his head.

  "Come inside, then, and we'll fix you a plate."

  Ignoring his defiant pose, she looped an arm through his bent elbow and started forward. “Dav—I mean, Little Badger, this is Clayton Walker. He's Mother Doyle's nephew visiting from...” Her nose crinkled and she gave Clay a curious look. “I'm afraid I don't know where you're visiting from."

  "Sweetwater."

  "Sweetwater,” she repeated. “Did you ever learn about Sweetwater in your geography classes, D—Little Badger?"

  He kept his head solemnly slanted toward the barn floor, but shook his head in response.

  "Well, then, maybe Mr. Walker can tell you a bit about the town where he lives over a slice of apple pie. You could impress all the other children with your new knowledge."

  David shrugged his shoulders again in an uncaring gesture and Regan had to bite her tongue to keep from groaning in frustration.

  "Did you know that Hannah is staying with us this week?” she tried instead, thinking that if anything could get through his thick outer shell, it was the mention of blond-haired, blue-eyed Hannah.

  David's head snapped up and his eyes turned from cold and angry to warm and concerned. Regan knew that David had a small crush on the girl.

  Pretending she didn't notice his reaction, she continued as though he wouldn't care any more about this than about Clay being from Sweetwater. “You know how I like to bring at least one of the children home with me after every visit, and it seemed like Hannah's turn again. I hope you don't mind,” she said with a motherly pat to his arm. “It's been a while since you've stayed over, too, I know, and I'd have likely invited you, but you were nowhere to be found when I was getting ready to leave."

  "Hannah likes it here,” he mumbled, almost too low for her to hear.

  "Yes, she does,” Regan agreed with a smile. All of the children loved coming to her house, if only because it made them feel special for a short while. Having an adult's undivided attention was a great rarity in an orphanage filled with so many other children.

  Before leading David the rest of the way to the house, she cast a glance over her shoulder to study Clay, who stood there watching their interaction.

  "Are you hungry at all?” she inquired.

  He shrugged a shoulder, much the way David had only moments before, and Regan found herself thinking that it must be a ubiquitous gesture men used to keep from having to answer direct questions.

  And then he did answer her. “I could eat,” he said simply.

  "Wonderful,” she said, ignoring his gruff tone. “Come into the kitchen when you're finished bedding down Caesar and I'll have a nice, warm slice of my special apple pie on the table for you."

  His eyes narrowed for a minute and then one brow shot up quizzically. “What's so special about it?” he asked.

  Regan just managed to bite back a laugh at his suspicious words. “You'll have to wait and see,” she told him primly.

  Tightening her hands on David's arm, she turned and pulled the boy toward the house, and tried her best to pretend Clay's low chuckle didn't cause her stomach to flip-flop in delight.

  He wasn't jealous. All right, for a minute there he had wanted to take the kid by the scruff of the neck and toss him through the barn door head-first. But that was only because he'd seen the way Regan's face lit up as she brushed loose strands of hay out of the boy's hair. And straightened his suspenders. And linked her arm through his.

  She had looked at Clay and fainted dead away. An orphan half-breed nearly attacked her in a dark barn and she took him to her breast like a long-lost child.

  "Shit,” he muttered, as the image took form in his head. Only there was no child in his mind's eye, just a bare breast. Regan's bare breast.

  "Beans and bacon,” he began, muttering to himself as he went about forking hay into Caesar's stall and refilling the water bucket he'd dropped when he thought Regan was in danger. “Blisters from new boots. Saddle sores. Hardtack.” He gave a little shudder at that. “Jake's missing pinky finger. Aunt Martha's screeching."

  There. His mind started thinking of other things and the heat in his loins began to dissipate. “Mom's apple pie.” Another shudder shook him. His mother was a good woman, but she'd never made a pie in her life that didn't taste like it came straight from a cattle pasture.

  Now, Regan's pie.... Compared to his mother's baking, it could taste like sawdust and still be an improvement, but he had to admit he was eager to see just what made her believe it was so all-fired special.

  "Dammit,” he cursed again, and fixed a scowl on Caesar, who was chewing contentedly on a mouthful of hay. “Why didn't you stop me before I circled back around to thinking of her?"

  Caesar gave a disgusted snort and a look that pretty much reminded his master he'd been gelded years ago and Clay's problems in that area were his own.

  "Thanks a lot,” Clay returned glumly. He arranged the pail of water where he didn't think Caesar would overturn it during the night, then closed and locked the stall door before resting his arms on the edge to look back in at his mount. Thanks to the often solitary existence of being a Texas Ranger, Caesar also happened to be one of Clay's best friends. At least he was a good listener, and Clay did have a tendency to talk to himself when he had a problem.

  "I'm going to go back in there and have a slice of apple pie. That's it."

  Caesar ignored him.

