Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

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Really not since Derby had come home from Europe had Laurel felt completely at rest. This must be the way it felt when a beguiling narcotic channeled through one’s veins, replacing distress, anger, grief, all things horrid with a honeyed peace. The languor was lovely. She had no wish to move.

Not until Thatcher did. And then she opened her eyes to watch as he walked over to the dresser and took off his pants. His tall frame was spared lankiness by wide shoulders, defined muscles and tendons, and a perfectly formed, firm backside.

“You mind me getting naked?”

She sought his eyes in the mirror above the dresser from which he’d obviously been watching her watch him.

A worry line appeared between his eyebrows. “Are you embarrassed now by what we did?”

“No. Only embarrassed that you caught me admiring the view.”

The line faded and he grinned as he poured water onto a cloth and washed himself, then filled the bowl from the pitcher, got a fresh cloth off the towel rack, wet it, and brought it back to the bed. She couldn’t keep herself from admiring the front view, too. He was generously apportioned.

He sat down on the side of the bed and washed her stomach with the cloth, then passed it to her. Reaching beneath the sheet, she cleaned herself between her thighs.

“I’ll get some Sheiks,” he said. “But, except for the flu, I didn’t catch anything over there.”

Derby had explained to her why servicemen had been encouraged to use prophylactics. He’d assured her that he had.

Thatcher got back in the bed and stretched out beside her on his side, his elbow on the mattress, his fist supporting his cheek. He pulled back the sheet that she had draped over her hips and surveyed her with frank interest. His absorbed gaze made her turn rosier than she already was.

“You are embarrassed,” he said.

“Bashful.” She lowered her eyes and addressed his chin. “I’ve only been with Derby. I don’t know how to act with you.”

“Don’t act at all. Just be you.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Something good, I hope.”

“An admission.” She reached out and placed her hand on the meaty part of his chest. Her fingers lightly stroked the dusting of hair. “I wanted to see you without your undershirt.”

“What?”

“The night you brought Irv home. You’d used your shirt to stanch the wound and were wearing only a Henley. It fit so tight that I got some idea of what you must look like under it. I couldn’t stop looking, imagining, and wishing I could see your bare chest.”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “I was wishing I could see yours, too.” He palmed her breast and ran his thumb across the nipple. “More than just see.” He bent his head and caressed her nipple with his tongue then sucked each into his mouth before leaning away from her. “I’ve daydreamed for hours about doing that.”

“You have?”

“Since I saw you wrestling with that sheet. Even that saggy dress you had on couldn’t keep me from wondering what was underneath. Every time the wind kicked up, I got a fairly good idea.”

“You gave no sign.”

“I thought you were married.”

“Have you ever been?”

“Married? Naw. There weren’t any girls on the ranch except for one hand’s mother, who cooked for Mr. Hobson. The girls in town were just, you know. Us cowboys made that house a stop on our alternating Saturday nights off.”

She folded one arm beneath her head. “You never had a special girl, Thatcher? One who either got away, or who you left behind?”

“No.”

She just looked at him.

“No,” he repeated.

“You’ve never been in love?”

“No.” He lifted a strand of her hair off the pillow and began winding it round and round his index finger. “There was a woman in France. Not one of the ‘French girls’ you referred to,” he said wryly. “She was a nurse in the hospital. She was from Scotland. When she talked it sounded like bells jingling.”

“Was she pretty?”

“In her way. Every soldier in the ward liked her. They’d flirt with her. She’d flirt back. All in fun. Whenever one would die, she took it hard, because she’d lost her fiancé during the first year of fighting. That’s why she volunteered.” He pulled his finger from the curl of hair he’d formed, laid it back on the pillow, then began to trace the shape of her eyebrow.

“She was crazy about horses, found out that I was a cowboy, wanted to know all about my life on the ranch in the wild, wild West. Sometimes after her shift, she’d come sit with me and we’d talk.”

When he didn’t continue, Laurel whispered, “There’s more to this story, I think.”

He gave a small shrug. “When I was discharged from the hospital, I was given a three-day leave before I had to report for duty. She invited me to stay with her. She had a small place. Only one room and a toilet, but she’d made it cozy.”

“How often did you stay with her?”

“Just that once. After that three days, we said our goodbyes.”

“Did you write to each other?”

“No.”

“Did you see her after the war?”