"Move,” she supplied with a sigh and did just that. With her thighs holding tight to his hips, she lifted slightly and then let herself back down.

  Stars burst behind Clay's eyes. “This won't last long,” he muttered almost to himself.

  "What won't?"

  If she had to ask, she wasn't nearly as close to the edge as he was ... which meant he had some work to do. Shifting a hand from her hip to the crux of her thighs, he burrowed a finger between her tight auburn curls and into the cleft hidden beneath. She was already wet and throbbing and he had no trouble finding the tiny bud of her desire.

  The minute he touched her there, she gave a gasp of pleasure and rose up on her knees again. When she lowered herself, his finger slipped over the slick nubbin, increasing her ecstasy tenfold.

  His other hand moved to the curve of her buttock as he spurred her on. “Faster,” he ordered, and she quickly complied.

  Her movements increased, up and down, forward and back, until they were both panting with soon-to-be-fulfilled desire.

  "Oh, God. Clay!"

  He felt the tremors begin deep inside her before her outer body began to shake. “Yes, darlin', that's it.” He was so close, he couldn't have held back if his life depended on it. “Now, sweetheart. Now, now, now."

  She screamed as the orgasm rocked through her, sending her into convulsions above him. She spasmed about him as he shot into her, his own climax causing him to cry out as it squeezed every drop of energy from his worn-out body.

  Regan collapsed atop him, her cheek resting along one collarbone, her full head of wild red ringlets falling every which way around them. He hugged her close, stroking the line of her spine through the material of her dress and pulling the skirt down just a little to cover all of the important parts that might be visible to small birds or squirrels high up in the treetops.

  "Clay?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I liked being on top."

  He needn't have worried about meddlesome wildlife. His loud guffaw scared them all away.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  "Clay?” Regan asked a short while later as they were repairing their disheveled clothing.

  "What, sweetheart?” He lifted his head to meet her gaze, buttoning the front of his shirt and tucking the tails into his pants.

  "Do you think it's possible that Nolan didn't fall down the stairs?” She said the words quickly, before she lost her courage. She'd been thinking of how to broach the subject all afternoon, knowing she had to convince someone that the death hadn't been an accident. And now seemed like the perfect time, given Clay's lackadaisical mood.

  "What are you talking about?” he returned, distracted by unwinding his gunbelt and fitting the set of revolvers low on his hips.

  She finished fastening the clasps at the front of her corset and adjusted her breasts within the loose top.

  Clay closed the distance between them. “Need some help there, darlin'?"

  His lips were quirked suggestively and she fought the urge to accept his offer. An offer she was sure would land her right back on the ground, with her skirt up around her ears. “No, thank you,” she firmly refused. And then she turned them back to the conversation at hand. “I just mean that ... don't you think it's a little unusual for a forty-year-old man to fall down the stairs and break his neck?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  Buttoning her dress and doing her best to fix her hair, she cast him a frustrated glance. “Come on, Clay. The man has probably been going up and down stairs all his life. Why would he suddenly trip and fall? And even if he did, how hard would it have been to throw out an arm to slow his descent and keep him from getting that hurt?"

  "Regan.” A crease of concern marred his brow as he studied her. “The man fell. It's a sad turn of events, but accidents happen."

  "I just think it's unlikely, that's all,” she continued, reluctant to quit the subject so easily.

  Clay stroked a hand over her hair. “It's a shock for you, I know."

  Letting out a sigh of regret, she inclined her head and turned back toward the house. Clay wasn't as open as she'd hoped to the notion of Nolan Updike being murdered, and if they didn't get back soon, Mother Doyle would bring the roof down shouting for them.

  There was something else she'd been thinking about recently, too. “Clay?"

  "Hmm?"

  It was becoming the typical opening to their discussions.

  "You know how you let me try...” Her face heated at the very thought of what she was about to say. “Being on top."

  "Uh-huh.” She could hear the amusement in his grunted reply, which only added to her chagrin.

  "There's something else I've heard about, but never tried,” she rushed on before she lost her nerve.

  "What's that?"

  "Well, it's sort of like what you did to me the other night during the storm. When you put your mouth ... down there.” Her face fanned so hot, she was surprised she didn't burst into flames. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Only I would be doing it to you."

  Clay stopped so fast, he tripped over his own feet. “Christ on a cracker, woman,” he barked. “You can't just say something like that to a man while you're walking through the woods. It's enough to give him heart failure."

  He squinted his gray eyes for a moment as he studied her. “Is that how James died? Did you ask him to let you...?” He waved a hand, unwilling or unable to even finish the thought.

  "No!” she gasped, mortified to the marrow of her bones.

  "Hmph. Well, it's a good thing. A suggestion like that's liable to kill a fellow his age. Now, me, I'm still a young man, so my heart can take it. I'm not so sure about the rest of my body, but that's a whole other matter."

  Her fingers clenched and unclenched in the folds of her skirt as she started forward once again. She had felt so at ease with Clay only a few minutes earlier, and now she'd ruined it all by bringing up something she should have kept to herself. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you."

