Walker's Widow Page 9

  Unfortunately, Mother Doyle wanted him here. And what Mother Doyle wanted, Mother Doyle most often received. Regan would just have to deal with Clay's presence and hope he didn't discover her secret.

  Which reminded her ... After explaining to Paul and Lilly why they couldn't come home with her this time and tucking an extra piece of candy into each of their pockets, Regan made her way into the church. Glancing around to be sure she was alone, she slipped the thick roll of bills from the pocket of her skirt and tucked them into the poor box.

  On Sunday, Father Ignacio would discover the money. It would be put to good use, and the donation would never be linked to her. The longer she stole for the orphanage, the more she worried that the money would somehow be connected to her. She had to be careful that no one noticed her visits often coincided with the rather large contributions that sometimes appeared in the poor box.

  Her favorite and best course of action was to place a little of the pilfered cash in the collection plate each week in order to make the additional income as inconspicuous as possible. Today, however, she wanted to be rid of the bills in case Clay somehow discovered them and became suspicious.

  Having taken care of that task, she met Clay and Mother Doyle at the wagon, and even let Clay help her up to the seat. Without the children on the ride home, the drive passed in near silence. Regan couldn't think of anything to say, not that she felt much like talking, and for once, Mother Doyle didn't seem interested in conversation.

  When they reached home, Clay helped Martha down from the wagon and carried her into the house. Regan followed, dragging Martha's chair behind her across the yard and up the front steps.

  Clay met her at the top of the stairs and in one quick motion took the chair away from her and set it on the porch. “She's in the kitchen,” he offered before she had a chance to thank him. “Says you'll make her a nice cup of tea before she takes a nap."

  "Oh.” Regan's eyes widened in consternation at her own forgetfulness. She'd been watching the muscles of Clay's arms bulge as he lifted Martha's heavy wheeled chair up the last few steps onto the porch. And how the sun highlighted his raven hair and glinted off the round silver badge pinned to his left shirt pocket.

  She'd completely forgotten that Mother Doyle wasn't feeling well. That she always fixed her mother-in-law a cup of hot tea in the afternoon before she laid down for a few hours. Forgot that she should not—could not—find this man attractive. He was a threat not only to her freedom, but to her peace of mind.

  "Oh,” she repeated, struggling to string more than two words together. “Yes, I'd better set some water on to boil."

  Clay inclined his head in a soundless, masculine nod of approval. “I'll unhitch the horses and put them out to pasture,” he said, moving down a step beside her. Then another. And another.

  Regan let her gaze trace his almost lazy departure.

  Once his booted feet hit the hard-packed earth, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder at her. “As soon as Martha's down for her nap ... we need to talk."

  She swallowed and carefully wet her lips before answering, hoping her voice wouldn't betray the alarm skating around the outer edges of her belly. “About what?"

  "My trip to the sheriff's office."

  Chapter Eleven

  Regan watched him walk away, her heart beating like an Apache war cry in her chest.

  He wanted to talk about his visit to the sheriff? Why? What had Sheriff Graves said to him? Did Clay suspect her of the robberies? Was he going to question her, then take her away in manacles and leg irons?

  A wave of dizzy panic washed over her and she clutched the porch balustrade for support. Her life passed before her eyes as she pictured herself being thrown into a tiny cell in the Purgatory jail; sitting in the makeshift courtroom that would be constructed for her trial; being found guilty and sent to a larger prison like Huntsville where she would be housed with lunatics and hardened criminals, fed moldy, worm-infested bread and fetid water.

  Oh, lord, she would never survive such a thing.

  When she'd first begun stealing for the Home, she hadn't thought of the repercussions. Of the penalty should she be caught.

  And now a Texas Ranger was living under her roof, searching for the thief, and threatening to lock her in a dark, dank prison cell.

  Her breath came in short, shallow pants as terror overcame her. Her nails dug half moons into the painted wooden railing and she sank to the top step of the porch as her knees buckled beneath her.

