Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“Yeah? Then that makes two of us. Because I don’t think it was the kiss that has got you coming apart.”

Anger and fear were potent emotions. In the throes of either, one could speak ill-advisedly. In the grips of both, one would be foolish to say anything at all. She’d gone far beyond that, but if she didn’t stop now, she could dig herself in much deeper.

Drawing herself up to her full height, she said, “You prevented Irv’s condition from getting much worse. Possibly you even saved his life. Thank you. But I want you to leave now and, from now on, stay away from us. Away from me.”

He remained as he was just looking at her, then bent over and scooped the badge up off the floor. “Thanks for the pie.” He turned and disappeared around the corner into the kitchen. The back door was soundly pulled shut.

Laurel walked backward over to the table, groping blindly for her chair, and when she located it, landed hard in the seat. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her mouth with her hand. Her lips were still damp from his kiss. She could taste him. Her breasts felt heavy, full, tingly. She didn’t know whether to scream with fury, wring her hands with anxiety, or weep because she could never be near him again.

“Miss Laurel?”

She started. Corrine was standing only a few feet away, looking at her with uncertainty. “Did he leave me here?”

Laurel laid her forehead on the table and hiccupped a sob tinged with hysteria. “So it would seem.”





Thirty-One



“…and like a damn fool, I believed every word out of his lyin’ mouth and ran off with him.” Corrine finished a slice of bacon and licked the grease off her fingers. “It was romantic and excitin’ and all. I kept tellin’ myself that Mama and Daddy wouldn’t miss me, that they’d be glad to have one less mouth to feed. There’s eleven of us kids. I’m second oldest.

“Anyhow, on the night Jack and me had set, I snuck out of the house and walked to the crossroads where he was waitin’. We hit the open road, laughin’ and carryin’ on, waitin’ to see where destiny would take us. It took us to Lefty’s. You gonna finish that?”

The sudden question, asked out of context, roused Laurel from her woolgathering. “Pardon?”

“You gonna eat what’s left of your breakfast?”

“Oh. No. Help yourself.” She pushed her plate across the table. Corrine broke a biscuit in half, spooned jam onto it, and popped it into her mouth. At least that silenced her for several seconds.

Laurel didn’t know where the girl found the energy or wherewithal to chatter. Both of them had been up for most of the night, taking turns sitting with Irv, waiting and watching to see if he would take a bad turn. He was in obvious pain, but he’d showed no signs of worsening. Except for some spotting on his bandage, there’d been no further bleeding, no fever.

At sunup, Laurel had gone to her room to wash and dress for the day. She’d undone her braid and brushed her hair, then plaited it again and wound it into a bun on her nape. As though her loose braid were responsible for her lapse in good judgment last night, this morning she had mercilessly jabbed the hairpins in to secure it.

What other excuse did she have for allowing Mr. Hutton to kiss her like that? The crisis with Irv had left her emotionally vulnerable, yes. But she’d always disparaged members of her sex who blamed stupid behavior on frayed emotions.

When she had returned downstairs, Corrine was in the kitchen frying bacon. Biscuits were baking. Laurel had been embarrassed by the girl’s industry, because she felt completely wrung out.

When she’d murmured an apology to that effect, Corrine had said, “You got saddled with me. I’ll make myself useful till you kick me out.”

When Corrine had been left behind in the middle of the night, Laurel would never have insisted she leave. But now she didn’t know what to do about the girl. Or really what to do about any aspect of her predicament.

Throughout the night, Irv’s condition had been her primary concern. However, dawn had brought with it jarring realizations. He’d survived the gunshot, thank God. But the repercussions of it, chiefly his convalescence, created practical problems to which Laurel must find solutions. Soon.

“…so what I think is that he outright sold me to that old bitch.”

Laurel’s thoughts were so deeply troubling, her attention had again drifted away from Corrine’s running monologue. “Sorry?”

“Gert,” Corrine said. “When I came back after a visit to the outhouse, Jack was gone. He’d hightailed it as soon as my back was turned. Gert said I could stay, but I’d have to earn my keep and pay back her ‘investment’ in me.

“I caught on quick, though. I could spend the rest of my life on my back, and I would never make enough to earn my ‘keep’ plus repay whatever chickenshit amount of money she’d given Jack. But I didn’t have nowhere else to go, so…”

She gave a shrug which, to Laurel’s amazement, conveyed more resignation than rancor. The girl seemed to have accepted being prostituted better than she herself had being intentionally widowed.

“Most of the time it wasn’t so bad,” Corrine continued, “but after the hullabaloo that creep Wally Johnson caused, Gert—”

“Wally Johnson? The man who was murdered?”