  "Embarrass me?” Clay grabbed her wrist and swung her around. “Sweetheart, you should know by now that I don't scare that easy. You just caught me by surprise, is all."

  His words softened to a near hush as he bent at the knees and brought his eyes to her level, brushing a thumb over her still-warm cheek. “The fact is, when you said what it is you want to do, it got me so hot, I couldn't see straight. I'm so stiff right now, I don't know how I'm going to walk back into that house without humiliating myself—if I can manage to walk that far at all."

  "Oh."

  "Yeah, oh,” he mumbled. “So about this ... thing you want to do. How about meeting me in the loft tonight, after Aunt Martha goes to bed?” He curled her hand into the crook of his elbow and turned them back toward the house. “We'll have plenty of time to experiment with any number of sexual feats you have in mind."

  "I don't know.” She did want to try what she'd mentioned, but now that he was putting her on the spot, she felt suddenly squeamish. It wasn't like her to plan a midnight rendezvous. For the sole purpose of physical gratification, too. Lord, but her mother would spin in her grave if she knew what a shameless hussy her daughter had become.

  "Are you turning shy on me, green eyes?” Clay teased.

  She nodded emphatically. “I think so."

  He threw back his head and laughed, then swept her into his arms and kissed her soundly on the lips. “That's why I love you, sweetheart—your utter decisiveness."

  Her stomach did a reverse flip and Regan knew it was more because of his declaration than the way he spun her around like a rag doll before catching her against his chest. Did he really love her? she wondered, or was that merely a form of speech?

  Before she could give it the proper amount of consideration, though, Clay continued.

  "Well, if you change your mind, let me know.” He gave her a meaningful wink. “Or maybe I can change it for you."

  He pressed a kiss to her temple and she knew that if he put his mind to it, he could reverse her decision in two seconds flat.

  "There is something we need to discuss, though."

  At his serious tone, she lifted her head to meet his gaze.

  "Given our time together, we should probably talk about the possibility of...” His words were slow and deliberate, and she saw him draw a deep breath before finishing. “Pregnancy."

  Of all the things she'd expected him to say, that had been the farthest from her mind. Unfortunately, the very thought of children, of carrying Clay's baby in the shelter of her womb, all but shattered her already bruised heart.

  "If we're going to continue on the way we have been—and I hope to hell we are—then we probably ought to think about some sort of preventive measures. There are steps we can take, a couple of items I may be able to get in town. And if it's already too late ... Well, I want you to know I'll do the right thing."

  He opened his mouth to go on, but Regan pressed her fingers over his lips to halt his good intentions. “Stop, stop, stop. I appreciate the sentiment. That's very noble of you, truly. But you don't have to worry about anything like that."

  His brows knit in confusion. “What do you mean?"

  Her next words were hardest of all to get out. “I can't have children, Clay,” she said quietly, unable to look him in the eye.

  For a minute, Clay's lungs locked and he found it hard to draw air. Instead of being relieved that he had not planted a baby in her belly, he was horrified at the abject misery evident on her face.

  He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gifted her with a sympathetic smile. “Why do you say that, sweetheart? You're a young woman.” He'd have gone on, but she was already shaking her head.

  "James and I were married for five years. We never had children.” Her explanation, delivered in a matter-of-fact tone, tore at his heart.

  Clay could have argued. He wanted to argue. James had been more than twenty years her senior. There was a good chance the fault lay with him and his age. But Clay felt reluctant to cast aspersions on her former husband—especially on a subject as delicate as his potency.

  Later he would find a tactful way to broach the subject again. For he knew Regan wanted children of her own. She was as maternal as they came, and he could easily picture her with a dozen runny-nosed brats hanging on her skirts.

  That explains the orphans, he realized suddenly, a lightning bolt of clarity flashing through his brain. She couldn't have children of her own so she thrust all of her love, attention, and motherly instincts on the children at the Home. It made perfect sense.

  "I'm sorry,” he said softly. “You'd make a wonderful mother.” And beautiful, frizzy-haired babies, he thought, puzzled by the pang of disappointment in his own gut.

  Hoping to lighten the solemn mood that had overcome them both, he brought her flush with his long frame, flattening her breasts to his chest and making sure she felt just how much he desired her when their lower bodies met.

  "In a much more selfish vein, I have to say I find this rather advantageous.” He touched their noses together in a gesture even he found extremely intimate and out of character for himself. But if it eased the tension in Regan's slight form, or put a smile on her downcast face, then it would be well worth it. “I can make love to you day and night and never worry about the consequences. You're a dream come true, green eyes.” Even so, he would pick something up the next time he was in town, just to be sure they were protected.

  His blithe remark didn't quite hit its mark, but she pretended to smile all the same. “I'm glad you find my situation convenient to your over-active carnal appetites,” she retorted and gave him a little shove. She pranced off, getting that much closer to the white house sitting in the distance.

  "I have it on pretty good authority that you enjoy my carnal appetites,” he aimed at her retreating back.

  She whipped around, one brow arched so high over her eye, it nearly met her hairline. “And who's authority would that be?” she challenged, hands on hips while she waited for him to catch up.

