Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

The house couldn’t be more of a nightmare than this shack she was living in. She appreciated that her father-in-law had listened to the concerns she’d raised with him this morning, and had taken her ultimatum seriously enough to act on it.

In gratitude, she smiled at him. “You look worn out. Try to get some rest.” She then retreated behind the partition with Pearl, who had become restless again and was mewling pitiably.





Eleven



Thatcher repeated the sheriff’s confounding words. “Tell you where Mrs. Driscoll is?” He looked over at the man who’d tried to attack him. “Are you Dr. Driscoll?”

“Yes, you son of a bitch. And I want to know what you’ve done with my wife.”

“Nothing but talked to her. Why? What’s happened?”

Sheriff Amos said, “She’s missing.”

“Missing?”

“It’s feared she was abducted from her home sometime between ten o’clock p.m. and one o’clock a.m.”

Thatcher glanced at the wall clock. It was going on five. He looked at each man in the room in turn, and the reason for their judgmental glowers took on meaning. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “That’s why I’m here? You think I know something about it?”

“You were seen talking with her today on her porch.”

“I said as much. I was looking for a room to rent. You can ask him.” He tipped his head toward the mayor.

“Mayor Croft told us that he gave you directions to their house.”

“A decision I regret,” the man boomed.

The sheriff, looking irritated, turned his head partially toward the mayor and said in an undertone, “Bernie, I’ll handle this.” Coming back around to Thatcher, he said, “Where’d you get the bruises, Mr. Hutton?”

“Your deputy Harold there poked me in the face with that pump-action.”

Harold, who was still rifling through his belongings, shot him a dirty look over his shoulder.

“Not the bruise on your cheek,” the sheriff said, “the one on your noggin.”

“Oh.” He reached up with his cuffed hands and touched the discolored goose egg at his temple. “I jumped off a freight train, had a hard landing, rolled down an incline.”

The sheriff tilted his head and eyed him speculatively. “When was that?”

“This morning. Early. Before dawn.”

“Where?”

“Eight, nine miles southeast of here. The middle of nowhere. I walked to town.”

“You were bumming a ride?”

Given the circumstances, he felt that admitting to one malfeasance would be to his advantage. “Yes.”

“Where were you headed?”

“Amarillo. Or as close to there as the railroad goes these days.”

“What’s up there?”

He explained his long-time connection to the Hobson Ranch. “I was making my way home, back to the ranch and my job.”

The sheriff took it all in, then said, “If you’ve got a job waiting for you in the Panhandle, why’d you jump off the freight train way down here?”

He came clean about the poker game and the ill will it had created with those sharing the boxcar. “They were sore losers.”

“Did you cheat?” Sheriff Amos asked.

“No. I have a knack.”

“For winning at cards?”

“For reading people.”

The sheriff glanced over at the others as though to verify that he’d heard correctly. Thatcher could tell that they were all skeptical of his boast, as well as of his story, so he didn’t volunteer anything else.

When the sheriff came back to him, he said, “What happened when you got to the Driscolls’ house?”

“I took one look and knew it was out of my reach.” He told them about Mrs. Driscoll’s coming out onto the porch and catching him as he was about to leave, and saying she wanted to thank him for coming by. “She called me up to the porch and brought out some fresh shortbread.”

The doctor said in a strained voice, “At least that much is the truth. Mila baked it this morning. We ate some after supper.”

“She gave me a second piece to take with me,” Thatcher said. “I wrapped it in my handkerchief. It left a butter stain. You can check it. Right pocket.”

He raised his cuffed hands, inviting the sheriff to withdraw his handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket. When he shook out the folded cloth, a few crumbs fell to the floor. The greasy spot was clearly visible.

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t go back later and do her harm,” the mayor said.

The sheriff frowned. “Doesn’t mean he did, either.”

Recalling Mrs. Driscoll’s friendly smile and hospitality, it bothered Thatcher to think that she was in a direful situation of any kind. “Mrs. Driscoll was as nice a lady as I ever met. We chatted there on the porch while I ate the shortbread. When I took my leave, she suggested I try to find a room at the boardinghouse. I thanked her and left. If something bad has happened to her, you’re wasting your time talking to me. You ought to be out beating the bushes, looking for her.”

Driscoll surged to his feet. “Or maybe we’ll beat the truth out of you.” Hands fisted, he made a lunge for Thatcher and took a wild swing.