  She thought of running. Of simply taking off across the field and not stopping until she reached the Mexican border. Once there, she could dress in the bright colors and flowing skirts of the Mexican people, cover her tell-tale curls with a long mantilla, and take a position as a maidservant at some wealthy don's hacienda.

  Yes, that would work ... if she actually made it to the border. Regan suspected Clay would track her down before she reached the outskirts of Purgatory.

  If she could make it out of town, she could hide out in Hell, the well-known outlaw camp on the other side of Purgatory. She deserved to be trapped there, with all the rest of the robbers, rapists, and murderers. She may not fair well, being a woman, but at least she would be with her own kind. It was no less than she deserved.

  The idea of turning herself in did cross her mind, but only for a fraction of a second. Confessing would probably be the noble thing to do, but it would only result in the same nightmare actions she'd envisioned a moment ago. Incarceration, misery ... and death, because she could never withstand so much as a week behind bars.

  Regan suddenly became aware of her name being called. She lifted her head and heard Martha yelling for her from the kitchen.

  Martha's tea. Good heavens, she'd forgotten again.

  Yet another reason—besides her cowardice—that she could never run away. If she left, there would be no one to care for Mother Doyle. Her mother-in-law needed her. And even without her regular financial contributions, Regan knew that the orphans needed her. The children loved her as much as she loved them. Whether she brought them gifts or not, she brightened their lives with her visits—just as they brightened her life with their innocence and youthful antics.

  "Regan! Where are you?"

  Regan inhaled deeply and pushed herself to her feet. “Coming, Mother Doyle."

  She would deal with Clay when the time came and hope for the best. Perhaps he didn't suspect her at all. Perhaps he had noticed the sheriff's overt lack of interest in halting or preventing crime in Purgatory. Everyone in town knew Sheriff Graves for the shiftless incompetent that he was. Unfortunately, no one else had ever volunteered for his position, so they were stuck with him.

  And if Clay did question her in relation to the robberies, she would simply answer his questions as best she could. Without implicating herself, of course.

  "Regan Doyle, are you going to fix me a cup of tea or not?” Martha's frustration echoed through the house and out to the porch.

  "Coming!” Regan cast one last look toward the barn where Clay had disappeared, then turned for the kitchen and whatever fate awaited her.

  By the time Clay returned from unhitching the team from the buckboard, Regan was helping Aunt Martha into bed for her nap. Two nearly empty, flower-patterned china cups and saucers sat on the kitchen table, along with one less dainty mug.

  A pot of coffee bubbled on the stove and, not for the first time, Clay noted Regan's homemaking skills. She made a fine cup of coffee, a mean bacon and egg breakfast, and an apple pie that could cause a saint to sin.

  It wasn't much of a jump for Clay's mind to go from thinking about Regan's proficiency in the kitchen to imagining her talents in the bedroom. He could see her fixing an early dinner, sending the children off to bed, then meeting her husband in the bedroom for a little tussle between the sheets. He could see slim fingers slowly working loose the buttons of her dress. Something peach or yellow or violet—anything but black. Slowly revealing hidden inches of her porcelain skin with a light spattering of freckles on her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. Her dark nipples puckering as her husband ran his thumbs over the tightened peaks, her copper curls brushing the top of her buttocks as her head fell back, her moan of delight as her husband swept her into his arms and deposited her on the bed so that he could further explore her luscious body.

  So many things could be done with a woman as beautiful as Regan, Clay thought. So many touches and tastes. So many sounds of pleasure. The possibilities rushed through his brain and heated his already simmering blood.

  And it didn't set well at all that when he pictured Regan's second husband, the man had his face.

  Admit it, Walker, a voice in his head prodded. You want her.

  And just how bad would it be if he had her? The thought was a sudden one. Jarring, and yet somehow comforting.

  He'd spent so much time trying to convince himself that lusting after his cousin's wife was a bad idea, he'd never stopped to consider the positive side of the situation.

