Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

He nodded. “I can see where it would be.”

She wet her lips, then pulled the lower one through her teeth.

He squinted up at the sun and readjusted the brim of his hat to shade his eyes.

After several awkward moments, he set the sack of nails, hammer, and handful of flyers on the hood of the car, then stepped around her and easily buckled the strap over several bundles of what looked like household goods. He gave it a test tug. “That ought to hold.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He looked down at her. The straw brim of her hat cast a patterned shadow over her face that intrigued him. Or, he just liked looking at her. Her eyes were green. And skittish. They looked everywhere except back at him.

A strand of hair had escaped both the braid and her hat. She pushed at it with the back of her wrist, the small knob of which barely cleared the curled edge of her worn leather glove. He didn’t remember ever seeing a wrist that delicate or a gesture that feminine.

But if he weren’t mistaken, the collarless shirt she wore was a man’s garment. It was way too large for her. The sleeves were rolled back, forming bulky cuffs against her thin forearms. The top button had been left open, exposing the triangular hollow at the base of her throat and making it about the most tempting patch of skin on the planet.

Her darting eyes eventually landed on the handbills. She tilted her head in order to read the bold printing upside down. “You break and train horses for a living?”

“Trying to.”

“That explains the cowboy clothes.” She glanced down at the ground. “The boots make you taller.”

Pleased to know that she’d noticed anything about him, he lifted his foot and looked at the scuffed riding heel. “I reckon so. I never thought about the height thing because I’ve always worn them. Only recently have I been without. These didn’t catch up to me until a few days ago, and it was like meeting up with old friends.”

He explained about the trunk. “It had been up there waiting on me, but turns out I won’t be going back to the Panhandle, after all.”

“No?”

“No. Circumstances up there changed while I was gone. Anyhow, these britches are more suited to my occupation.” He grinned. “The seat of my suit pants ripped the first time I got thrown.”

“Thrown? You mean bucked off?”

“That’s what I mean. The horse I’m working with now—his name’s Ulysses—is spirited, to say the least.”

“Were you hurt?”

“A knock or two. Nothing to speak of.”

“He could do it to you again.”

“Oh, you can count on it.”

“You’re not scared?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’m not that easy to scare off. He’s a bit touchy, but he’ll learn to trust me.”

He could tell by the way she dropped her gaze that she’d caught his underlying meaning. “I have to go,” she said. “Good luck with Ulysses.”

“There’s no give in that strap.”

“What?”

He tipped his head toward the bundle on top of the trunk. “You’re gonna have trouble unbuckling it without some help. If your father-in-law isn’t around, I’ll be glad to lend you a hand.”

“I can manage.”

“I don’t doubt that, but why turn down my offer to help?”

“Because—” She broke off whatever it was she had been about to say and turned her head aside.

“Oh. I get it.” He took a step back. “Mrs. Driscoll is still missing.”

She came back around and said quickly, “No, no. That’s not the reason. Not at all.” She clasped her hands together, then, as though realizing she was still wearing the gloves, took them off, and tapped the pair of them against her palm. “I don’t want to be beholden to you, Mr. Hutton.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“I don’t want to be beholden to anybody.”

She looked like she meant it, and he didn’t want to provoke her by trying to change her mind. He supposed a young widow would be sensitive to becoming indebted to a single man. Though knowing that didn’t make him any less sorry that he couldn’t get near her without her bristling.

He motioned toward the driver’s door. “At least let me crank the motor for you. Climb in.” He extended his hand to help her onto the running board.

She hesitated only briefly before setting her hand in his. It was the one with the cut across his palm. She looked into his eyes, swiftly, then reclaimed her hand and stepped into the car.

He went around to the front of it. After she’d adjusted the spark and throttle levers on the steering column, he turned the crank twice. She switched on the battery, and the engine sputtered to life.

He collected his things from the hood, came back to the driver’s side, and passed her one of the handbills. “In case you come across anyone with a horse that needs to be taught some manners.”

She took the sheet from him and gave him a small smile. “I’ll pass it along.”

“I’d sure appreciate it. Thank you.”

He looked at her for maybe a couple of seconds longer than was easy on either of them. Long before he wanted to, he brushed the brim of his hat. “Take care, Mrs. Plummer.” He started back across the street.