Walker's Widow Page 7

  She allowed the bare minimum of physical contact as he held her elbow and she climbed up to the seat on her own. She fussed with her skirts and matching black parasol until he walked around and hauled himself up beside her. Then her movements seemed to freeze and she sat ramrod straight beside him, the tiny umbrella acting as more of a shield against him than the early morning sun.

  If he didn't know better, Clay thought with a grin, he might get the idea she didn't particularly like him.

  Of course, that was plain nonsense. He flicked the reins and clicked the horses into motion. Anyone with eyes could see Regan Doyle was half in love with him already. Why, if she mooned over him anymore, it would get downright embarrassing.

  And if he watched the sky long enough, he might just see a jackrabbit take flight.

  "Do you have a lot to do in town today?” he asked, deciding that holding a conversation—however grudgingly on her part—would probably make the time pass more quickly than if they sat in stony silence all the way into Purgatory.

  She gave an impersonal nod and for a minute he thought she'd refuse to speak. Then she said, “I thought we could take the children with us to Heaven before taking them back to the Home."

  "Heaven?” he asked.

  "Yes, it's on the other side of Purgatory."

  He knew what she was talking about, but decided to tease her a bit. “So the Good Book says."

  She actually smiled at that. Or at least one side of her mouth lifted and caused a small hollow in her cheek. He liked to think that qualified.

  "I thought we were going into Purgatory,” he continued when she remained silent.

  "We are. After we stop in Heaven for a few things. I also want to give the children one more full day away from the orphanage before they have to go back."

  He had to admire her dedication. She didn't take these kids in out of civic duty. Instead she truly cared for and about them. She wanted to make them happy and give them enjoyable experiences away from the orphanage. He didn't care for children himself; not the young ones and not the older ones. Tilting his head at the spot where David sat cross-legged in the wagonbed, he frowned and detided he really didn't like the older ones. Too surly, too undisciplined, too set in their ways.

  But he supposed when parents couldn't or didn't want to provide for their own, someone had to see to the responsibility of food, clothing, and shelter. And it seemed Regan was only too eager to pitch in.

  "What do you need in Heaven?” he asked, just to keep her talking.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her shoot him a sidelong glance. He couldn't decide if her expression conveyed annoyance or concern.

  "Errands,” she finally answered.

  "Mm-hm.” She was being less then forthcoming, but then, Clay never had been one to give up easily. “Anything in particular?"

  This time the look she gave him was anything but sidelong. She turned to face him full-on, her brows drawn together in a vee of irritation. “I don't see what concern that is of yours. We make a trip into town at least once a week and never have we been questioned about our reasons. Do you mind?"

  His mouth tightened as he fought not to laugh. “Not at all,” he managed. “Just so long as you don't mind if I run a few errands of my own."

  Regan twisted back to stare straight ahead. “Not at all.” Not at all. In fact, that was exactly what she wanted. If Clay went off on his own, or stayed with Mother Doyle and the children so she could go off on her own, then she would be able to accomplish her most important task of the day.

  His statement had the immediate affect of lightening her mood, and she found herself grinning as the buckboard bumped its way past the outskirts of Purgatory toward Heaven. When necessary, Regan pointed Clay toward the proper trails to get them to town, but otherwise avoided speaking to him for the rest of the journey. Thankfully, David and Hannah kept up an ongoing dialogue with Mother Doyle and only rarely directed a query toward the front of the wagon.

  Once they arrived in Heaven, the children jumped from the wagon and dashed into the general store, leaving Clay and Regan to untie Martha's chair and lift her down to the boardwalk. From there, Regan shook off Clay's offer to help and wheeled Mother Doyle into the mercantile. Martha insisted she be taken directly to her favorite spot, the bolts of material.

  Regan was more than happy to arrange her mother-in-law's chair in the aisle and leave her there, since the wide array of fabrics would keep Martha occupied for quite some time. Long enough for her to accomplish her most pressing errand, anyway.

