Walker's Widow Read online

  Pushing to his feet, he crossed to the counter and took the hot cups from her hands. They nearly scalded his fingers as he delivered them, setting one in front of each child and the remaining two at his and Regan's places.

  He turned back, only to have a stack of plates all but shoved into his belly. “Be sure to let them cool,” she said to Hannah and David as they reached for the mugs of cocoa. To Clay she said, “After you get these put out, you can add forks and knives. They're in that drawer.” She tapped the drawer in question as she passed on her way back to the stove to flip the bacon and eggs.

  This was why he hadn't wanted to get up, Clay groused beneath his breath. Show a woman a little consideration and the next thing you knew, she had you setting the damn table. What was he, a scullery maid?

  And just how the hell did Regan manage to be so chipper at ... he wasn't sure what time it was, but he'd guess even roosters were still sleeping soundly at this hour.

  As he stomped across the kitchen for forks and knives, he caught Regan eyeing him, a greasy spatula in her hand.

  "What?” he barked, and added a scowl for good measure.

  "Are you always this pleasant in the morning?"

  "Only when I'm forced to be up before God."

  She chuckled and rested the spatula on the countertop. “Oh, I think God is awake by now."

  "Don't be so sure,” he grumbled, clattering utensils as he counted out four knives and four forks, then stalked his way back to the table.

  "Well, let me fix you breakfast and then you're welcome to go back to bed for a while longer."

  Was it his tired imagination, or did she sound cheery about the idea of him going back to sleep? He finished off the place settings, then cocked his head and studied her prim figure in that black nightdress. The toes of her black slippers peeked from beneath the hem.

  "You going back to bed, too?” he asked. Last night, he'd have made sure there was suggestive inflection and second meaning to his words. Now, he just wanted to know what she would be doing while he was snoring his way back into his dream. If he was lucky.

  "Oh, no. I have plenty of chores to do around here, and then I thought the children and I would go into town."

  He watched her a moment more. She held his gaze for several seconds before taking up the spatula and turning back to the stove.

  "Come to think of it, a trip to town doesn't sound like such a bad idea. I'm sure I'll be more awake after a bite to eat, and I need to talk to the sheriff about all the robberies you've been having around here, anyway."

  Regan's body tensed. Why had she told him she was planning a trip to town? Why couldn't she have kept her fool mouth shut and let him go back to bed so she could carry on with the errands she needed to run? Now he would be underfoot and she'd have the devil's own time getting away from him long enough to exchange Dorisa Finch's jewels for cash.

  The strip of bacon she'd been in the process of turning slipped from the end of the fork and back into the iron skillet, sending hot grease sizzling. A drop jumped from the pan to land on the side of her hand.

  "Ouch!” She gasped with surprise and a touch of pain and brought the spot to her lips.

  Clay rounded the counter and came to stand behind her. “Let me see."

  "It's nothing, I'm fine,” she said, moving her hand away from her mouth and inspecting it for grease burns. There was barely any red visible, and most of that was from her sucking on the spot.

  He took her arm anyway, wrapping his big, dark hand around her slender wrist. His touch didn't alarm her nearly as much as the sight of those strong fingers, with just a sprinkling of hair covering them, against the nearly porcelain whiteness of her skin. He was tanned to bronze perfection, she was cursed with pale Irish skin that burned at so much as a hint of sunlight. He was large and commanding, she felt tiny and delicate next to him.

  He was a man. She was a woman. And that single thought seemed to steal the breath from her lungs. She jerked her hand out of his grasp and took an unsteady step away from his towering expanse. “It's fine, really."

  His dusky lashes narrowed a fraction as he watched her. He was probably thinking she'd lost a marble or two to jump back that way.

  "You should put some butter on it."

  "Father Ignacio washes burns with cold water,” David put in from his seat by the table. He didn't seem overly concerned, but then, he'd seen her receive worse burns than this and knew if she was really hurt, she would have yelped much louder.