  Regan was a widow. That gave her more freedom than if she were unmarried or her husband were still alive. She could easily take a lover if she chose and was discreet about it. Perhaps she already had.

  Clay's jaw clenched. He didn't want to think about that possibility. About another man relieving her of her form-fitting widow's weeds, revealing her pale skin and high, pert breasts. Kissing her full, moist lips and making her moan the way she had in last night's dream.

  But once the idea forged in his head, it took root and grew to mammoth proportions. Maybe that was why she was so nervous around him. Maybe she had a lover she didn't want him or Martha to know about. It would explain a few things ... like her being out so late the night before with the excuse of looking for her cat. And her reaction to his unannounced appearance in her kitchen.

  What if she'd sneaked off to meet a lover? What if she did this several times a week—or every night, for all he knew? How dare she behave like such a brazen hussy under his aunt's roof.

  Clay let the anger and resentment curdle in his gut for a moment, then took a deep breath and let it out. All right. He was overreacting and he knew it.

  His mind had conjured up the idea of Regan running off to meet a lover and he was suddenly on the verge of accusing her of betraying his entire family. He'd known the woman all of twenty-four hours and she had him wavering between thinking her an angel or the devil's spawn.

  He hooked his thumbs into the gunbelt at his waist and cocked his hip to the side while he considered. He'd give Regan the benefit of the doubt. She could very well be everything she seemed to be, everything Aunt Martha crowed about. Sweet, innocent, caring, kind ... sexy as hell out of those mourning clothes.

  When she came back into the kitchen, he'd talk to her about his chat with Sheriff Graves and see if she knew anything more about this burglar he was supposed to capture. If he managed to drop a few questions or hints about her virtue and activities, and he didn't like her answers ... then he'd worry about her after-dark excursions and unexplained errands in town.

  Her soft voice wishing his aunt a good nap carried down the hallway, followed by the uneven rhythm of her footfalls on the hardwood floor as she neared the kitchen.

  Clay turned at her entrance, and she hesitated when she saw him. Then she seemed to recover herself.

  "Did you get yourself some coffee?” she asked politely as she crossed the room.

  He tracked her with his eyes. “No."

  She wrapped a towel around the handle of the blue-speckled pot and brought it to the table. “I thought you might like this better than tea,” she offered as she poured a generous portion into his cup.

  He grunted his thanks, not taking his gaze off her.

  She returned the kettle to the stove, neatly folded the towel and set it aside, then turned toward him like a felon facing a firing squad.

  "You wanted to discuss your visit to Sheriff Graves,” she said curtly.

  This was the first time she'd ever looked him directly in the eye without squirming. He wondered what she was up to. “That's right."

  "I'm sorry, but I can't take the time to sit down and chat right now. The trip to town has already eaten up more of the day than I can spare. I hope you don't mind."

  He took a threatening step forward. Not to frighten her, but to show her he meant business. “I do mind."

  Clay should have known she would not let herself be intimidated by him. At his tone, her brows lifted and she fixed him with a stare of her own that told him if he messed with her, he might just end up walking with a limp.

  "I'm sorry to hear that,” she replied in the prim, clipped tone of an experienced schoolmarm, “but I have work to do.” Spine like a branding iron, she marched to the back door, took a wide-brimmed straw hat off a pegboard on the wall, and stuffed it on her head. “You're welcome to the rest of the coffee,” she said as she tucked away loose curls and tied the bits of ribbon beneath her chin. “And there's pie in the warmer. Good day."

  Good day? Good day? Clay's gaze narrowed as he watched her bustle out of the house. Did she really think she could offer such a flimsy excuse and flounce off without talking to him? Apparently so. Well, he wouldn't be brushed aside that readily.

  Downing the steaming coffee in one long swallow, he set the mug back on the table with a clunk and headed out the back door after his headstrong widow.

  Chapter Twelve

  Regan heard the kitchen door slam and cursed her dratted luck. Why couldn't this man leave her alone?

