Walker's Widow Read online

  But the rebel in her, the same one who changed into trousers and broke into her neighbors’ homes, had to admit that she liked watching this big, bad Texas Ranger squirm. From the moment he'd arrived, he'd thrown her off balance, sent her into a panic, and caused her to swoon—an act that still mortified her right down to her toenails. It was past time for him to be caught off guard.

  Regan stood in the upstairs hallway, a heavy woolen blanket pressed to her face to keep her laughter from being heard. After making that totally out-of-character remark, she'd rushed from the room, her own face flaming, but not before she'd caught a glimpse of Clay's stunned, startled, flabbergasted reaction.

  Oh, she was terrible. A horrible, nasty person, no doubt bound for the fiery depths of hell.

  Another bubble of merriment worked its way up her throat and she quickly stepped into the linen closet and buried her face in a whole pile of blankets to muffle the sounds of her amusement.

  The scrape of wood against wood warned her that either Clay or David had pushed his chair back and would likely be making his way upstairs at any moment. The fear of being caught in the midst of her mirth sobered her immediately and she began pulling sheets and blankets from the closet. Just as she heard footsteps on the stairs, she raced into the spare bedroom and began shaking out new sheets to make the bed.

  This room was rarely used. It was Martha's favorite, as she'd decorated it from ceiling to floor, but even though the children loved to sneak in and stare at all the bare-bottomed babies gracing the walls, they never wanted to sleep in here. Regan couldn't fault them for that; she didn't spend any more time in the Cherub Room than she had to, either.

  Clay crossed the threshold as Regan tucked the final corner of the bottom sheet beneath the mattress. David stood a foot or so behind him, his hands tucked into his pockets. The normally belligerent tilt of his chin seemed softened for a change. A warm dinner and sweet dessert must have done him some good, but from the quick shifting of his eyes, Regan didn't think he planned to trust Clay anytime soon.

  Regan agreed with David's caution on that point, at least. Being a Ranger, and Martha's nephew to boot, Clay was probably a trustworthy enough sort—for anyone who hadn't broken the law. But she had broken the law. Several times over the past months, in fact. And there was no way she'd trust him not to put her in jail if he ever found out. Which was why she had to be so very careful around him. Careful about what she said, what she did, how she acted ... ?

  Lord, but these next few days were going to be the longest of her life. She hoped Clay's visit was a short one.

  "You've got quite a ... flair for decorating,” Clay said from behind her, and she could have sworn from the mumbled sound of his voice that he was biting his tongue.

  "Isn't it lovely?” She pretended to be unaware of the hideous furnishings. “But I'm afraid I can't take credit for any of this. Your aunt decorated every inch of it herself."

  She thought she heard him mutter something like, “I should have figured,” as he began taking in more of the details of the room. The lamps were turned up enough for him to see just about everything.

  The lamps themselves were very, very feminine, with pink teardrop crystals hanging from the painted caps. And painted on those caps, of course, were little blond and brunette cherubs with feathery white wings and tight red lips.

  Just about every inch of the room was covered with bare-bottomed babies floating on gossamer wings. The wallpaper had vertical rows of the heaven-sent children separated by dark pink slashes of ribbon and bows. The carpeting matched those lines of ribbon, as did the lace draperies and the lone armchair stationed in one corner of the room. The throw pillow arranged artfully on the seat of that chair had been embroidered with a cherub. Not a full cherub, merely the head and wings of one poor, auburn-haired baby.

  The cherub-covered walls even boasted framed lithographs of cherub-related paintings. Cherubs bringing the message of love to two fifteenth-century star-crossed lovers. Cherubs fluttering above the heads of two longtime and devoted lovers. Cherubs dancing on the clouds of heaven. So many cherubs ... ?