  "She's not even pretty,” he added. “All that fiery red hair busting out all over. Aunt Martha told me she's Irish, so with all that red hair, you can bet she has a powder-keg temper. I could be just walking through the house, minding my own business one day, and she'd come up behind me and flatten me with a rolling pin. Who needs that?"

  Caesar continued chewing with that casual, side-to-side motion of his, blinking sleepily.

  "She's my cousin's wife, you know. It's not smart to lust after another man's wife."

  Caesar gave a great shake of his head, blowing bits of hay and spittle in Clay's direction.

  Clay swore—out of habit more than anything else—and brushed the bits of wetness from his shirt. “I know Cousin James is
dead, you don't have to tell me that. Ma reminded me before we headed out, Aunt Martha mentioned it at least a dozen times after I arrived, and Regan is dressed in black from head to foot."

  Unfortunately, the black Regan was wearing happened to be a nightdress and wrap, and didn't do all that good a job of hiding her womanly curves. And before she'd thought to tie the little ribbon at the front of the frilly robe, he'd quite enjoyed the sight of that shadowy area between her breasts. Not to mention how nicely her breasts had filled out the gown.

  "I know what the problem is, Caes,” he said with utter confidence. “It's not her, it's just that she's a woman and I haven't had a woman in quite some time. I'm bound to get a little ... worked up at the sight of any female after this long."

  Caesar huffed and began pawing the ground with his hoof. One, two, three strikes.

  Damn horse, always acting as his conscience when there were things he'd rather forget. “I don't know what you're talking about,” Clay insisted.

  One, two, three more strikes on the ground. “All right. Christ, you're stubborn for having four legs and not being able to talk.” Clay let his gaze drift to the back of the stall, away from Caesar's too-knowing eyes. “So it hasn't been all that long. Three weeks, as you're so eager to remind me. But that doesn't mean I couldn't still be in need of another quick tumble. Maybe it's a full moon, or something in the water here in Purgatory."

  Another equine snort made him admit that the moon was a quarter-size crescent in the sky and he hadn't tried any of Aunt Martha's god-awful-smelling tea, so the only drink he'd had since entering town had been from his own canteen.

  "I hear tell Thurston Mueller is looking for new stock,” he bit out, fixing the horse with a warning glare. “You wouldn't want me to send you to Mueller's glue factory, would you?"

  Caesar turned away from Clay. Then he lifted his tail and a loud, prolonged squeak filled the barn.

  The smell sent Clay stumbling back several steps, waving a hand in front of his nose. “Jesus God, horse. What have you been eating?” One last, tiny squeak was Caesar's only response.

  To keep from gagging at the stench, Clay grabbed his saddlebags and hurried out of the barn, slamming the big, sliding door closed behind him.

  He kept waving a hand in front of his face, trying to dispel the odor lodged in his nostrils and take in large lungfuls of fresh night air before he reached the house.

  He hadn't come to any great conclusions about his attraction to his cousin's widow, and thanks to Caesar's sudden case of flatulence, he didn't think he'd be sharing his troubles with his trusty mount again anytime soon. He did, however, think he might take a trip into town tomorrow and see if there was any kind of entertainment at the local saloon. A tasty morsel with red hair and dainty white ankles who might help banish Regan's countenance from his brain. And his trousers, he hoped, as he climbed the front porch steps, readjusting the course material around the area of his crotch before opening the front door and stepping into the house.

  Aware of his aunt sleeping in the downstairs bedroom only a few feet away, he stepped lightly as he made his way to the kitchen. Pushing open the swinging door, he found Regan sitting at one end of the table with her back to him, that bright red nest of hair tied with a thin black ribbon that did nothing to tame the wild curls. Across from her, David froze with a forkful of dinner raised halfway to his mouth. The boy's eyes, which had been friendly and open only a second earlier, turned wary and watchful.

  Noting the change in David's demeanor, Regan turned to look at Clay.

  "There you are,” she said pleasantly enough, and rose to cross the kitchen. “Have a seat. Your pie should be plenty warm by now.” She motioned to the chair she'd just vacated, then grabbed a nearby dishtowel and used it to protect her hands while she opened the door to the oven warmer and removed a plate with a large chunk of pie resting on it.

  Around a bite of food, David butted into the conversation and mumbled to Regan, “What happened to your nose?"

  Her motions slowed as she gingerly lifted two fingers to test the still-red and slightly swollen appendage. “I bumped it, is all. I'm sure it will be fine by morning.” Her brusque tone put an end to that line of questioning.

  She grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer as she passed and placed the dessert in front of Clay, then took a step back. Hands on hips, she watched him, awaiting his response to her baking skills.

  "Well? Aren't you going to try it?” With a slight shift of her head, she looked at the boy. “Finish your pork roast, David, and you can have a slice, too."

  As wary as the boy seemed of Clay, the promise of Regan's apple pie spurred him into action. Even her use of his Christian name, which he'd been so offended by out in the barn, didn't seem to bother him as he shoveled bite after bite of meat and potatoes into his mouth, barely bothering to chew.

