Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

She didn’t say anything, and Derby avoided looking at her. He pushed open the driver’s door against the fierce wind and climbed out. A fan of light spread onto the ground in front of him as the door to the shack came open.

Derby’s father was silhouetted, so Laurel couldn’t make out his features, but she was heartened by the welcoming tone of his voice as he shouted into the wind, “I’d ’bout given up on you.” He waved Derby forward.

Less enthusiastically, Derby approached his father and shook hands. They exchanged a few words, which Laurel couldn’t hear. Derby’s father jerked his head backward, then he leaned to one side in order to see around Derby and peered at the car.

Derby did a quick about-face, came over to the passenger door, opened it, and motioned Laurel out. “Hurry. It’s cold.”

Her legs almost gave out beneath her when she stepped onto the ground. Derby took her elbow and closed the car door. Together they made their way to the open doorway, where her father-in-law had stepped aside for them.

Derby hustled her inside, then firmly shut the door.

The wind continued to roar. Or, Laurel wondered, was the roaring in her ears actually caused by the sudden silence, or her weariness and gnawing hunger? All that, she assumed. Plus the alarming and humiliating realization that she and Pearl had not been expected.

“Daddy, this is my wife, Laurel. I’ll get the suitcases.” With no more ceremony than that, Derby left them.

* * *



There was little resemblance between Derby and his father, who was half a head shorter and didn’t have Derby’s lanky build. The crescent of his baldness was so precise it could have been traced from a pattern. The hair around it was wiry and gray and grew straight out from his head like brush bristles. His eyebrows looked like twin caterpillars stuck to his forehead.

They assessed each other. She said, “Mr. Plummer.” Clearing her throat of self-conscious scratchiness, she added, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Laurel, he said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re kin now, so I ’spect you ought to drop the sir and call me Irv.”

She gave him a faint smile, and some of the tension in her chest eased. Pearl squirmed inside her coat, drawing his notice.

“That the baby? What’s its name?”

Laurel unbuttoned her coat, lifted Pearl out, and transferred her to the crook of her elbow. “Her name is Pearl.”

He didn’t step closer, but tentatively leaned forward and inspected what he could see of Pearl, which wasn’t much, swaddled as she was, and considering the meager light provided by a kerosene lantern that hung from a hook in the low ceiling.

He appeared to be pleased enough with his granddaughter, because he smiled. But all he said was, “Well, how ’bout that?”

Then he turned away and went over to a potbellied stove. Laurel noticed that he favored his left leg, making his bowlegged gait even more lopsided. He opened the door to the stove and tossed in two split logs he took from the stack of firewood against the wall.

He came back around, dusting his hands. “Y’all are hungry, I ’spect. I’ve got a rabbit fried up. Fresh killed and dressed this morning. I’ve kept a batch of biscuits warm. I was waiting till Derby got here to make the gravy.”

Laurel’s stomach had been growling for the past several hours, but to be polite, she said, “I hate that you’ve gone to so much trouble.”

“No trouble. Coffee’s—”

The door burst open, and Derby came in with their suitcases. He dropped them at his sides and pushed the door closed with his heel.

Irv said to him, “Move over there closer to the stove. I’ll pour y’all some coffee.”

“Got any hooch? Or are you abiding by the new law of the land, even though it’s horseshit?”

Looking displeased by his son’s crudity, Irv glanced at Laurel, then walked over to a small chest that had only three legs. In place of the missing one was a stack of catalogues with faded, curled, dusty covers. He grunted as he went down on his right knee. He opened the bottom drawer, reached far back into it, and came out with a mason jar that was two-thirds full of clear liquid.

As he heaved himself up, he said, “Sometimes my hip gets to bothering me so’s I can’t sleep. A nip of ’shine helps.”

Derby reached for the jar without so much as a thank you. He uncapped it and took a swig. The corn liquor must’ve seared his gullet. When he lowered the jar, his eyes were watering.

Laurel was already furious at him. Weren’t their present circumstances dreadful enough without his getting drunk? She didn’t conceal the resentment in her voice when she told him she needed the necessary.

Irv said, “Around back, twenty paces or so. You can lay the baby down over there.” He nodded toward a mattress on the floor in the corner. “Take a lantern, Derby.”

Laurel didn’t want to leave Pearl, but not having any choice, she laid her on the mattress. The ticking looked reasonably clean compared to the hard-packed dirt floor. She wrapped the baby tightly in her blankets, hoping that a varmint wouldn’t crawl into them before she returned.

Between taking sips of moonshine, Derby had lit a lantern. Bracing herself for the brutal cold, Laurel followed him out. It had started to snow, and it was sticking.

She was glad Derby was with her to help her find her way, but she was too angry to speak to him. She went into the foul-smelling outhouse and relieved herself as quickly as she could.