  To keep the children busy, Regan bought a peppermint stick for Hannah and a bag of lemon drops for David.

  Clay was drifting slowly through the aisles toward the back of the store, looking at saddle soap, chaps, and assorted stacks of cambric shirts and denim trousers.

  This was going to be the tricky part, she thought. Clay had been nothing but helpful and accommodating so far, but she was afraid that when she tried to sneak away, he would become suspicious and insist upon accompanying her. And that would never do. Oh, no. She had to get away—alone—to deal with this bit of business.

  Taking a deep breath, she swept down the row of ready-made clothes and stopped beside him. She reached out to finger the folded edges of a cream-colored shirt, anything to keep from looking directly at him.

  "I need to run across the street for a moment,” she said quickly, before she lost her nerve. “I was wondering if you wouldn't mind staying with Mother Doyle and the children until I get back."

  Clay turned his head to look out the front windows of the general store, at the painted signs hanging over the shops across the way. A dentist's office and jeweler's were in full view.

  "Got a toothache, have you?” he asked, returning his perusal to her face.

  She fought off a wave of conscience and prayed her alabaster skin wouldn't betray her deception with a tell-tale rise of color to her cheeks. Mustering her courage, she regally answered, “Of course not. But I do have things to do, so if you would just stay with them until I return."

  Not giving him a chance to respond, she stepped around him with a sweep of her skirts and made her way to the front of the store. A tiny bell over the door tinkled as she opened it, then closed it just as firmly behind her.

  Her pace was quick as she bustled across the street and onto the opposite sidewalk. Though she suspected Clay might be watching her from inside the mercantile, she didn't look back. He wouldn't be able to see her once she got a little farther down the street, anyway. She passed the dentist's office and a German baker's that smelted wonderfully of fresh-from-the-oven bread, and headed straight for the saloon several yards away.

  It was early yet, and few patrons were inside. A young black boy was busy sweeping the rough-planked floor and a middle-aged woman with platinum blond hair washed down the bar and tables. The bartender—or at least a man she assumed to be the bartender—stacked clean glasses and restocked bottles of whiskey and barrels of ale.

  As the batwing doors swung closed behind her, her gaze found Mr. Sawyer.

  He sat at a table in the back, dealing out a game of solitaire. They met here every few weeks, and every time she found him at the same table, shuffling the same worn deck of cards.

  He was a dandy, and Regan knew it. His black suit and embroidered silver vest were tailored, not a spot or wrinkle in sight. His black hat carried not a speck of dust, and if his boots had ever taken more than the shortest of strolls on the softest terrain, they sure didn't look it.

  But despite his outward citified appearance, Regan liked the man and trusted him to help her when she needed it.

  She made her way to the table and took a seat opposite the gambler—at least she assumed that's how he amassed the bulk of his income. “Good morning,” she greeted.

  "Morning,” he returned. “How are you this bright and sunny day?"

  "Quite well, thank you.” She didn't have time for polite banter, but neither could she bear to be rude. “How was your trip?” she asked, just as she did each time they met.

  Their business arrangement was simple: Regan brought the property she'd stolen to Mr. Sawyer here in Heaven, and Mr. Sawyer took it to St. Louis to sell. At each meeting he would have money for her from the last sale.

  She knew, of course, that she wasn't receiving the full value of the items she gave him. An old acquaintance from Madam Pomfrey's Hospitality House had put her in contact with Mr. Sawyer, and when they'd first met, he had told her he expected to be paid, and paid well, for his part in her scheme. Knowing that a fair amount of money for the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children was better than none, and that without Mr. Sawyer she would have no way of turning the stolen trinkets into useful cash, she was more than willing to allow him his cut.

  "My recent stay in the city was very lucrative, I'm happy to say.” He gifted her with a cocky grin, straightening the cards in his hand before setting them in front of him on the felt-topped table.