  Clay picked up his own fork and moved to eat, but was stopped by the roll of Regan's eyes.

  "I told you to finish your dinner.” She laughed at David. “I don't recall saying you should inhale it. What will Father Ignacio think if I send you back with a stomachache?"

  David turned soft, hopeful eyes to Regan.

  Her own lashes narrowed. “I suppose you think that because it's so late, and because you'll likely be sick from eating so fast, I'll invite you to stay the night."

  The boy shrugged his shoulders, but Clay had a feeling that's exactly what he was hoping for. Worse yet, he suspected Regan had planned that very thing all along—she was just toying with David to keep from seeming like too much of a pushover.

  Not likely. Clay had noticed her entire change in demeanor the minute she'd recognized the intruder in the barn as a runaway from the orphanage. With Clay, her eyes were chips of emerald ice and she acted as though simply being in the same room with him was enough to bring on a case of consumption. With David, her eyes turned warm and maternal, and she either didn't realize or didn't care that the boy had nearly gotten them both shot by sneaking around in the dead of night.

  Even as he dug into his pie and tipped a large chunk onto his fork, Clay was beginning to tack days onto his original estimate of how long it would be before he spoke to his mother again. An invalid aunt, a fainting cousin-in-law, a farting horse, and two bloody orphans under the same roof. And he had to put up with all of them until he caught that damned thief.

  He stuffed the bite of pie into his mouth and began to chew. He didn't even much care that his mother had nothing to do with Caesar's offensive ailment. He was still going to hold it against her, since it was her fault that he was stuck in this no-account town to begin with.

  The longer he chewed, the more he began to realize his mouth didn't taste like sawdust. Neither did it taste like day-old cow shit. In fact, it tasted good. Damn good.

  "Mmmm.” The uncontrolled utterance passed his lips before he had time to think. “Mmmm-mmm. This is...” The best thing he'd ever tasted.

  "Special?” Regan offered, a wicked, almost challenging gleam in her eyes.

  "'Special’ doesn't even come close,” he admitted, but couldn't think of a single other word to describe her pie that didn't have something to do with sex. And somehow he didn't think she would appreciate having her wholesome dessert compared with a mind-shattering climax.

  Accepting his comment as enough of a compliment, she bustled about the kitchen fixing an equally large slice for David. “The secret is in the pecans. And the brown sugar. I use a lot of brown sugar.” She divulged her secret with the impish lift of one side of her mouth.

  Clay could taste the brown sugar. The apple slices were buried in the stuff. And with every bite, there was also the crunch and nutty flavor of pecans.

  He finished the dessert in short order and slouched down in his chair. “God, that was good."

  "I'm glad you enjoyed it,” Regan said on a chuckle.

  She brought David's slice straight from the warmer and Clay eyed it greedily. “Would you like another piece?” she asked solicitously, catchin
g his covetous staring.

  "More than I want to wake up in the morning,” he replied with conviction.

  This time, her amused laughter rang through the room, sending a shock of desire straight to his groin. Delicious food delivered by a beautiful woman. God was in His heaven and all was right with the world. Now if he could only get that woman into his bed...

  She placed his refilled plate in front of him and he murmured a word of thanks. “You know, they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach,” he told her, digging in.

  "That's not the way I heard it,” she returned, brushing crumbs from the oaken tabletop with the yellow-striped towel in her hands.

  Clay sat back and chewed. “Oh yeah?” he asked once he had swallowed. There was something about the slight flush to her cheeks and the way she'd sucked her lower lip between her teeth. As though sorry she'd said anything at all. “Just what did you hear?"

  Her hand froze, pausing her nervous movements. For a moment she simply looked at him, as though weighing her next words carefully.

  "I think I'll go upstairs and find some extra blankets for you, David. There's more milk in the icebox out back. Help yourself to more pie, if you'd like."

  She ignored Clay completely, moving back to the sink to fold and replace the dishtowel she'd used to protect her fingers from the heat of the oven. And then she headed for the kitchen door, refusing to make eye contact with either of them.

  Two steps before she reached the swinging door, she stopped. Clay chewed thoughtfully, watching her chest rise and fall as she took several deep breaths. Then she turned.

  "The way to a man's heart...” She paused for a moment, as though steeling herself to continue. Still refusing to meet his gaze, she leaned over his shoulder. Her words were barely a whisper as her warm breath stirred his hair and tickled the lobe of his ear. “Is through his belt buckle."

  Chapter Five

  Oh, how she enjoyed watching him choke and sputter and turn red around the ears.

  She shouldn't have said it. She should have tamped down on the impulse and reminded herself that she was no longer a green girl working at Madam Pomfrey's Hospitality House—which is where she'd originally heard the crude remark, of course—but an experienced, lady like widow who would never utter such suggestive words.