Walker's Widow Page 8

  "I know.” Regan took a step forward and laid a hand on the priest's cloaked arm. “But not everyone shares your attitude. He'll be all right,” she added. “He just needs time."

  "I pray you are right,” the father said, still shaking his head in doubt. “Enough of this,” he brightened. “Come, come. Let me get you some refreshments and we will talk."

  Father Ignacio began pushing Mother Doyle away, but Clay grabbed Regan's elbow before she could follow. She turned her head, then gave his hand on her arm a pointed look.

  Normally, he would have released her. He would have released any young woman who so obviously didn't want him touching her. But Regan was different. Her cool stares and upturned nose pushed points of annoyance in him he hadn't even known existed. And her soft lips and warm gazes heated places in him he wasn't sure he should be thinking about.

  Because he wanted to hit a few of her hot spots, he kept his hand where it was, going so far as to tighten his grip half a fraction when she tried to pull away.

  "Yes?” she asked, her chin lifting in that regal way she had about her, her tone cool.

  "You think you'll be all right while I run my errand?"

  "Your visit with the sheriff?” she asked, and he thought he felt a tremor run through her body.

  "Yes. The sooner I talk to him, the sooner I can be on my way."

  Her shoulders went back and Clay thought her haughtiness alone added an inch to her usual height. “Then by all means, go. Please. And take your time. Mother Doyle and I will probably visit with the children for several hours."

  With that, she pulled her arm free and walked away.

  If she only knew how much Clay relished the sway of her hips, she wouldn't have been in such a hurry to follow Martha and the padre.

  That didn't keep Clay from looking his fill, though. He stayed where he was, enjoying the view until she disappeared around the corner. Then, with a sigh, he plopped his hat back on his head and left the church.

  His boots kicked up dust as he headed for the main street of town. The sheriff's office was located in the center of town, right across the street from the Painted Lady saloon. Clay figured this wasn't such a bad idea, as most of the ruckus in small towns like these was usually caused by drunken cowboys, anyway.

  Clay reached the jail the same time as another man. He was a big fellow, in both height and width, with an enormous roll of fat hanging over his belt and floppy jowls hanging from the ends of his mutton chop sideburns. When he removed his hat, the sun glinted off his shiny head, visible through the few strands of dark hair combed in a sideways sweep.

  Before he'd known this man was headed for the sheriff's office, too, Clay had noticed him exiting one of the doorways no more than a hundred yards down the street. The air wheezed in the other man's chest like a pneumonic horse ridden well past its endurance, apparently from the exertion of walking the length of the boardwalk.

  Clay lowered his eyes and noticed the badge pinned to the man's chest. Good God, this man was Purgatory's sheriff. This corpulent, puffing, red-nosed, glossy-eyed man was entrusted with maintaining law and order and keeping the townspeople safe.

  No wonder the bandit who broke into houses and stole people's valuables hadn't been caught; it probably took a week for the sheriff to drag himself to the victims’ residences.

  Well, Clay didn't have to work with him, he just had to get some information about the robberies so he could conduct his own investigation.

  "Howdy,” the sheriff greeted after a moment of sizing up Clay the same as Clay'd been doing to him. “Name's Jensen Graves. I'm the sheriff here in Purgatory.” He held out a hand with fingers that reminded Clay of pudgy white sausages.

  "Pleased to meet you, Sheriff. Clay Walker.” When Graves opened the door, Clay followed him inside.

  "I see you got a tin star pinned to your chest,” the sheriff stated amicably as he took a seat behind a scarred, cluttered desk. The joints of the chair screeched in protest as he shifted his massive bulk. “You're a Ranger, huh?"

  "That's right,” Clay answered, but didn't elaborate. He wasn't sure he liked Sheriff Graves much yet and didn't want to kick up a friendship with him just because they both wore badges.

  Graves studied him for a long minute, his sallow eyes narrowing suspiciously. Reaching into the low pocket of his vest, he pulled out a polished yellow coin and began to rub it absently between his broomstick-size fingers. “So what brings you to Purgatory? You got business here?"