  Regan leaned forward eagerly, watching as he reached inside his jacket and removed a hefty stack of greenbacks. A shiver of excitement fluttered low in her belly and radiated outward into her limbs. That same bolt of exhilaration ran through her every time she saw the monetary results of her late-night exploits and thought of all the necessities that money could provide for the children at the Home.

  "That opal ring you gave me last time was quite a prize, it turns out. A jeweler in St. Louis paid a pretty penny for it.” He handed her the doubled-over bills. “I've already taken my share off the top. That's all yours."

  Regan took the money, resisting the urge to count it before putting it away. She let her fingers fan the edges just a bit, then opened her reticule and stuffed the bills inside. While the bag was open, she shifted items around until she found Dorisa Finch's emerald necklace and earbobs. She set the pieces on the table and slid them slowly toward Mr. Sawyer.

  Sawyer lifted the necklace and held it up to the muted rays of light shining through one of the dirt-specked windows of the saloon. He gave a low, appreciative whistle and returned the choker to the table before doing the same with the two earrings.

  "Very nice,” he offered. “Very nice, indeed. These should bring a hefty sum on my next trip.” And then he fixed her with an inquisitive gaze. “You're sure you want to part with them?"

  She swallowed a lump of guilt that threatened to close her throat and nodded. “I'm sure."

  She didn't know what Mr. Sawyer thought brought her here once a month or so, but he always acted as though the baubles she chose to exchange for cash were her own. He never asked how she came by such a large collection of valuables or how she used the money, for which she was infinitely grateful.

  "Well, then,” Sawyer murmured. “I guess that squares things this time around.” He picked up his deck of cards and resumed shuffling.

  All of their meetings ended with these words, and Regan felt her body relax. Glad to be finished with this task for another few weeks, she inclined her head and rose from her seat. “Thank you, Mr. Sawyer. Until next time."

  He touched the brim of his hat with one finger and gave her a small salute. “Always a pleasure, ma'am."

  Regan held her spine ramrod straight as she made her way outside, refusing to make eye contact with the others in the saloon. Not that they paid her the least bit of attention. She doubted they cared what business she had with the gambler, each seemed intent on indulging his own misery or pleasure.

  She strolled quickly down the boardwalk and crossed back to the mercantile, where she found everyone pretty much as she'd left them. Mother Doyle was now lecturing David on the wisdom of accepting new clothes when they were offered to him instead of walking around in too-short pants and torn shirts, while Hannah stood farther down the aisle, silently stroking the delicate fingers of a porcelain doll.

  Clay, however, stood somewhat apart from the others, staring directly at her. Arms crossed, slate gray eyes boring into her. “Get that errand taken care of?” he asked, accusation dripping from every syllable.

  Swallowing a slither of nervousness, she forced a smile to her lips and replied, “Yes, it went quite well, thank you."

  Not the least put off by her answer, he continued to press. “Care to tell me just what you were off doing?"

  Her answer came quickly and easily. “No, I wouldn't."

  "None of my business, huh?” His tone had softened, but the force of his gaze warned her not to be fooled.

  Her lips curled even wider. “None whatsoever. It was just a small personal matter I needed to attend to. But I appreciate your concern."

  He studied her a moment longer, then gave a resigned nod. “Since I kept an eye on everyone while you were off on your errand...” He dragged the word out, further implying that she'd been up to no good. “I don't suppose you'd mind returning the favor while I conduct a little business of my own."

  Her smile faltered a bit. He'd only arrived the evening before, what business could he possibly have in Heaven? But she couldn't pry into his affairs after making such a fuss about keeping her own secret.

  "Not at all.” She toyed with the string of her reticule. “How long do you think you'll be?"

  One side of Clay's mouth lifted in a cocky grin—a thousand times more daring than Mr. Sawyer's, and Regan felt sure Mr. Sawyer used his on a regular basis to bluff his way through many a game of poker.

  Clay hooked his thumbs over the top of his low-riding gunbelt and leaned forward conspiratorially. His breath fanned the hair at her temple and tickled her ear. “Don't worry, I won't be able to stay away from you for very long."