  Never let it be said that Clay Walker didn't possess an ego as big as any other man's. “Mine,” he answered, coming abreast to where she stood and looping his arms around her waist. “Meet me in the barn tonight and I'll prove it to you."

  She slapped at his tightening hold. “I am not meeting you in the barn."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you're entirely too arrogant for your own good."

  "Oh, but you can help me shed some of that conceit. I've been a naughty boy, Regan. Come to the barn tonight and teach me a lesson."

  "No!” Her somber tone was ruined by a girlish giggle.

  She twisted in his arms, but he only pulled her against him and bit the back of her neck.

  "Stop it! Clay!"

  "Hush, someone will hear you.” His warning had the desired result. She immediately stilled and he took advantage of her sedate state to nudge her hair out of the way and bite an even more tender part of her nape. “Meet me in the barn tonight."

  "No."

  "Then come to my room."

  He could almost feel her rolling her eyes at his entreaty. “Now, if I won't meet you in the barn, what makes you think I'll come to your room?” she asked.

  "My inherent charm?” he offered.

  "Highly unlikely,” she said with a snort. “Now let me go, you great oaf."

  His grip loosened, but he still held her within the circle of his arms. “If you don't agree to meet me, I may be forced to take drastic measures."

  She broke away, but didn't run. Instead, she kept one hand on his and pulled him along with her. “Such as?"

  "I'll sneak into your room and you'll have no one to protect you but that silly black cat."

  "Lucy-fur can be quite aggressive when she wants to be. So can I,” she tossed out with a superior tilt of her chin.

  "What are you going to do, scream?” Clay all but dared her.

  "I could. Or I could just kick you somewhere that will affect your ability to have children."

  Bull's eye. He cringed. “Ouch. You really know how to hurt a man, sweetheart."

  She beamed at him, thrilled with the bloodthirsty streak that apparently ran through her veins. “I'll only hurt you if you make me,” she promised. “Otherwise, you're perfectly safe from my and Lucy-fur's wrath."

  "I'm glad to hear it,” he grumbled, watching as she reached out to swipe at a few wrinkles in his shirt and straighten the badge on his vest.

  "What are you doing?” he asked. He thought he looked fine already, why was she fooling with his clothes?

  "You look like you've been rolling around on the ground."

  Cocking his head, he lowered his voice and said, “I have been rolling around on the ground. With you."

  Two pink spots started in the center of her cheeks and spread outward. “I know that, but we don't have to look like we've spent the afternoon sinning. Tuck the rest-of your shirt in before someone sees you,” she ordered.

  He did as she said, letting her turn back around and head home.

  "Urn, Regan?"

  "Yes?” she shot over her shoulder, carrying herself as regally as a queen.

  "Since you're worried about appearances,” he offered, an insolent grin turning up the corners of his mouth, “you may want to pull those leaves out of your hair."

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When they arrived home from the Updikes’ house, David was sitting on the porch, waiting for them.

  "David!” Regan called out. “What are you doing here?"

  Jumping to his feet, he shoved his hands into his front pockets, but didn't say anything. He watched as they climbed down from the wagon and unloaded Mother Doyle, even helping Clay maneuver the heavy chair up the porch steps. But as soon as Clay and Martha disappeared into the house, he blocked Regan's entry and kept her cornered outside.

  "Did you hear?” he asked in a low voice, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

  "Hear what?"

  "About Updike.” His eyes went icy and one side of his mouth turned up in a sneer. “He's dead. Serves the bastard right."

  "David!"

  "My name isn't David, it's Little Badger. That worthless son of a bitch never took responsibility for me, he shouldn't have been allowed to name me."

  Regan sucked in a sharp breath of air. She heard Clay's booted stride as he came up behind David, but she didn't move or look in his direction.

  "You knew?” she asked, stunned.

  David jerked his head.

  "But how?” Thanks to Father Ignacio's confidences, she'd known for years now that David was Nolan Updike's illegitimate son, conceived with a Comanche woman from a small tribe outside of town. But never in her wildest imaginings had she thought David knew his true parentage.

  "You know about my Indian blood,” he told her with a stubborn slant of his jaw. “I knew, too, from an early age that my mother had been Indian, but I wanted to know more about my father. So one day, while everyone else was busy, I broke into Father Ignacio's office. Father Ignacio keeps track of the kids who are abandoned at the orphanage, along with any information he can find when they first show up.” David's dark eyes turned hard. “Turns out Nolan Updike is the person who brought me to the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children. He also donated a large sum of money to the padre for my care. I'm not stupid, Regan,” he spat. “I know what that means."

  "David,” she began slowly.

  He pulled away, narrowing his gaze on her. “You knew, too, didn't you? But you never said a word. You never did anything to make him pay for how he treated me and my mother."

  His accusations were like a saber blade to her heart. “David,” she said carefully, “I only came to Purgatory five years ago. I didn't know you or Mr. Updike when all of this happened. And when I did figure out the circumstances of your birth, I didn't think it would be right to say anything. I didn't think it would change anything."

  She replaced her hand on his arm. “I love you, David. I couldn't love you more if you were my own son. I wouldn't hurt you for the world, and I thought that telling you could only cause you pain. Can you understand that?"