  And if that wasn't bad enough, every available surface of furniture was covered with tiny cherub figurines that Martha insisted be dusted frequently and with the utmost care. Little did Martha know that Regan put off that particular chore as long as humanly possible. Only when Mother Doyle rolled her wheeled chair to the base of the stairs and threatened to pull herself up to the second story on her hands and knees to do it herself did Regan rush around her with a cleaning rag and blow the little darlings free of dirt. She would never surreptitiously break one of Martha's beloved knick-knacks or deny her her fondest desire, but Regan absolutely hated being alone in this room.

  A niggling voice in the back of her mind suggested that her feelings stemmed from the fact that the bare-bottomed toddlers on the pillows and walls served as a poignant reminder that she didn't have children of her own—and likely never would—though she'd wanted babies so badly. But that was ridiculous, considering that these were cherubs and therefore not really babies at all. Besides, she had all the progeny she could ever desire in the children from the orphanage. Any time she got heartsick over not having a baby of her own, she only need ride into town and cuddle little girls like Hannah or little boys like David when he'd been younger.

  Shaking off the depressing thoughts, she smoothed out the ruffles of the pillowslip and turned down the top coverlet.

  "There, that should keep you plenty warm for tonight."

  Clay stared at Regan's long fingers on the pink bedclothes and tried to block out every other detail of the room. This place was enough to give a grown man nightmares. He wasn't the least surprised to learn it was his aunt's handiwork.

  He'd rather bed down in the barn with Caesar than spend the night in this room, surrounded by all these big-headed, bare-assed, smiling angel babies, and he suspected Regan knew it. Which was why he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of complaining.

  "This'll be just fine, thanks.” He glanced over his shoulder at David as he set his saddlebags at the foot of the bed. “You gonna catch some shut-eye with me, kid?” He didn't want the snot-nosed orphan spending the night with him any more than he wanted to toss and turn till dawn in this room, but if he had to suffer, the sour-mouthed brat could damn well suffer right along with him.

  David shook his head, backing up a step. To get away from the Cherub Room or the idea of sleeping with Clay, he didn't know. But with a comforting smile on her face, Regan moved to David's side and slipped an arm around his back.

  "You two will be very comfortable in here,” she told him.

  The boy didn't budge. “I'm not sleeping in here. With him,” he spat out.

  Blinking innocently—when Clay was sure Regan Doyle was anything but innocent—she said, “But I thought you wanted to spend the night. It's much too late for you to walk back to the Home by yourself, but if you're set on returning tonight, I'm sure Mr. Walker would be happy to see you there safely."

  Clay would do no such thing, but he didn't say so, having seen before how Regan wrapped this kid around her little finger. Give her another two seconds and she'd have him scrubbing her floors.

  "Why can't I stay with Hannah?” David asked, not giving up just yet.

  Regan moved around the room, fluffing a pillow here, rearranging a glass trinket there. “Because Hannah is already sound asleep and I won't have you waking her. And even at the Home, the boys and girls sleep in separate rooms. You know that.” She turned to face him, her arms crossed loosely beneath the swells of those breasts Clay was doing his damnedest not to think about. “I'm afraid sharing this room with Mr. Walker is your only choice. Unless you prefer to return to the orphanage."

  David's mouth turned down in an angry frown as he stared at the scuffed toe of his boots. Then he raised his head and shot daggers at Clay. “I'll stay, then, on account of Hannah, but I ain't sleepin’ with him. I'll sleep on the floor."

  "Oh, what a fine i
dea,” Regan put in cheerily, as though he'd just suggested they hold a royal ball. “I'll get you an extra blanket.” And she disappeared into the hall.

  It was just as well David was being mule-stubborn, Clay thought. He didn't particularly want to curl up next to a prickly kid any more than the boy wanted to curl up to him. At least this way he'd have the nice, wide mattress all to himself. It had been a while since he'd spent the night on anything more than an uncomfortable one-man cot. And spending the night on a hardwood floor might be just what the kid needed to drive that surliness out of him.

  Regan swept back into the room, blanket in hand, just as Clay was kicking off his boots. She helped David fold it into a little pallet on the floor, then bustled about turning down all the lamps that earlier had blazed bright. She left only the one beside the bed burning, apparently trusting Clay to turn that one down himself.