  Her heart all but stopped and she had to swallow hard to get it beating again.

  Then he straightened and said casually, “I reckon it's about time we found somewhere for lunch. I'll take care of my errand when we get back to Purgatory. There's a sheriff I need to speak with."

  And before she could offer a word of protest on either count, he'd turned and was striding toward the others.

  Chapter Nine

  Clay pulled the buckboard to a stop in front of the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children, set the brake, and jumped to the ground. Regan folded her parasol and started climbing down on her own, so he moved around to loosen the ropes holding his aunt's chair in place.

  Regan was the damnedest woman. Independent to a fault, and so proud Clay usually ended up grinding his teeth in frustration.

  She was also hiding something. Clay had been a lawman most of his life, and he knew when people were harboring secrets. Her reluctance to tell him where she'd hied off to this morning in Heaven, her skittishness when he touched her or made a move to touch her, her surprise and agitation when he'd announced his intention to talk to the Purgatory sheriff. All of these things roused his suspicions and made him want to find out just what she was concealing.

  For the time being, though, he had a few more important issues to deal with. He'd been sent here to catch a thief, and that's just what he was going to do.

  With Regan's help, they guided Martha out of the wagon and let her lean against the tailgate until Clay lifted down her chair.

  For once, David and Hannah weren't in a hurry to run off. They followed along sedately as Clay wheeled Aunt Martha up a rickety wooden ramp set over a portion of the front steps and into the adobe mission that fronted the orphanage. As soon as they stepped inside the house of worship, Clay removed his Stetson. Aunt Martha would likely slap him if he didn't.

  "Regan! Senora Doyle!” A short, bald man in the long brown robes of a Mexican clergyman hurried over as soon as he saw them. He lifted Martha's hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles.

  "To what do we owe this great pleasure, senora?” he asked, his r's and s's rolling thickly. “We are used to our dear Regan gracing us with her presence,” he said, shooting a twinkling grin in her direction, “but rarely do we get to see you."

  Martha blushed like a schoolgirl and smoothed her skirts in a nervous gesture. “It's not as easy for me to get around anymore, padre. These old bones don't move the way they used to, and it's not fair to ask my dear daughter-in-law to drag me along every time she comes into town. But my nephew is here now,” she added, and her shoulders straightened with pride. She wiggled her fingers at Clay, waving him forward. “Clayton. Clayton, come here, dear."

  Clay stepped forward dutifully and put his hand in hers. “Father Ignacio, this is my sister's son, Clayton. Clayton, this is our local man of God, Father Ignacio. But you can call him Padre, everybody does."

  Clay smiled as he and the older man shook and mumbled polite greetings.

  "Clayton is a strong boy, thank heavens,” his aunt went on. She reached up to squeeze his upper arm, smoothing his shirt over the hard muscle of his bicep as proof of her statement. “He doesn't mind wheeling me wherever I need to go, and when I decided to come along this morning, why, he just picked my chair right up and tossed it into the back of the wagon."

  Father Ignacio's mouth lifted in a kind smile. “Well, we are very pleased you were able to visit us this day."

  Moving to the side, the priest focused his attention on Regan and the two youngsters standing silently at her side. “I see you found our David. I'm glad to see you came to no harm,” he told the boy without a hint of censorship in his voice. “But from now on, we would greatly appreciate it if you would tell someone where you are going before you run off."

  David glared at the padre mulishly, then without a word took Hannah's hand and led her away through a side doorway that Clay assumed led to where the rest of the children were housed.

  "That boy...” Father Ignacio shook his head. “I do not know what to do with him. He fights us at every turn, creates anger and hostility where there is no need."

  "He knows the townspeople consider him a half-breed,” Regan put in softly. “He's feeling out of place, unsure of where he belongs. It's hard enough to grow up without parents and family. David is also dealing with the fact that his skin is red, when everyone around him is white."

  "We do not hold that against him here,” Father Ignacio responded firmly. “You know that."