Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“How come?”

“Because we’re not that well acquainted.”

“Using first names would be a start in that direction, wouldn’t it?”

All things taken into account, not the least of which was the privacy of this moment, relaxing the rules of etiquette was a risky step she was unwilling to take. Once a boundary was breached, it was difficult, if not impossible, to reestablish. Breaching boundaries with him seemed particularly chancy.

“I think we should leave things as they are.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but ultimately made a gesture of concession with his shoulder. “You were saying?”

It took a moment for her to remember what she’d been saying. “I apologize for the curt way I turned down your offer to help with Irv. I couldn’t have adequately tended to him by myself. Thank you for getting him home; thank you for staying.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Plummer.”

He didn’t smile, but his eyes—the bluish-gray color of storm clouds—glinted with humor. His amusement made her feel silly and prudish for making first names an issue. But it would take on greater significance if she amended her position on the matter now.

Instead, she changed the subject. “I grew up on a farm. The nearest doctor was ten miles away, at least. Accidents happened frequently. Even as a girl, I patched up cuts and scrapes, bound up sprains, things like that. I don’t faint at the sight of blood. But I never had to deal with a bullet wound before. I hope I never have to again.”

“How ammunition can rip through a body can be ugly, all right.”

“You’re referring to the war? I’m sure you saw some horrific things on the battlefield.”

“And in the hospital. Some of the men brought in might’ve been better off dying on the front. In the hospital, they were just made to suffer longer.”

“You were wounded?”

He shook his head. “Spanish flu. I was laid up with it for three weeks. Three miserable weeks.”

“I lived in constant fear of Derby being blown to bits, or dying of exposure to mustard gas, something war-related. But I was just as scared that he would die of flu.”

“Thousands did.”

“In some ways that seems a crueler death than being killed during a battle. Little glory. Less heroic.”

“More of a waste.” He focused on tracing the curved handle of the coffee cup with his fingertip. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

His somber tone indicated that he knew how Derby had died. Foley was a small town. Through someone, he would have heard the circumstances by which she’d become a widow. She nodded an acknowledgment of his condolence, then gestured to his empty plate. “Would you care for another piece?”

“No thanks. Sure was good, though.”

“I’m glad you liked it. The peaches came from Parker County. It’s famous for them.”

“I didn’t know that. They must be special if you went all that way to buy them. How long a drive is it?”

When she realized the dangerous territory she’d carelessly wandered into, her throat seized up. “Well, I didn’t go myself.”

“You sent Irv?”

“No. A couple of young men who deliver my bakery items were up in that area several days ago. They stopped at a roadside stand and brought a bushel of freestones back for me. It was very sweet and thoughtful of them.”

“Hmm.”

She could kick herself for bringing that up, and then for blabbering on about it. Hadn’t she warned Irv that telling too much was the best way to get caught lying? Although she’d essentially told the truth. The O’Connor twins had brought her back a bushel of peaches, but their primary errand had been to deliver several gallons of whiskey to the man in Weatherford who’d sold Irv the copper to make the new still.

Mr. Hutton seemed to detect that she was nervously dancing around something. He continued to stare at her over the rim of his cup as he drank the last of his coffee. He returned the cup to the saucer. “Your father-in-law is going to mend.”

She smiled. “I’m relieved.”

“He’ll be ornery for a week or so.”

Her smile broadened. “I expect so. He’s fiercely independent and doesn’t like to be fussed over.”

“I got that about him.”

He shifted in his seat, stretched out his long legs at an angle to the table, then drew them back beneath it. He turned his head aside and studied the spandrel with much more absorption than it warranted.

Evidently he wanted to say something, but was hesitant. She waited.

Finally, his meandering gaze came back to her. “I hated having to give you a scare tonight.”

“You mean when you arrived?”

“I knew it would shock you, seeing your father-in-law like that, the blood and all, but there was just no way to make it easy. At least, I couldn’t think of a way.”

“No, there wouldn’t have been an easy way. My heart was in my throat.”

“You must’ve thought the worst had happened.”

“‘Not Irv, too.’ That’s what flashed through my mind.”

“I saw the fear in your face.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“It was to me.”

The four words, softly and solemnly spoken, had an immediate and noticeable effect on the atmosphere. He said nothing more, for which she was glad. Except that, moments into the ensuing silence, during which they just sat there looking at each other, she wished for more dialogue, or a movement, no matter how slight, anything to relieve her awareness of him, which had become both terrible and tantalizing.