Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

After a minute or two, the lady returned, pushing through the screen door, happily bobbing her head and making the blond curls framing her face bounce. “Fresh baked shortbread. Come.”

He left his hat on top of his duffel bag and climbed the steps. She met him halfway across the porch and extended a plate to him. It was china and lined with one of those white lacy things. On it were two large squares of shortbread, the aroma of which made Thatcher’s stomach growl. He’d eaten the last of the cheese and crackers during his five-mile hike from the Plummers’ place, but they hadn’t gone far.

“Are you Mrs. Driscoll?”

“Mila Driscoll, yes.”

“Thatcher Hutton.”

“Mr. Hutton. Please.” She thrust the plate toward him.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

He took one of the squares from the plate and bit into it. It was soft, buttery, sweet, and still warm from the oven. He swallowed the bite. “Delicious.”

“My husband’s favorite.”

Her face was round and rosy, and shiny with perspiration, which she fanned with her apron. The cloth had red and yellow apples printed on it, bordered in a red ruffle. When she smiled, her whole face lit up.

He thought about the tense set of Laurel Plummer’s features. He couldn’t feature her smiling so unguardedly or wearing that cheerful apron. “Your husband’s office is here in the house?”

“Front parlor, yes.” She nodded toward a tall bay window that was both functional and ornamental.

“Do you help with his practice?”

“No. Better I don’t.”

Her cheerful blue eyes took on a sad cast as she glanced behind him toward where he’d left his duffel, which was obviously U.S. army issue. It showed the wear and tear of having been to war and back.

Even before the states got into it, people of German descent were subjected to resentment and suspicion because of a foreign war they’d had nothing to do with. Mila Driscoll’s accent was a giveaway to her heritage. Thatcher reckoned she’d experienced a taste of unfair ostracism.

She didn’t refer to the war or his obvious service. Instead she asked him if he was moving to Foley.

“No, ma’am. Just staying for a spell.”

During the last mile of his journey today, he’d decided that hitching a free ride in freight cars came with risks he was unwilling to take again. His best option at this point was to earn enough money to buy a train ticket to whatever stop would get him closest to the Hobson ranch up in the Panhandle.

Before going off to do Uncle Sam’s bidding, Mr. Henry Hobson had told him, “Don’t get yourself maimed or killed over there. Your job here will be waiting on you when you get back.”

Thatcher had promised that he would be back, but the army had kept him in Germany for over a year after the armistice, so his return had taken longer than he’d counted on. Now on his way, he was eager to get back to his former life.

It was likely to take him a couple of weeks to earn enough to cover the cost of the train ticket and keep himself fed and sheltered. Say a month at the outside. But he needed to be getting at it and find a place to bunk for however long he was here.

He finished the shortbread. “It sure was good, Mrs. Driscoll.”

“Take the other.”

He hesitated but reasoned she would be disappointed if he didn’t. Besides, at his hungriest in the trenches, he’d sworn he would never again turn down food. “Okay. Hold on.”

He went down the steps to fetch a spare, clean handkerchief from his duffel so he wouldn’t have to wrap the extra piece of shortbread in the bloody handkerchief he’d used to bandage his hand.

When the treat was wrapped and tucked into his pants pocket, he said, “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

He hefted the duffel bag up by the strap and slid it onto his shoulder, then put on his hat. “Do you know anybody in town with a spare room? Doesn’t have to be fancy.”

“Near the railroad tracks. Room and board. Big yellow house.”

“I’ll find it.”

“I must remember to ask Mr. Hancock to remove the sign.”

“It’s not that conspicuous. I wouldn’t have noticed it if someone hadn’t told me where to look.”

“Oh? Who was dat?”

“Lady named Laurel Plummer. Lives out a ways.”

“Young woman with baby?”

“That’s right. I passed their place this morning. She gave me a drink of water. You’re acquainted?”

“Only one time I see her. Her baby girl had bad croup. She brought her to my husband for medicine.”

Little good it had done, Thatcher thought. “How old’s the baby?”

“Infant. Tiny.” She held her hands apart, about the length of a loaf of bread. “Poor Mrs. Plummer was very anxious.”

With reason. Living in such a squalid place couldn’t be good for a sick baby. “I didn’t meet her husband. What’s he do out there?”

“No husband. Father-in-law.”

He scratched his chin with his thumbnail. “That so?”

“Her husband…” Shaking her head, Mila Driscoll tsked. “He died.”

Huh. So it had been her father-in-law who’d had his shotgun at the ready. Thatcher hadn’t let on that he’d seen him, but he’d caught sight of that side-by-side as the woman had disappeared into the shadows inside the shack.