Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

She elbowed him aside and went out into the yard. She strode over to the horse. The gelding shied, taking several cautious steps backward. She untied the reins from around the post, then tugged on them until the reluctant horse went along as she led him over to Thatcher.

“Here.” She held out the reins. “Goodbye.”

Thatcher took the reins, then caught her hand and walked her backward until she came up against the gelding’s side, the back of her head resting against the seat of the saddle. Thatcher cupped the horn with his left hand and placed his right on the cantle, bracketing her with his arms.

He could tell the action shocked her, but he didn’t give her time to counter. “You’ve said your piece, now I’m going to say mine. I like the look of you. Have since I first laid eyes on you. That soft spot right there where your lips meet was the first place I wanted to kiss.”

He homed in on that spot, then his eyes trailed down her front and back up again. “I like the size and shape of you. I like everything. Even your sass. Mostly your sass,” he said, his gaze dipping briefly to her lips again before returning to her eyes.

“As for not thinking about that kiss ever happening again, I’ve already thought about it. And more. I think about you unbuttoned and unhooked and with your hair loose. I have dreams where we’re lying down together, and I hate like hell waking up.”

He shifted his stance, still not touching her, but coming awfully close, and it was hard as hell not to give in to the urge to bring them flush like they’d been last night. “Now, Laurel, I’ve never taken advantage of a woman in my life. You damn well know that I didn’t take advantage of you last night, and I won’t. Ever.”

He dropped his voice so she’d have to listen really close to this last part, because it was an ultimatum of his own. “But if you genuinely don’t want me coming at you again, be careful you don’t dare me.”

He gave the words seconds to sink in, then lowered his hands from the saddle, moved her aside, put his boot in the stirrup, and swung up. He nudged the gelding with his knees and rode out of the yard without looking back.

* * *



Thatcher had another difficult encounter ahead of him this morning. He’d said what he’d wanted to say to Laurel, but in doing so had probably offended her beyond any hope of ever making amends. But if he had it to do over again, he’d say the same.

He feared things wouldn’t go any better with Bill Amos.

The sheriff’s car wasn’t parked out front of the department, but Thatcher went inside to check if he was there. Three personnel were inside, but Harold was the only one Thatcher knew by name. All stopped what they were doing when he walked in.

Harold said, “Sheriff’s not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“At home.”

“I have business with him.”

“What kind of business?”

Harold had covered his back last night during the raid, but the resentment persisted, it seemed. “The kind that won’t wait. Where does he live?”

The Amoses’ house wasn’t as picturesque as Dr. Driscoll’s, but the second story roofline sported gingerbread trim. It overhung a deep porch with two wicker rocking chairs. The yard was shaded by a massive pecan tree loaded with clusters of green shucks that promised a good harvest come fall. Thatcher secured the gelding to a fence post, made his way up the limestone walk, and knocked on the front door.

The upper half of it had an oval glass pane through which Thatcher and the sheriff made eye contact as he approached. He was in shirtsleeves and seemed a bit thrown to see Thatcher at his door. He greeted him by name with a question mark behind it.

“I stopped by your office first. Harold told me where you lived. Can I have a minute?”

The sheriff turned his head and glanced up the staircase attached to the right wall of the vestibule. He came back around, smoothing his mustache. “All right. Come in.”

Thatcher took off his hat and stepped inside. On the wall opposite the staircase was a gallery of framed photographs, but the foyer was dim, and Thatcher couldn’t make out who was in the pictures.

“How bad off is Irv Plummer?” Bill asked.

“He’ll live. The bullet entered the back of his arm, here.” Thatcher illustrated. “Came out through his armpit. Lost blood, but it wasn’t as nasty as it could have been. What about the other injured?”

“Bloody noses and scraped knuckles, one broken finger. Four were shot, including Irv. None of the wounds were fatal or permanently crippling. Thank God.”

“Who was the shooter?”

“Local boy. Preacher’s kid. Stupid and blind drunk. He panicked, overreacted. Broke down and cried when we told him that his wild shots had found flesh. More scared of his daddy’s punishment than jail time. We’ve got a dozen in the cell block sleeping it off until they can be arraigned later today. Lefty’s lawyer has already posted bail for him and Gert. Routine,” he said with a shrug. “How was Mrs. Plummer when you got Irv home?”

“Scared at first, seeing the blood. But once the shock wore off and she realized the wound wasn’t fatal, she was fine.”

“Third crisis in a row for that young lady.”

“Another would be having the old man sent to jail. Do you plan on arresting him?”