Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

They’d been grouped around the disassembled still and busted casks, spilled corn liquor pooling around their boots and the handcuffed men sitting on the ground. The photograph had been staged to make a point, to send a warning to current or aspiring distillers of illegal whiskey.

Was Thatcher Hutton one of the snitches that Irv had warned her to be wary of? Had he come to the shack that day looking for a still? Did he suspect her of doing precisely what she was doing? Was that why he always regarded her with such intensity?

Despite the summer heat that had collected in her bedroom during the afternoon, her arms broke out in gooseflesh. She clumsily removed the pins from her bun and let it unfurl down her back. Ordinarily the release felt good. But tonight the scene in the café had left her nape and shoulders knotted with tension.

She folded back the bed covers and slid in beneath the top sheet. She settled her head on her pillow, closed her eyes, and tried willing herself not to dwell on the encounter.

But her mind replayed the incident anyway. Had she done anything that might have given her away? Should she tell Irv about it? No. Absolutely not. He would make far more of it than it warranted. He would say that she hadn’t just bumped into any man during a delivery, she’d bumped into that man.

As reluctant as she was to admit it, her father-in-law would be right.

Whatever else he was, Thatcher Hutton was no ordinary man.

And neither was her middle’s flighty reaction to the very sight of him.





Twenty-Six



What are you doing out here?” Randy asked as he clomped up the front steps of the boardinghouse.

“Too early to go to bed. Just taking in the air,” Chester Landry replied. He lazily fanned himself with a folded newspaper. “You appear to be drunk.”

Randy laughed and plopped down into the chair beside Landry’s. “As a skunk.”

“Fun evening?”

“Fun and frolic, my friend.” He chortled over his alliteration.

Landry shushed him. “Lower your voice. Everyone else has turned in for the night.” Everyone except for him, Randy, and Thatcher Hutton, who’d yet to return to the boardinghouse since they’d bade each other good night at the café.

Landry couldn’t help but wonder if his dinner guest had cut out on him in order to follow the widow home. He made a mental note to pursue that later, but, right now, his focus was more on the indiscreet and talkative Randy Wells.

“Who were you frolicking with?”

Randy leaned across the arm of his chair and crooked his finger. Landry moved closer. Randy said, “The public library hosts a Bible study every Tuesday night for young singles.”

“What’s to whisper about?”

Randy giggled. “What’s to whisper about is what happens after Bible study.”

Landry pretended that was the most delicious piece of information he’d ever heard. “Do tell.”

“Those young ladies who sing in church choirs on Sunday are just dying to be led astray on Tuesday. So me and some other guys—”

“Like who?”

“Davy and Mike O’Connor? Know them?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“You’d know if you did. They’re twins. Anyhow, they’ve joined the Bible study because they work for Deacon Logan, and his wife is practically a missionary. She…” He hiccupped, then waved his hand. “Doesn’t matter. Tonight, we treated a few of those young ladies to all the sin they could handle.”

“You and these O’Connor brothers?”

“They are my kind of folk. If you know what I mean?” He bobbed his eyebrows.

“Drunk and disorderly?”

Randy roared with laughter.

“Shhh!”

“Oh, sorry.” He pressed his index finger vertically against his lips.

“You know what?” Landry said, as though he’d had a sudden inspiration, when actually he’d been planning this since his talk with Mayor Croft about Randy and his loose tongue. “I could use some diversion. I had a rather dull evening tonight with Mr. Hutton.”

“Tight-lipped, isn’t he? Good at cards, though. Do you think he cheats?”

“If he does, he’s good. I haven’t caught him at it.”

“No, me neither. Lost five bucks to him.”

Landry pushed out of his chair. “Come on.”

Randy stood up swaying. “Where’re we going?”

“For a drive. Did you sinners drink all your hooch?”

“Still have half a jar under the seat of my car.”

“Then let’s go in it.” He threw his arm across Randy’s shoulder. “But I’ll drive.”





Twenty-Seven



Dusk was easing into full-blown darkness when Bill Amos came out of his headquarters and headed toward his car. Thatcher had been waiting for this opportunity to speak to him in private.

“Bill?”

The sheriff turned as Thatcher materialized out of the wide band of shadow under the eaves of the building. “Hey, Thatcher. What’s doing?”

“Got a minute?”

Bill glanced back toward his office, hesitated, then asked, “Have you had supper?”

“No.”

“Me neither, and Mrs. Amos is hosting bridge tonight. Get in.”