Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

He drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

“At least tell me you understand my reasoning,” Laurel said.

“I ain’t dense.”

“Then is that a yes? We’ll start looking in town for a place to live?”

“I’m thinking on it,” he said grouchily. “What’s the third thing under discussion?”

“No discussion to it. You’re going to teach me how to drive.” When she saw that he was about to object, she added, “Today.”





Six



On this Saturday afternoon, countryfolk had come to town. Main Street in Foley was heavily trafficked with automobiles, trucks, and horse- or mule-drawn wagons top-heavy with everything from bales of hay to prolific families.

Hancock’s General Goods was a three-story brick building. Its imposing facade dominated a block of the thoroughfare. In one of its four display windows were a pyramid of canned peas and carrots, several unfurled bolts of checked gingham in a rainbow of colors, a rack of Winchester rifles, and an open red metal tool box showing off a set of shiny wrenches.

The merchandise obscured the pale blue card stuck in the bottom corner of the window frame. It looked to Thatcher like it had been there for a while. The black ink had faded to brown, but the printed words were still legible. “Room for Let to single. 312 Pecan St.”

Thatcher waylaid a man who was about to enter the store. He was jowly and prosperous-looking. His pocket watch dangled from a thick gold chain threaded through a buttonhole on his vest.

“Excuse me.” Thatcher drew the man’s attention to the sign. “Can you aim me toward that address?”

The man took a backward step and sized him up. “New to town?”

“Just rolled in.”

The gentleman glanced again at the sign. “And apparently planning to stay.”

“Till I take a notion to move on.”

“What’s your business here?”

His challenging aspect didn’t sit well with Thatcher, but he said mildly, “Minding my own.”

The man frowned and harrumphed, but pointed down the sidewalk. “Three blocks. Take a right on Crockett. Two blocks to Pecan. Hook a left.”

“Thanks.”

Thatcher brushed the brim of his hat with his fingertips and set off. But something about the man’s manner compelled him to look back without being too obvious about it. Sure enough, the man was still watching him with a scowl of distrust. Thatcher couldn’t account for it, but he didn’t let it bother him overmuch.

Pecan Street was appropriately named. Several of the trees shaded the front lawn of number 312. The house was white with black shutters. Gingerbread trim lined the roof. A lattice with red climbing roses was attached to one end of the deep porch that ran the width of the house.

A picket fence enclosed the property like the frame around a picture of ideal domesticity. Where the fence and an inlaid stone walkway met, a sign hung from an iron post. On it, written in swirly black letters: “Dr. Gabriel Driscoll.” Dangling from it by two little brass hooks was another sign: “Out on Call.”

Right off Thatcher knew that he couldn’t afford any room in this house. It was far too fine. He was seeking more humble accommodations. Just as he was about to turn away, the screened front door opened, and a woman came out onto the porch holding a watering can with both hands.

She tipped the spout toward some purple flowers that bloomed from a wicker stand next to the front door. Noticing him, she paused and broke a friendly smile. “Hello.”

He removed his hat. “Ma’am.”

She looked in both directions of the street as though wondering how he’d come to be there, much as Laurel Plummer had done.

She said, “The doctor is out making house calls.”

“I’m not in need of the doctor. I came to see about the room for let.”

The smile with which she’d greeted him faltered. “Oh.”

She bent down to set the watering can on the floor and wiped her hands on her apron as she straightened up. She was in the family way. Pretty far along if Thatcher were to guess.

“I had forgotten the sign still was there.” She pronounced it “da-zine” in an unmistakably German accent. “We’re no longer taking a lodger.” Self-consciously she smoothed her hand over her belly.

“Oh. Well, it probably would have been too rich for my blood anyway. Thanks all the same.” He replaced his hat and made to leave when she blurted, “Wait. I want to bring you something, to thank you for inquiring.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Ma’am, you don’t owe me anything.”

“No, wait. Please?”

Her eager nodding persuaded him. “Okay.”

She beamed a smile. “Come up to the porch. I’ll be right back.” Leaving her watering can, she bustled inside.

Thatcher pushed open the gate and went up the walk. He stopped at the bottom of the steps leading onto the porch and eased the duffel bag off his shoulder, setting it on the ground. Then he stood there threading the brim of his hat through his fingers as he took a look around.

The house across the street was comparable to Dr. Driscoll’s in size and architecture, and was obviously occupied by a snoopy neighbor. He noticed movement behind a lace curtain in one of the front windows before it dropped back into place.