  Considering the remark she'd made in the kitchen, he didn't stop undressing just because she was still in the room. He did move more slowly than usual, removing his socks, then unbuttoning but not taking off his shirt. He waited until she'd turned back to him before moving a hand to his belt buckle and letting it rest there.

  "If you need anything...” Her words stopped as rose-pink heat filled her cheeks. She averted her gaze, but her blush continued to grow. “I'll, urn ... be right...” Words failing, she lifted a hand and pointed at the wall. “Right over...” She pointed even more fiercely. “There."

  "I'm sure we'll be fine,” Clay drawled. “Goodnight."

  Regan looked his way once more and he saw courage building in her eyes. With a slow grin, he flipped the silver buckle beneath his fingers.

  And she ran.

  "Goodnight,” she called out quickly before she disappeared, all but slamming the door behind her.

  Clay chuckled, then finished shucking out of his clothes. David, he saw, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, glaring at him. A little terror down to the bone, he thought. Well, as long as he didn't try to attack Clay in the middle of the night, Clay certainly wasn't going to worry about him.

  Stripped down to his drawers, he wrapped the straps of his gunbelt around the holster and set the weapon on the bedside table. Then he blew out the lamp and climbed under the covers, propping his folded arms and head on the soft pillow Regan had just fluffed to perfection.

  He closed his eyes and envisioned his cousin's widow bustling about her room, primping for bed. Untying the bow of her wrap, letting the silky material slip down her arms. Drawing a soft-bristled brush through her long hair. Or maybe nothe didn't imagine even a hard-bristled comb could be dragged through those tight, untamed tresses. So she would likely crawl straight into bed. Under warm, soft covers. Hugging a plump pillow to her breast like a lover ... ?

  Ah, yes, like a lover.

  Clay drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.

  Chapter Six

  It was the scream that woke him. He was right in the middle of parting Regan's milky-white thighs and exploring a whole new patch of tight red curls, but instead of savoring the low moans he knew he could induce, a high-pitched shriek nearly shattered his eardrums.

  He bolted upright in bed, cursing, blinking his eyes to adjust to the dark, and taking a moment to remember where he was. Not bothering to pull on his trousers, he grabbed his gun and headed for the hall, in the direction of the screams.

  David, already wide awake, bumped him aside as he opened the door. He was about to cuss the kid out when Regan's bedroom door opened and she disappeared behind David into the room across the hall.

  Why did it seem that everyone knew what was going on around here but him?

  Heaving a sigh, he went back for a shirt and pants, buttoned both, then followed the others, not even wondering what he would find. Given his experiences in Purgatory so far, he doubted even an ongoing burlesque show behind the opposite door could surprise him.

  He started across the hall, only to step on something soft and furry. Regan's black-as-midnight cat let out a wake-the-dead screech and tore down the stairs, further tripping Clay in the process. He lurched forward, catching himself against the wall with the palms of his hands. For a moment, he remained in that position, breathing in and out and trying to quell the urge to commit bloody murder.

  He yearned for the open trail. For nights spent in complete isolation out in the middle of nowhere. For long days of travel when the only sign of life he came across was the occasional hawk or rattlesnake.

  Feather mattress or no feather mattress, he'd have gotten a better night's sleep bunking down in the barn with Caesar. It was still an option, he reminded himself, and pushed away from the papered wall.

  Although his temper had dissipated, he still had to concentrate on breathing in and out to keep from cursing. He'd known this trip was a bad idea. He'd told his mother it was a bad idea. And now he was stuck here with an aunt he barely knew and wasn't even sure he liked, a woman who'd apparently never met a homeless child she didn't want to adopt, and a lightning-quick cat who was going to break his neck if he wasn't careful.

  "Why the hell didn't anyone ever listen to him?

  With a sigh of resignation, he pushed open the door to the room David and Regan had both entered and took in the scene that had awakened him in the middle of a very nice dream, dammit.