  Clay pulled an extra, less auspicious chair away from the opposite wall and brought it closer to the sheriff's desk. “In a manner of speaking,” he replied as he straddled the seat and rested his forearms along the back. “I've got an aunt who lives just outside of town. Martha Doyle."

  Sheriff Graves gave a knowing nod. “Good woman, Mrs. Doyle. And that daughter-in-law she's got living with her.” He winked at Clay as though they'd shared a ribald joke. “Quite a looker, that one."

  Clay's jaw clenched. Now he was sure. He didn't like the town's sheriff one little bit. “Her name is Regan,” he ground out. “She's my cousin's widow.” He didn't quite know why he'd felt the need to add that last part. He spent most of his time trying to forget that, strictly speaking, Regan was related to him. However, for some reason he'd felt compelled to remind Jensen Graves that Regan wasn't simply some young lightskirt staying with his aunt, but a respectable widow, Clay's cousin by marriage, and therefore under his protection.

  "Of course, of course,” Graves replied with a chuckle. “A lot of the menfolk around here were real proud of James when he brought the girl home with him. Weren't sure why he bothered marrying up with her, though, if you know what I mean. Heh heh heh."

  The sound of the sheriff's vulgar laughter made Clay's hands curl into fists. He thought they ought to get onto another topic of conversation right quick before he plowed a nice big hole through the middle of this smirking bastard's face.

  "The reason I'm in town, Sheriff,” he started brusquely, “is because my aunt wrote me about some burglaries going on here in Purgatory. She's real worked up about it and was hoping I could help catch the culprit before many more people are robbed."

  The sheriff's jowls quit bouncing as his amusement was cut short. His eyes constricted to snake-like slits as he glared at Clay with obvious hostility. “You think you can catch this guy quicker than I can?” he spat, practically daring Clay to oppose him.

  Clay hadn't planned to upset the local law. In fact, before he'd met Jensen Graves, he'd intended to downplay his presence in Purgatory, to emphasize that he was just doing his silly old aunt a favor, and to act as though he had little interest in whether he caught the bandit or not. But now he didn't much care if the town sheriff liked or dis liked him. He didn't even care if the man helped him, he just wanted to piss him off.

  "I'm sure gonna try,” he answered indolently.

  Graves flushed angrily, the tiny lines of broken blood vessels in his cheeks growing even redder. “Well, good luck, boy,” he stormed. “'Cause that sneak thief don't never leave no trail to follow. There's been talk that the Ghost of Ol’ Morty Pike is up to his old tricks again."

  "A ghost,” Clay put in, letting those two short words convey his skepticism.

  "Yep. Ol’ Morty Pike is a real legend ‘round these parts. People don't cotton to his specter floatin’ in and out of their houses.” The sheriff scratched his massive stomach and leaned farther back in his chair. “You want my guess, though, I'd say these rich folk who keep getting robbed ain't really gettin’ robbed at all. I'd bet one of them made it up, just for attention, then the rest thought that was a right-fine idea and followed suit.” He shrugged, as though he couldn't care one way or the other. “Either that, or it's one of those damn orphans from over yonder. Get more trouble from them than from ten drunks on a Saturday night."

  "Is that right?” Clay asked.

  The sheriff stopped the rocking of his chair and glared at Clay. Hatred radiated from his beefy body. “That's right."

  Clay stood and swung his chair back against the opposite wall in one smooth motion. “Well, then, I guess I'll be on my way."

  Graves pushed and shoved his way to his feet as though from a standing position he could better threaten Clay. “You find out anything, you come tell me, you hear?"

  "Sure will, Sheriff,” Clay replied amicably, as he moved for the door. “After all, I'll need one of your cells to hold the culprit till the circuit judge comes around for his trial."

  Chapter Ten

  Martha Doyle was humming “Rock of Ages,” arranging hymnals on the polished wooden pews, when the doors to the mission opened, letting in a dusty shaft of light. Without waiting to see who it was, she bustled as quickly as her stiff and creaky legs would carry her back to her invalid chair. She had just gotten her shoes lifted onto the footrests, her skirts straightened, when the sound of boot heels clacking in her direction stopped.