  Everywhere she looked, every time she turned around, there he was. Bad enough he was a lawman, her mother-in-law's nephew ... now he was her shadow, as well. And it was obvious the man couldn't take a hint.

  She didn't want to talk, which she thought she'd made clear as leaded crystal. And yet here Clay was, trailing her out to the garden to harangue her with questions about Purgatory's unidentified burglar. How she was supposed to answer his inquiries without turning suspicion on herself, she hadn't the first notion.

  At the very least, she would have to put him off a while longer.

  She went to the small tool shed behind the house to collect a wicker basket and several gardening tools. Digging in the dirt was not her favorite pastime, but she often weeded Mother Doyle's flowerbeds, and the vegetables had been left to linger a bit too long, so this was as good a way as any to look busy and to put off conversing with Clay.

  Even from a yard away, where he stood just off the back steps of the house, his gaze burned across her flesh like a flame. The feel of his eyes following her every movement caused her palms to sweat, but she dried them distractedly in the folds of her skirt as she knelt in the soil beside a row of tomatoes and began turning the dirt near their bases. She pulled stray weeds from around the plants and tossed them aside, breaking off ripe tomatoes when she found them, and setting them gently in the basket at her hip.

  She sensed rather than saw Clay's approach. He wasn't going to leave her alone—she should have known that from the outset. If she had faced facts twenty minutes ago, she would be inside where it was at least a few degrees cooler, being interrogated over a nice cup of mint tea instead of kneeling out here on the ground, bent over wilting tomato plants.

  "Need some help?” he asked charitably.

  Not for a minute did she assume he'd lost or forgotten his main focus. Oh, no, he was simply trying to lull her into a relaxed state so that she would be more likely to answer his questions quickly and honestly, without thinking, when he finally got around to asking them.

  Of course, if he was offering to help...

  Tipping her head to the side, she studied him from beneath the brim of her wide sunbonnet. “That's very kind of you, thank you.” She leaned on the short handle of her trowel for leverage as she held her skirts aside and rose to her feet. Then she handed him the gardening implement and gestured to the rest of the bushy green plants in the row.

  "Pull any ripe tomatoes you find and put them in the basket. Mother Doyle will be delighted to see that her vegetable patch is doing so well. Do the same with the peppers and corn, if you would, please. And pull as many weeds as you can from around the plant stems. It will help them hold more moisture when I water them."

  Regan brushed dirt from the palms of her hands and light brown spots from the knee area of her skirt to keep from laughing at Clay's stunned expression. Based on his reaction to her instructions, she thought he'd likely expected his polite query to be met with an equally polite “no, thank you,” or the simple request of taking the basket of fresh vegetables into the house.

  "As soon as you finish that, perhaps you'd help me gather some carrots and potatoes. Those are always the most difficult for me because they require digging with the big shovel.” She didn't bother telling him that Emmett, who came by to clean stalls and care for the livestock each morning, often helped her with larger chores. Occasionally, she would also hire a man from town to work around the house, giving him the jobs that were too big or physically challenging for her to accomplish on her own.

  She hadn't planned to do so much today, hadn't even planned to garden at all. But as long as Clay was handy and willing to help, she might as well put those wide shoulders and strong back to good use.

  Clay regarded her carefully, kneading the handle of the trowel she'd passed him. “And just what will you be doing while I'm busy harvesting your supper?"

  Her lips turned up in momentary amusement. “Unless you've taken a room in town, it will be your supper, too,” she reminded him, then averted her eyes before responding to the other part of his question. “I thought I would go inside to clean a bit. The parlor needs dusting and Mother Doyle's silver is in dire need of a good polishing. I really will have to start dinner soon, too."

  Reaching up to loosen the tie under her chin, she began to turn. Only to feel Clay's large hand close on her upper arm. Regan lifted a brow, looking pointedly at where his fingers folded over the dark sleeve of her daydress. He didn't release her.