Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Leaving half his supper uneaten, he’d shoved back his chair, left the table, and lifted his jacket off the peg near the back door. “Pack tonight. I want to get away early.”

“Wait, Derby. We can’t just…” Words had failed her. “Sit back down. Please. We need to talk about this.”

“What’s to talk about?”

She gaped at him with bafflement. “Everything. Do we have a place to live?”

“I wouldn’t up and move you and the baby without having a plan, would I?”

“It just seems awfully sudden.”

“Well, it’s not. I’ve been thinking on it for a time.”

“You should have talked it over with me.”

“I’m talking it over with you now.”

His raised voice had caused Pearl to flinch where she lay asleep in Laurel’s lap. Laurel had lifted her to her shoulder and patted her back. Derby’s expression had turned impatient, but whether at her, the baby, or himself, she’d been unable to tell.

“I’ve got some things to see to before we clear town. Rent’s due on this place the day after tomorrow. I’ll leave notice of our departure in the landlord’s mailbox.” He’d reached for the doorknob.

“Derby, hold on.” She’d gone over to him. “I welcome the idea of us making a fresh start. I just want it to be a good fresh start. Thought through, not so rushed.”

“I told you, I have been thinking on it.”

“But making a move to another town seems drastic. When you talked to Mr. Davis, he told you that he might have an opening at his store soon.”

“Scooping chicken feed into tow sacks?” He’d made a sour face. “No thanks.”

“Something else could—”

“There’s nothing for me here, Laurel. Anyway, it’s decided. We’re leaving.” He’d pulled open the door and said over his shoulder as he went out, “You’d better get started packing.”

He hadn’t returned home until after two o’clock in the morning, disheveled and red-eyed, reeking of bootleg whiskey, too drunk to stand without support. When he’d stumbled into the bedroom, he’d propped himself against the doorjamb and blearily focused on her where she’d sat in the rocking chair next to the bed, nursing Pearl.

“Things ready?” he’d asked in a mumble.

Their duplex had rented furnished, so there hadn’t been much to pack except for their clothing and her personal possessions, which were few in number and didn’t amount to anything.

In answer to his question, she’d motioned to the two suitcases lying open on the floor. She’d carefully folded his army uniform and laid it on top.

Laurel had eased Pearl away from her breast and tucked it back inside her nightgown. “Couldn’t we give this decision a week, talk it over some more?”

“I’m sick of talking.” He’d staggered to the bed, crawled onto it, and passed out.

He’d slept late, and had been irritable and hungover when he woke up. Laurel had wished he’d forgotten about their departure, about the whole harebrained idea. But he’d fortified himself with several cups of strong coffee and a dozen hand-rolled cigarettes, and by the time she’d packed them a lunch with what food was left in the icebox, Derby was impatient to be off.

While he was loading their suitcases, putting one in the trunk and strapping down the other on top of it, she’d walked through the duplex one final time, checking to see that nothing belonging to them had been overlooked.

Derby had hung his army uniform back in the closet.

* * *



The top on the Ford was up, which kept some of the frozen precipitation off them, but it was open-air. During the whole trip, Laurel had kept Pearl clutched to her chest inside her coat, inside her dress, wanting to be skin-to-skin with her. She was afraid the baby would freeze to death and she wouldn’t even know it because she was so numb with cold herself. But Pearl had nursed well her last feeding, and her breath had remained reassuringly humid and warm.

“Won’t be much longer.”

Laurel held her tongue.

This time, Derby added, “A crossroads is up ahead. He’s only a few miles past that.”

However, beyond the crossroads, the road narrowed and the pavement gave way to gravel. The surrounding darkness was unrelieved except for the faulty headlight that blinked intermittently like a distress signal from a foundering ship.

So when Laurel caught a flicker of light out of the corner of her right eye, she first thought it was the headlight reflecting off pellets of blowing sleet.

But she squinted through the precipitation and then gave a soft cry of desperate hope. “Derby? Could that be his place?”

“Where?”

“Up there. I thought I saw a light.”

He slowed down and looked in the direction she indicated. “Gotta be,” he muttered.

He put the car in low gear and turned onto a dirt track formed by tire treads. The sleet made it look like it had been salted. The Model T ground its way up the incline.

At the higher elevation, the north wind was vicious. Howling, it lashed against the car as Derby brought it to a stop.

Whatever relief Laurel might have felt evaporated when she saw the dwelling beyond the windshield. It could be described only as a shack. Light seeped through vertical slits in the walls made of weathered lumber. On the south side of the structure, the roof steeply sloped downward and formed an extension that provided cover for stacked firewood.