  She turned her head and beamed at her nephew. “Clayton!"

  He'd removed his hat and was absently twisting the brim in his hands. “What are you doing all alone, Aunt Martha? Did Regan go off and leave you?” His brows knit and a displeased look came over his face as he glanced toward the doorway to the side of the vestibule.

  "No, no,” Martha corrected quickly. “Regan and Father Ignacio are off with the children. I asked them to leave me here so I could straighten some of the hymnals before Sunday services. I don't do enough to help the church now that I'm stuck in this chair.” She tapped the wooden arm with the palm of her hand, then began rolling the wheels to turn herself around.

  Clayton hurried forward, turning her the rest of the way, then pushing her in the direction she pointed.

  "I must admit, I miss coming here every week,” Martha continued. “Regan offers to bring me, the sweet girl, but I hate to put her out. Being here alone gives me a chance to think and talk to God the way I would at Mass."

  That was true enough. She'd thought and thought of how she could convince Clayton and Regan that they belonged together. And she'd prayed for the good Lord's guidance.

  The matchmaking business was not as easy as she'd expected it to be.

  For one thing, Regan didn't seem as open to the idea of courting as Martha had hoped. In fact, she seemed downright wary of Clayton, and darned if Martha could figure out why. For another, Clayton wasn't nearly as charming as Martha remembered. She thought he'd come in, take one look at Regan, and sweep her into his arms. Instead, he'd done something to spook the poor girl and she'd ended up with a bloody nose that still looked a little red around the edges. Since then, Clayton hadn't made any advances toward Regan that Martha saw as bridging the gap between them.

  "Over there, dear,” she instructed as Clayton pushed her around the corner of the church and into the orphanage play yard.

  If Clayton and Regan didn't start moving in the right direction soon, she would be forced to take drastic action. Locking them in the root cellar until they fell madly in love. Or concocting a love potion to make them realize they were meant for each other.

  Martha mentally reviewed her knowledge of such potions and spells as Clayton wheeled her over the dry, bumpy ground. Was it a bay leaf under a maid's pillow or in the toe of her slipper? Or perhaps it was rose petals in her tea or in her bath. But what about apple peels? Martha distinctly remembered something about apple peels and finding your one true love.

  Oh, drat. How was she ever supposed to get these two young people together if she couldn't even remember a simple love concoction?

  Regan lifted her head from the crown of wildflowers she was weaving together in time to see Martha and Clay coming her way. Her heart flipped over beneath her ribcage in the most annoying way at the sight of him, his hat tipped low over his forehead, shading his dark eyes, his blue cotton shirt stretched taught over his broad shoulders and solid chest, his faded denim trousers hugging his thighs and calves and backside like a caress.

  Well, now, that was quite an unlady like thought. And it must have come from some part of her memory because very little of Clay's lower body was visible behind Martha and her invalid chair.

  Regan swallowed a wave of embarrassment at her wayward musings and turned her attention back to the little girl on her lap. Four-year-old Bonnie lifted her wide, innocent eyes to Regan and smiled around the thumb tucked securely between her teeth. Regan smiled back and set the wreath of daisies and bluebonnets over her dark hair, then helped her to her feet so she could run off to play with Hannah and the other children.

  Leaning forward on both hands, she started to rise from her seat on the bare ground only to feel a pair of distinctly masculine hands curl around her waist and lift her to her feet.

  The air stole from her lungs at both the sudden movement from sitting to standing, and the shock of Clay's gallant behavior. She wasn't sure whether to be flattered or incensed. She settled for a polite, if clipped, thank you as she brushed the dirt from her black skirts.

  "Regan, dear, I'm getting a bit drowsy. Are you about ready to go?"

  "Of course, Mother Doyle. I don't want you overtaxing yourself.” She continued batting light brown soil from her black skirts, and then ... ?

  Regan tensed abruptly, her spine snapping straight like a ruler. Her breath caught and her mind raced to find another explanation for what she was feeling. Nothing came to her.

  In a careful, intentional motion, she tilted her head just so to look behind her. And saw one of Clay's tanned hands stroking her rump.

