Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“I don’t even drink.”

“I’m familiar with this house,” he said, seemingly out of context. “It has a sizable cellar.”

Landry suddenly became animated. “I understand that it backs into the limestone hill,” he said. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“What an engineering marvel.”

“Hardly, Mr. Landry,” she said. “It’s a rather crude construction, actually.”

“Nevertheless, I would love to see it.”

Laurel’s heart was in her throat, but she said, “Follow me.”

She led them through the dining room, the kitchen, and out the back door. As she began moving aside offshoots of the honeysuckle, Landry asked, “Is the cellar accessible only through this door?”

“Yes. But the fragrance is so nice I can’t bring myself to prune the vine.”

“Not only is it lovely to smell, it’s useful. It partially conceals the door.”

She saw another flash of gold in Landry’s jaw when he smiled. She pushed open the door. At the top of the stairs, she said, “Please be careful. These steps are steep and rickety.”

“Why not turn on the light?” the mayor said.

“It doesn’t work.”

He reached up and yanked on the string. The recently installed electric light, which had been one of the projects on Irv’s list, came on.

“Voilà!” Landry said.

Laurel tried to look surprised and pleased. “My father-in-law must have changed the bulb. I’ve been after him to do it.”

She preceded the men down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she turned to face them. “Mr. Landry, note the inexpert connection of the rock wall to the interior.

“And, Mayor Croft, you’re quite right about the goods that Irv purchases for me. He’s a fix-it man, you know. He’s made me copper pots, which I use when stewing fruit for my pie fillings. The recipes call for pounds of sugar. I can barely keep up with my demand for pies, so, while fresh fruit is in season, I’ve made provision for the fall and winter months by canning.” She raised her hands to her sides, inviting them to take a look.

The surrounding walls were lined with shelves laden with fruit jars of pie fillings.





Fifty-One



He would pick the hottest day of the year to do this, Thatcher thought as he guided his mount into a shallow creek, where he reined in the pinto gelding so he could drink. Thatcher uncapped the canteen of water he’d brought with him and drank from it. After draping its strap back over the pommel, he dismounted, took off his bandana, dipped it into the creek water, then wrung it out before tying it back around his neck. The coolness was a welcome relief from the blistering heat and scorching sun.

The pinto was one of Fred Barker’s horses for rent. Thatcher had asked if he could take him out for a couple of hours. He also asked to borrow a rifle from Barker, telling him he wanted to get in some target practice. Barker hadn’t hesitated to grant both requests, but had remarked that it was one hell of a hot day to be either shooting or taking a pleasure ride.

Thatcher wasn’t going on this ride for the fun of it. He’d chosen this particular horse because of his stamina. He also needed a stolid horse, one not easily spooked. He didn’t know anything about his destination, but he’d envisioned it being desolate, rugged terrain, and he’d been right.

He’d ridden cross-country out of town, but had kept the roads in sight, using them and landmarks he’d seen on the county map to guide him to a pass between two sizable hills. He’d found it right where it was supposed to be. Pointer’s Gap.

The pinto finished drinking and raised his head. Thatcher patted him on his neck and swung up into the saddle. “Let’s go take a look-see.”

He adjusted his hat to block the late-afternoon sun from his eyes. As he came out the other side of the creek, he pushed the responsive horse into a gallop to cover the last quarter mile of level ground. Before daylight ran out, he wanted to explore as much of the gap as he could.

When he reached the twin inclines and the narrow pass cleaving them, he slowed the horse to a walk. He flushed a covey of quail from a grove of mesquite trees. He saw a jackrabbit in a losing race against a bobcat, a nanny goat and two kids that had likely discovered an opening in their owner’s fence, and countless horned toads skittering across the crusty earth. A foot-long lizard dozing on a flat rock slid to the ground when he and the pinto clomped past.

The wildlife were at home in this inhospitable landscape. They belonged to it and in it. Thatcher was searching for something that didn’t belong.

Just as the sun was setting, he spotted it.

* * *



Corrine hummed as she stirred the pot of beans suspended above the cookfire, which she’d let burn down to embers. The sun had set, but even though it wasn’t full dark yet, flames would signal their location to anyone—lawmen or outlaws—who might be scouting the area.

Seated on side-by-side boulders several yards away from her, Irv and Ernie were watching Corrine, sharing a jar of moonshine, and discussing whether or not to risk distilling tonight.

“What do you think, Ernie?”

“Her beans are right tasty.”

Irv growled with annoyance. “Not talking about her. What do you think about firing up the stills?”