Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Laurel said, “He hopped off a freight car and wasn’t sure of where he was.”

“That’s what he told you, anyway.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Any number of reasons, and none of them good.”

“He startled me, but apologized for it.” For reasons she couldn’t explain, she felt compelled to defend the stranger. “He was mannerly.”

“That’s the worst sort. They sneak up on you and act like your friend.”

“The worst sort of what?”

“Of anything. How many times have I told you to be suspicious of strangers? Out this far? He could’ve been up to all kinds of mischief.”

“He was only asking for directions and a drink of water.”

“He must’ve had the thirst of a damn camel. What took so long?”

“While we were back there, the rooster made a nuisance of himself.”

She thought the less said about that incident, the better. The mean rooster had been the least of it. She’d known what to expect from that damn bird.

Her thoughts lingered now on what had come after. She hadn’t touched a man, or vice versa, since Derby’s death. Not even Irv. Despite the stranger’s leanness, he’d felt as solid as a tree trunk when she’d backed into him. When he’d steadied her with his hands on her arms, she’d had a momentary yearning to lean against him. It hadn’t lasted any longer than the flit of a butterfly’s wings, so it didn’t merit dwelling on now. She forced herself to tune into Irv’s grumbling.

“He didn’t look like any hobo I ever saw.”

Not to Laurel, either. “No, but he looked like a man who’d jumped off a train. His clothes were dusty. He had a ripped sleeve and a bruised bump on his forehead. And a cut on his hand.”

She didn’t want to think at all about that business with his hand. Any woman in the world would have responded the same way to seeing a nasty cut like that. She’d reacted in a typically female way. Instinctually. Maternally. Although, held in her palm, his hand hadn’t felt like that of a child.

“What was that hogwash about saving his army buttons?”

Seeing them had been a bleak reminder of Derby’s uniform hanging abandoned in the empty closet. She hadn’t told Irv about that, and saw no point in telling him now. It would only make him sad.

“The man was just passing by, Irv,” she said. “For heaven’s sake. Really, you’re making too much of it.”

“And you’re not making enough. I’ve lived longer. I’ve learned to be more cautious, less friendly.” He indicated the shotgun. “I’ll teach you how to shoot in case a vagrant, who ain’t so mannerly, comes along when I’m not here watching your back.”

She would be unable to reach the shotgun without dragging something over to the door and standing on it. By the time she did that, her throat could have been cut. So not to give Irv another reason to fret, she didn’t cite that. Instead, she gave a small nod of acquiescence.

He started for the door. “You tend to Pearl. I’ll hang that wash.”

“The wash can wait. I want to talk to you.”

His shoulders slumped as he turned back to her. “If it’s about moving into town—”

“It is. Let’s have this out. Sit down. Please.”

With obvious reluctance, he went over to a lidded barrel on which he’d placed a cushion to form a seat for himself. He often perched there instead of sitting in a chair. Laurel guessed it was easier on his hip.

She sat down at the small table at which they ate their meals. Pearl’s horrible, barking cough had subsided since she’d picked her up. Laurel laid her cheek against the top of Pearl’s head. “Her hair’s damp. I think her fever finally broke.”

“That’s good. She coughed all night long.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hell, Laurel, I ain’t cross over losing sleep.” Watching Pearl, he furrowed his brow. “Pains me to hear that cough. Poor little thing.”

Unwittingly he had given Laurel an opening. “I want to talk to you about a couple of things. Well, three, actually.”

He folded his arms over his middle. “What’s the first?”

“Thank you.”

That took him aback. “What for?”

“That night we showed up here, you could have sent us on our way. You could have put up a real fuss with Derby for springing us on you. You didn’t. I don’t think you’ll ever know how much I appreciated your kindness that night and these two months since. You haven’t complained once about Pearl and me being foisted off on you.”

He snorted. “You could’ve took one look at me and this place and raised more than a fuss, Laurel. You could’ve raised bloody hell, and Derby deserved it.”

They’d buried him in Foley’s municipal cemetery. At the grave site were only the two of them, Pearl, and the undertaker whom Irv had paid an extra fifty cents to read a suitable scripture and say a prayer.

In the weeks following, she and Irv grieved Derby privately, silently, neither speaking of him, because they had no shared memory except for the final few minutes of his life. Neither wanted to reminisce on those.

Laurel’s bereavement had been, and still was, far from pure and holy. It was corrupted by outrage. Were Derby’s last words to her, “You’ll thank me later,” supposed to atone for his cowardly, selfish desertion of her and Pearl, his defection from all responsibility?