  "Butter works better,” Clay maintained, shooting David what could only be described as a challenging glare.

  She'd never seen a grown man so intent upon disliking a child. Or a young man so intent upon despising an elder. She didn't even know why they had daggers for each other, only that the tension between them was palpable. That was another reason she'd made them stay in the Cherub Room last night—in hopes that being confined together would dispel some of their animosity toward each other.

  "Cold water takes away the sting."

  Regan knew that if she didn't interrupt, this ridiculous argument would turn into a full-scale shouting match. “I'm not sure it matters what would work best, as it doesn't hurt at all any longer."

  "My mama used honey,” Hannah murmured quietly, her face tipped over her cup of cocoa, concentrating on stirring the liquid inside with the tip of one finger.

  "That's a wonderful idea, Hannah. I'll use honey.” She shot Clay and David both quelling glances as she skipped to the cupboard and dabbed a bit of honey on the now nonexistent burn. Then she moved back to the stove and took the sizzling skillet from the heat.

  Clay took his seat at the table while she scooped fried eggs and crispy bacon onto everyone's plates. She poured tall glasses of milk for the children and freshly brewed coffee for Clay and herself.

  "Ah,” she sighed once she was seated. “This is nice.” She smiled at her three breakfast companions, imagining for a moment that they were a family. It was a ridiculous notion, she knew. She would never marry a man like Clay, who harbored such obvious animosity toward David ... not to mention his occupation as a lawman. She would also never have kids of her own. But it was nice to pretend she had two beautiful children, just like Hannah and David.

  For a few minutes, she let herself daydream. Let herself pretend Clay was a nice man—as opposed to a surly one—and not a Texas Ranger. And that David and Hannah were her flesh and blood. The illusion would break apart the moment Clay claimed the bacon was too crisp and David said it wasn't crisp enough, but for now, it was a perfectly lovely fantasy in her mind's eye.

  "David,” she said, while her imagination was still firm, “would you like to say grace?"

  They all lowered their heads and waited for David to begin.

  "Oh, Great Spirit...” he began.

  Clay's head snapped up. She didn't see the motion, but she sensed it and quickly raised her own to meet his eyes. With a shake of her head, she warned him not to say anything. David had only recently discovered his true heritage and was obsessed with learning everything he could about his people and exercising his new knowledge at every opportunity. Especially when he thought it might upset those around him. He was exerting his independence, behaving under the notion that whites had treated him like an outcast all his life, he was now going to give them more than enough reason to hate and fear him.

  Clay glowered, but bowed his head once again and let David pray over their meals in his own way. When he finished, everyone reached for their forks and dug in, the soft clinks of silver tines against metal plates filling the room.

  "Regan ?” a shrill voice cut into the near-silence, making Regan jump. “Regan, are you up?"

  "Oh, my lord,” she whispered, getting up so quickly, she nearly overturned her chair.

  She'd forgotten Mother Doyle!

  Chapter Seven

  The line of people rushing to Martha's room looked like a funeral procession, with Regan in the lead, followed by Clay, who was followed by David, who was followed by a blanket-clutching Hannah. They all stood in the hallway as Regan opened the door and hurried to light a lamp.

  Martha sat on the edge of the bed, the covers thrown back, her weak and crippled legs dangling over the side.

  "Mother Doyle, you're awake,” Regan exclaimed in a falsely bright voice.

  "I don't know how a body could sleep through all the racket,” her mother-in-law grumbled. “I expected you to come for me after you started breakfast, but you never did."

  Martha's guilt-tipped arrow went straight to Regan's heart. She'd been so preoccupied with Clay and the children that she'd forgotten her mother-in-law even existed. With a silent groan, she thought, I am going straight to hell. And a hundred little old ladies with pitchforks would be there to greet her.

  But even though Martha was making a fuss about being forgotten, she would be heartbroken to know it was actually true. So Regan put on her most innocent face and let not a hint of guilt color her words.

