Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“Not this time. But he should learn his lesson from getting shot and stay out of Lefty’s.”

Thatcher didn’t comment on that. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and extended it to Bill by the barrel. “Wasn’t fired. Wasn’t needed after all.”

“Why don’t you keep it, Thatcher?”

“No thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve already got one. It was a gift. This one comes with strings.”

With a sigh of resignation, Bill took the Colt and set it on the lengthy table that ran along the wall under the picture gallery. “Look, I can tell that you’re upset about—”

“I’m not upset, Bill, I’m pissed off. You roped me into something I wanted no part of, and it’s not like I hadn’t told you flat out that I wanted no part of it.”

“Guilty. But last night you only proved that you—”

“Bill?”

The feminine voice came from above. Thatcher looked up the staircase where a woman hovered halfway down. She was of comparable age to Bill, maybe fifty. She was wearing a dressing gown and bedroom slippers. Her long, pale hair hung loose and tangled almost to her waist. She looked like a disheveled angel, a remarkably beautiful angel.

And she was regarding Thatcher with as much awe as he was regarding her.

With gentleness, Bill said, “Daisy, go on back upstairs. I’ll be there in a sec.”

She eased her grip on the bannister and continued her descent, but it was as plain as day to Thatcher that she was drunk or high on something. Her tread was so unsteady that if Bill hadn’t bounded up to assist her down the last few steps, she surely would have fallen.

When they reached the bottom, she shuffled toward Thatcher, bringing with her a waft of whiskey. She laid her frail hand against her chest as she gazed up at him with a yearning that made Thatcher uncomfortable. He looked over at Bill, who was watching his wife with sorrow, pity, and love. The raw and tragic kind.

“Daisy, this is Thatcher Hutton. Remember I told you about him?”

In a breathy voice, she said, “For a moment there, I thought… With the light behind him, the angle of his jaw, he looked…” She trailed off, and, turning away from Thatcher, said to her husband, “They do make mistakes. I’ve read stories.”

Bill placed his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t think it’s a mistake, Daisy.”

She looked toward the photo gallery, then pressed her face into Bill’s shirtfront, and began making keening sounds that made chills run down Thatcher’s spine.

Bill shushed her, then turned with her toward the stairs, saying to Thatcher over his shoulder, “Wait for me on the porch.”

Thatcher quietly slipped through the front door. Fucking hell. This was turning out to be some morning.

He sat down in one of the rocking chairs and stared at the gelding whose head drooped in the midmorning heat. He was too lazy even to graze at the patch of grass within nibbling distance. Thatcher actually preferred a horse that would stamp and rear and buck him off a dozen times to one he had to light a fire under.

Neither he nor the horse moved much in the ten minutes before Bill came through the door, pulling it closed behind him. He avoided looking at Thatcher as he dragged the other rocking chair over and lowered himself into it, settling heavily. He rested his head against the back of it and closed his eyes, his bearing one of utter despair and defeat.

Thatcher took his cue from Bill and remained silent.

After a time, Bill sat forward and placed his forearms on his thighs, linking his fingers between his knees and staring at the floor planks under his boots. “Daisy has a heart condition. You see? Her heart is broken. Shattered, actually.

“The ‘declines’ I told you about are actually drinking binges. When I got home late last night, she was passed out. I couldn’t wake her up. Scares me shitless when I find her like that. I stayed home this morning, waiting for her to wake up, bathe, to eat something…” He made a rolling motion with his hand. “You get it.”

Thatcher nodded, but Bill had yet to look at him, so he didn’t see the nod. He said the first thing that came to mind, and it was in earnest. “She’s beautiful.”

Bill gave a sniff of rueful humor. “First time I saw her, swear to God I don’t think I took a breath for five full minutes. It was at a community picnic on the Fourth of July. She had on a white dress and carried a parasol. I drew her attention by winning a shooting contest. She strolled over to congratulate me on my blue ribbon. I don’t remember what we said to each other. I doubt I made a lick of sense.”

He paused and smiled at the recollection. “Anyhow, I started courting her the next day. A few months later, I asked for her hand, and she said yes. I thought for sure she was taunting me, but no, she was in earnest. I marched her to First Methodist before she could change her mind. Our son Tim was born nine months later, almost to the day of the wedding.”

During his next pause, his smile faded. “But after Tim, she couldn’t conceive. That boy became the light of our lives. We loved him. Most everybody who met him did. The good die young, they say.” He gulped, and it took a while for him to continue.

“We never saw his body, didn’t have a casket. We put up a marker in the cemetery, but Daisy can’t accept that he’s gone. I know it was eerie for you, the way she was staring. I apologize. She thinks she sees Tim in every young man who’s the right age and of similar build. You do resemble him that way.