  Even in the dark, he could see Regan's shapely form sitting on the edge of a low bed, her arms wrapped around a small child. David was crouched on the floor beside them, his face strained with worry as he patted the girl's back. This must be Hannah, Clay thought.

  The creak of the door had all three figures turning toward him. The little girl looked terrified, David looked like he wanted to scratch Clay's eyes out, and Regan looked ... maternal.

  It was not a thought that placated his already off-kilter frame of mind.

  Regan murmured calming words to the child on her lap, then gazed up at Clay. “It was just a nightmare,” she told him, still holding the little girl. “She has them sometimes."

  Brushing a loose strand of hair away from Hannah's damp forehead, she kissed the child's temple. “But we're all better now, aren't we, darling?"

  The little girl nodded.

  "What do you say we go downstairs and make some nice, hot cocoa while we decide what to fix for breakfast? Would you like that?"

  Hannah nodded again, but kept her head burrowed against Regan's neck.

  "David,” Regan began, but the boy obviously knew what Regan was going to say before she got the words out because he grabbed a blanket off the bed and draped it over the little girl's fragile frame.

  Clay glanced out the window. Not so much as a spot of light broke out over the horizon. “Breakfast?” he asked. “Already?” He was used to early mornings, but this was bordering on the absurd.

  "It was almost time to get up, anyway,” Regan said as she stood up and gently guided Hannah out the door and toward the stairs.

  "Just what time do people get up around these parts?"

  She chuckled. “Whenever little girls have nightmares and need a cup of cocoa to calm them down."

  Trailing behind her as she negotiated the dark stairwell, he said, “I think I'm going to need more of a reason than that."

  "Well, there are always the chickens."

  "The chickens?"

  "Yes, the chickens. And the horses. And Pansy."

  "Pansy,” he repeated, wondering what the hell they were talking about now. Swear to God, the longer he spent in this house, the less hold he seemed to have on reality. At least Regan's and Aunt Martha's reality.

  "Pansy is our cow. She'll need milking before long. The horses and chickens will need to be fed, and eggs collected. I usually do all of that not long after sunup."

  They'd reached the kitchen now. David had lit a lamp on the wall over the table and was piling wood into the cookstove.

  "But the sun isn't up yet,” Clay argued.

  Regan set Hannah on a chair near the table and wrapped the blanket more securely about
her shoulders, then turned a serene smile on Clay. “Well, sometimes I get an early start."

  An early start. Hmph. He wondered if it would be downright uncivil of him to go on back to bed. Probably.

  "You're welcome to go back to bed, if you like,” Regan suggested sweetly, practically reading his mind.

  David's nod of agreement was accompanied by a smug look that set Clay's teeth on edge.

  So they'd both prefer he carry himself back upstairs, huh? Well, there wasn't much chance of that now. No matter how loud his tired, gritty eyes screamed for him to do just that, his stubborn pride would no longer let him. If a woman and kid could wake up—and stay up—at such an ungodly hour, then so could he. Damn it all to hell.

  Dropping into one of the three remaining chairs, he let his body slide down until he had a nice slouch going. He'd stay awake, then. He'd even help feed the chickens and milk that ridiculously named cow—later. But he'd be damned if he was going to help make cocoa and an early breakfast for a couple of orphans who should have had the decency to let a man sleep through the night.

  Besides, the boy seemed to have everything under control. He was crinkling old pieces of newspaper and stuffing them in between the cuts of wood he'd piled up a moment ago.

  Clay maintained his sulk while he watched Regan bustle around the kitchen. First she set out a tin of cocoa powder and a canister of sugar, then she collected milk from the outside icebox. By the time she'd gathered all her ingredients, David had the stove warming up and she moved to mix hot chocolate for Hannah.

  While the milk was heating, she gathered eggs and smoked bacon from the porch. She cracked and sliced and had both frying on the stove before Clay could blink. In one smooth move, she turned from stove to counter and emptied the pan of cocoa into four tin cups. It was when she tried to carry them all to the table in one trip that Clay decided he'd better get up and help her.