  "I didn't want to disturb you, Mother Doyle. You need your sleep, and you know I'm happy to fix your breakfast whenever you get up."

  "Nonsense,” Martha snapped with a wave of her hand. “I'm perfectly able to join everyone else for a family meal. Now close the door and help me dress. Then, Clayton, you can get me situated in my chair and wheel me into the kitchen."

  Clay straightened from where he'd been lounging against the doorframe and sent Regan an amused wink over Martha's head. “Yes, ma'am,” he drawled. “It'll be my pleasure."

  He all but saluted, and Regan quickly stuck her face back into the open closet before he spotted the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  Because she had no control over her failing health, Martha liked to control everything else. She made a habit of handing out clipped
orders and expecting them to be carried out to the letter. And she loved anyone who immediately complied. If Clay continued to be so acquiescent to Martha's demands, he would soon have the elderly woman's sole devotion. Regan wouldn't be surprised if he was fully aware of this fact. She suspected the man could charm the garters off just about any woman, be she seventeen or seventy—and every age in between.

  It was fortunate, then, that Regan had no interest in men whatsoever. She was quite happy being a widow, and her fancy San Francisco garters were tightly tied in place, thank you very much.

  The door clicked shut as Clay closed the two women in together, and Regan turned to Martha with a lovely blue calico dress in hand.

  "Not that one, dear. Stuck in that bloody invalid chair, that dress makes me look like a moving meadow of wildflowers."

  "It does no such thing,” Regan protested, but she was already on her way back to the closet to try again.

  "Grab that nice lavender one I wore just last week."

  "Your church dress?” Regan asked in surprise. “But I thought you saved that for special occasions."

  Martha raised her nose and gave a little sniff. “It's not every day my nephew is here for a visit. I want to look my best. Now bring it here, and while I change, you can look for my new button-up boots."

  Oh, no, not the button-ups. Lord, but getting those things on Martha's feet would take all day, and half the evening besides. What a woman confined to an invalid chair needed with so many pairs of shoes, Regan would never know. No one ever even saw her feet!

  "I'm not sure they're here, Mother Doyle,” she tried, pretending to look for the things.

  "Of course they are. Check the back of the closet,” Martha insisted.

  With a sigh, Regan dropped to her hands and knees and began sorting through the many pieces of footwear at the bottom of Martha's closet. And there, at the back, right where Regan had stuffed them the last time she'd had the displeasure of tying and untying them twice in one day for her mother-in-law, were the dreaded twenty-button-high walking boots. Walking boots for a cripple.

  "Did you find them?” Martha demanded.

  "Yes,” Regan replied without joy or enthusiasm and returned to Martha's side.

  Martha had her nightgown off and her new dress pulled on over her head to her waist. They went through the same routine every morning, and Regan automatically knelt to slip stockings on Martha's legs. One sensible thing, anyway, was that Martha never expected Regan to pull her stockings on all the way. If she rolled them only to the knee, Martha was happy.

  When it came time to fasten Martha's shoes, Regan plopped all the way down on the floor and began threading the laces back and forth about the tiny metal studs. By the time she finished, her back ached and her fingers were cramped. She could barely feel the reddened tips.

  But Martha was dressed, and now it was Clay's turn to transfer her to her wheeled chair. She opened the door and waved him in gladly.

  "What would you like for breakfast, Mother Doyle?” she asked while Clay lifted Martha into her chair and helped her arrange her skirts about her legs.

  "I smell bacon. Is there bacon?"

  "Of course. And eggs, if you'd like them.” The wheels of Martha's invalid chair squeaked as Regan maneuvered her through the doorway and down the hall toward the kitchen. “Or I can fry up some ham, if you'd prefer. Or oatmeal porridge."

  Martha reached back to pat her hand where it rested on one of the chair's handles. “Bacon and eggs will be fine, dear. I don't want to put you to any trouble."

