Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“Fire?”

“Jesus, Thatcher. You ain’t heard about that?”

* * *



The sheriff’s office was more crowded than it had been since the morning the search for Mila Driscoll was organized. Then, Thatcher had only heard the commotion from his jail cell.

This morning, as he entered the building, he had to wedge himself between the interior wall and the throng of men surrounding Bill, who was standing in the center of the large room, fielding dozens of questions even as he issued assignments.

“We don’t know how many confirmed dead yet,” he was saying. “I’m afraid to calculate. Relatives we’ve talked to said that Hiram had called a clan conference. The only acceptable excuses for not attending were that you were being born or dying.

“There could have been dozens inside that house, including women and children. So far, we haven’t come across any survivors. Which leaves us knowing squat about what happened during that meeting.”

Thatcher listened as did everyone else as Bill shared what little he had learned. Hiram’s nearest neighbor, with whom he wasn’t on the best of terms, had heard a “loud bang” the night before.

“He took it for a lightning strike, rolled over and went back to sleep. This morning when he noticed several thin trails of smoke coming from the direction of Hiram’s place, he thought he ought to go check.”

When not a single Johnson appeared on their private road to challenge him for trespassing, the neighbor had become even more apprehensive of what he would find at the dead end.

“He said the house had been incinerated,” Bill told those gathered around him. “Despite the rainstorm last night, parts of it were still smoldering. He drove to the nearest telephone and called me.” Bill stared down at his boots for a moment. “All I can say is, it must’ve been a hell of a blaze. It’s a scene out of hell.”

Bill had left a team of deputies there to keep curiosity seekers away. Even those few Johnsons who hadn’t attended the meeting, but had immediate family members who had, weren’t allowed beyond a certain point.

“I’ve requested a team of state investigators specially trained in arson to come up from Austin. May be tomorrow before they can gather all their gear and make the drive. In the meantime, the rest of you continue investigating the ambush on the O’Connors. You have your duties. Get to them.”

Many shuffled out. Others got on telephones. Bill came over to Thatcher, who said, “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”

“Be glad you missed it.”

“The Johnson place?”

“Thatcher, if that fire wasn’t an act of God, it was the work of Satan himself. There were kids in that house. Babies.”

Thatcher had seen charred bodies of soldiers on the battlefield and of civilians in bombed-out villages. He had hoped never to see such a grotesque sight again. Neither he nor Bill said anything for a moment, then Thatcher asked if Mike O’Connor was still alive.

“Last word I got, he was holding on, but they’re keeping him sedated. Doc Perkins said he’d let me know as soon as he’s stable enough to be questioned.”

Thatcher nodded absently, then asked about Gabe Driscoll’s present frame of mind.

Bill said, “I haven’t been in to see him this morning. Someone else took him breakfast.”

Thatcher took a look around the room. It hadn’t escaped others’ notice that he and Bill were conferring privately, a privilege that Bill didn’t afford everyone. Scotty and Harold tolerated Thatcher, but only to an extent. Most of the veterans of the department still regarded him with suspicion and hostility. He was sure that some held to the belief that he was guilty of doing something to Mila Driscoll. That continued to plague him. Whether or not they ever welcomed him into the fold, he had to lay that misconception to rest.

Which is why he wanted to speak to Bill alone. “Let’s go take a look at that road where the getaway car was waiting for the shooters.”

“I doubt we’ll find any clues.”

“I doubt we will, too, but I’m afraid these walls have ears.”

Bill gave him a sharp look, then announced to the room at large that he would be back shortly.

* * *



Laurel woke up later than usual, with a fully risen sun lighting the bedroom through the shades Thatcher had lowered last night.

Thatcher. At the mere thought of him, warm happiness suffused her. She was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t stayed until she woke up, but she knew the hard day he had in store.

At the same time, she was almost glad he wasn’t facing her across the pillow just now. She blushed at the thought of ever looking him in the eye again. The things he’d taught her!

Derby had regarded himself as quite a Casanova. His lovemaking had been vigorous, and he’d strutted that as a sign of his virility. He’d always taken for granted that she was satisfied, when the gratification had been his alone. The sex had been for him, not her. To be fair, she didn’t believe he’d been selfish. He simply hadn’t known any better.

If not for Thatcher, neither would she.

He had awakened her to levels of sensuality she’d never known were available or would have dreamed possible. In response to her apprehension over what he expected, over what she could expect from him, he’d been patient and persuasive. His touch, knowing smile, and whispered words had been temptation made manifest. His tenderness, passion sanctified. Throughout the night, he’d given her rapturous pleasure and had taken his.