  "What do you think you're doing?” Her voice was brittle, each word terse and succinct.

  His eyes sparkled devilishly and one side of his mouth lifted in a grin that warned her he was about to lie through his teeth.

  "Dirt,” he said simply, giving her skirt one last pat for good measure.

  Her eyes narrowed. She drew in a great breath of air, ready to tell him just what she would do with his hand the next time he put it anywhere near her person without permission, when Mother Doyle—unaware, as usual, of the tension between her nephew and her daughter-in-law—cut off her tirade before it could even begin.

  "Are you ready, then?” she asked again, clearly in a rush to get going.

  "Yes. Yes, of course.” Regan shot Clay one last look of irritation, then walked around Martha's chair to take the handles. “Let's go get one of the children. I'm afraid Paul and Lillian are arguing over who gets to go home with us this time. They both seem to think it's their turn, and I haven't been much help because I honestly can't remember whose turn it is. Do you know?"

  "I know you like taking one or two of the children home with you each week, Regan,” Mother

  Doyle began, “but would you be terribly disappointed if we spent this week alone?"

  Regan paused on her path to where several young boys and girls were running in circles, playing with a battered ball and fighting over who was on whose team. “You mean not take anyone home with us this time?” she questioned incredulously. They had never not taken a child home with them, except for the rare times when Mother Doyle was feeling too under the weather to deal with youngsters racing around her house.

  "Are you feeling all right, Mother Doyle?” Concerned, she came around to face her mother-in-law, laying a hand on the older woman's forehead and studying her eyes for any sign of illness. She felt Clay at her shoulder, equally concerned about his aunt's health.

  Martha waved her away. “I'm fine. A bit tired, but nothing to work yourself up about. I just thought that since Clayton is staying with us, it might be nice to spend a few days alone, enjoying his company. It's not often I get to see my nephew, after all."

  Regan took a step back, studying Martha and Clay both. Clay shrugged a shoulder as though he didn't care one way or the other. He hadn't seemed overly fond of David or Hannah, but he also hadn't seemed eager to carry on a conversation with his aunt.

  And certainly Regan had no desire whatsoever to be alone with Clay. If anything, she wanted as many children between them as possible. David to scowl at him, Hannah to ward him off with her sad eyes and nightmares, Jeremy to howl like the dickens when he got too close to the cookstove, and Bonnie to wet on his lap because she hadn't quite mastered the use of the outhouse yet.

  But what could she do? She'd never denied Mother Doyle anything, and she wasn't about to start now. Not if her mother-in-law truly didn't feel well, and if she wanted to spend time alone with her nephew.

  "I ... suppose that would be all right.” Regan said hesitantly. “Paul and Lilly will be terribly disappointed, but I'll promise they can both come to stay next week. And maybe I'll slip them an extra sweet to make up for it."

  "That's a dear.” Martha smiled up at her and patted her hand. “You deal with the children and tell Father Ignacio we'll see him soon while Clayton takes me to the wagon. Clayton, dear...” She gestured to the back of her chair and Clay quickly stepped around to follow her command.

  He shot Regan a lopsided grin, amused by his aunt's demands. “Guess this means we'll have plenty of time to get to know each other,” he said, then turned and started pushing Martha toward the front of the church.

  Regan stood for several long beats, watching their progress—and struggling very hard not to watch the way Clay's legs moved in those dungarees. Despite the preoccupation she seemed to have with his tall, muscular form, she didn't want to get to know him. She didn't want to spend so much as a minute with him.

  He made her skin tingle, her heart do funny things inside her chest that she didn't think were at all healthy. Those things could be caused by the fact that he was a lawman. In the beginning, no doubt they had been. Now, though, she wasn't so sure.

  She didn't find herself glancing at his tin star as much as his silken hair and soft-looking lips. His storm-gray eyes and high cheekbones. His standing as a Texas Ranger had nothing to do with her impulse to run her hands over his stubbled jaw.

  She needed him to go away before she did something foolish. Before she touched him. Or he touched her and she didn't move away. She needed him to leave Purgatory so that her life—and her pulse rate—could return to normal.