  Regan just managed to bite back on a chuckle. A day didn't go by without Martha putting someone out. Sometimes Regan wondered if she didn't do it on purpose, to see how far she could push people. Of course, Regan loved her and didn't mind catering to her mother-in-law's needs. Most of the time, anyway.

  "Why is everyone up so early?” Mother Doyle wanted to know as Regan situated her behind the table and went to the stove to put on another serving of breakfast. Everyone else had already gone back to eating, afraid their food would get cold.

  "Hannah had a nightmare."

  Martha's expression turned sad and she stroked Hannah's fine cornsilk hair. “Don't worry, dear heart, you won't always have bad dreams about your mama and papa."

  Hannah's eyes filled with tears, but she nodded and turned her face back to her plate.

  In a soft aside to Clay, Martha said, “Hannah's parents were killed in an Indian raid on their wagon train."

  Regan had to swallow past a lump of emotion before she could continue. “Since most of us were awake, anyway, at that point, it seemed more sensible to get up and start the day."

  "Hmph,” Clay huffed and shoved another strip of bacon into his mouth.

  Martha's gaze met hers over Clay's head. “He isn't used to rising so early,” she told her mother-in-law. “But the children and I were happy to get up. We thought we'd take a trip into town today."

  "A trip to town,” Martha repeated. “Just what I need to work the kinks out of these old bones."

  How she managed to do that, when she never left her invalid chair, Regan wasn't sure. And taking Martha along was bound to add both time and duty to the trip. But it would do her good to get out. Maybe she would even run into some of her friends and they could spend the afternoon chatting over a cup of tea. Or better yet, she might be able to foist Martha off on Clay and get away for a few minutes to conduct her business.

  The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. She began to hum and flipped the bright-yolked eggs with a smile.

  * * *

  It took Clay a minute to place the tune Regan was humming. When he did, he nearly choked on his coffee. God in heaven, it was a bawdy song. A ditty most often whistled by men on their way out of a whore's room at the local brothel.

  So what in the Sam Hill was his cousin's widow doing singing it to herself while she cooked? At five o'clock in the morning. In front of his aunt and two young children.

  How did she even know such a song?

  And he couldn't help wondering if she knew the lyrics as well as the tune. Something about a fair-haired farm girl losing her cherry to a less-than-reputable cowpoke in her father's barn, as he recalled.

  If she did.... If she did, Regan Doyle had some explaining to do. He'd suspected from the first time they'd met that there was more going on behind those emerald eyes than she let on, but for her to be familiar with the type of music she was humming, she had to be harboring even bigger secrets than he'd first suspected.

  And wouldn't it be interesting to do a little investigating and find out just what those secrets were.

  That thought had him whistling right along with her in his head, words and all.

  Chapter Eight

  "All right, everybody up.” Clay lifted tiny Hannah under her arms and into the back of the buckboard. Aunt Martha and her chair were already strapped in, and David climbed up on his own.

  That left Regan. She was busy making sure Martha was comfortable, seeing that the children had all their things with them for the return to the orphanage, and checking to be sure she had enough money in her reticule for any provisions they might need in town.

  Clay watched her bustle around distractedly, wondering what she would look like in anything other than black. She was once again dressed head to toe in widow's weeds, and he had the irrational urge to wrap her in a blanket or tablecloth just to see her in a bit of color.

  Not that Regan's plain black frock didn't make a pleasant display of her feminine curves. There were some things a woman couldn't hide, even in sackcloth. And Clay figured that if he had to stare at the dull, fading fabric all day, he might as well take every opportunity to look his fill of her shape without her knowing it.

  His perusal had just passed the indent of her waist and settled on her rump when she turned and cleared her throat. He lifted his head and smiled guilelessly.

  "Are you quite ready to go?” she asked primly, and he knew she was aware of exactly where he'd been looking.

  "Ready when you are,” he replied, and offered his hand. “Let me help you up."