Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

To distract himself from thoughts of biting that lip, he ran his hand along the horse’s neck as she drank from the trough.

Laurel said, “What’s her name?”

“Serena.”

“Pretty.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t fit her personality. She’s high-stepping and willful, doesn’t pay attention to anybody.”

He could tell by Laurel’s peeved expression that she knew he wasn’t referring strictly to the mare. In a crisp voice, she said, “I wouldn’t have bothered you, except that I need to tell you something the sheriff ought to know.”

“Then why don’t you go see him?”

“Are you going to be civil and talk to me or not?”

“I’ll be civil and talk to you, but I can tell you right now that you won’t want to hear what I have to say.”

“And what is that?”

“Stay and find out.”

He made a nicking sound with his mouth and gave the reins a gentle tug. The mare fell into step behind him as he led her into the stable. Laurel trailed behind.

The shade was welcome, but the air inside the building was stuffy and hot and added to his overall grouchiness. Only after the mare was unsaddled, unbridled, and munching oats in her stall did he turn his attention to Laurel, who’d been standing in the center aisle, tapping her hat against her leg with annoyance for having been kept waiting.

“You don’t like horses?” he asked.

“I don’t mind them.”

“Do you ride?”

“Not with any skill. On the family farm, we had plow horses and one mule. I could sit astride and hold on. What is it you wanted to say that I don’t want to hear?”

“Have a seat.” He motioned to a bale of hay. She backed up to it and sat down. He took off his hat and hung it on a nail as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I’ve got a bucket of well water. Are you thirsty?”

“No thanks.”

He went over to the bucket, ladled himself a tin cup full, and drank it down. She set her hat on her lap. When he came back to her, he propped himself against a post between stalls. “Ladies first.”

“There’s something worth Sheriff Amos’s knowing, especially after what happened to Elray Johnson.”

“Why don’t you tell him directly?”

“Because you’re privy to certain things that he isn’t.”

“Like what?”

“My visit to Lefty’s. Have you mentioned that to him?”

“No.”

“Or that I’ve taken Corrine under my wing?”

“No.”

She wet her lips, pulled that enticing lower one through her teeth, making it difficult for him to concentrate on what she was saying.

“…so last night, I tested my memory of what Corrine had told me before. She described again how furious Gert was with Wally over the beating. Not because she had any sympathy or concern for Corrine, but because she was going to lose money while Corrine was out of commission.” She paused to take a breath. “It occurred to me that Gert might have killed Wally over it.”

“Huh.”

“You sound skeptical. Don’t you think she’s capable of murder?”

He thought back on his single experience with the woman and the fury she’d unleashed during the raid. “I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

“But what?”

“A lot of people are capable of murder. Gert has her own suspect in mind. She thinks Wally was killed by the woman who has put a cog in the local moonshining machine. Remember that’s what Elray told me seconds before he got shot.”

“Of course I remember. But does this mystery woman even exist? Gert probably made that up to deflect—”

“Laurel, stop. Just stop.” He walked over, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet, sending her hat into the dirt and shocking her into silence. “Do you think I’m just a cowboy too dumb to know what you’re into?”

“What do you mean?”

“Fucking hell,” he ground out, not caring if she was scandalized by his language. “Finding that hair clip where the still had been clinched it, but I already knew that you and Irv weren’t living off pies and his handyman business. I know the O’Connor twins wouldn’t be delivering baked goods—baked goods, for crissake—to the oil fields if there wasn’t more at stake.”

“They—”

“Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear anymore. I can’t hear anymore. I’m official now.”

“Just because you made that grand gesture of pinning on the badge?”

“Because Sheriff Amos swore me in as a reserve deputy last night.”

“Oh. I see.”

She pulled her hand free of his grip, but he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and held her in place. “Know why he needed another deputy? To try to keep moonshiners from killing each other.”

“Killing each other?”

“The war Bill Amos saw coming was declared.”

“What happened?”

“Three stills belonging to members of the Johnson family were destroyed by rivals.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know yet. But the outbreak of violence went on for most of the night. Stills were busted up. The hills ran with rivers of whiskey that had been poured out, sometimes by the sheriff’s men, sometimes by competing sides, and it was hard to tell who was who. There were several shootouts, them against each other, them against us.”