Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

She recoiled, bumping into Thatcher. Instinctively, he caught her upper arms. “Did he get you?”

“Not this time.”

“But he has?”

“More than once.”

The bird charged again. She flinched. Thatcher said, “Git!”

The rooster, having established his superiority, strutted away.

She eased herself free of Thatcher’s hands, but turned her head to speak over her shoulder. “He’s a wretched bird. I ought to wring—”

Then she winced and came full around to face him. At first Thatcher thought the rooster had pecked her after all, but it wasn’t her hand she was grimacing over, it was his. When he’d clasped her arms, the handkerchief had come unwound, exposing the cut on his palm.

She reached for his hand and held it supported in hers as she examined the cut, gently pressing the flesh on either side of it. “You should have that looked at. It could get—”

She broke off when she looked up into his face and realized how close they were standing, how still he’d become, and how fixated he was on her face.

She snatched her hand back, then, with a swirl of her skirt, rounded the corner of the building out of sight.

Thatcher blew out a long breath, wadded up the bloodstained handkerchief and stuffed it into his pants pocket, then followed her back to the wash pot where she was jabbing the contents with a stick as though punishing the soaking sheets. She didn’t look at him.

“I’ll help you wring out that sheet and hang it on the line. It’s my fault it got dirty again.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“No, thank you.”

Her words were polite enough, but there was no mistaking her tone. She wanted him gone. He bent down, retrieved his hat, and put it on, then picked up his jacket and folded it over his arm. He lifted his duffel by the strap and was about to haul it onto his shoulder when he saw that he’d earned her notice after all.

She’d stopped what she had been doing and was staring at his jacket where it lay across his arm.

He fingered the torn seam that attached his sleeve, the one grabbed and held onto as he’d made his escape. “It was ripped during the altercation.”

She gave her head a slight shake. “It’s not the tear. I noticed the buttons.”

“Oh. They’re keepsakes from off my army uniform.”

When he’d mustered out, the army had reclaimed his uniform for reasons never explained. Did they expect another war to break out soon? Were they going to pass down his mud- and bloodstained uniform to the next guy they drafted into service?

He never knew. But before he’d relinquished the uniform, he’d ripped off the dull brass buttons bearing insignias. As soon as he’d acquired a suit of civilian clothes, he’d swapped out the buttons.

He ran his fingertip over the one with an embossed pair of crossed rifles and the capital letter B. “The 360th Infantry regiment. All us draftees from Texas and Oklahoma.”

“Yes, I know.” She spoke with a huskiness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “B Company.”

“You know someone who served in it?”

“My husband.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, then away as she resumed swishing the water in the cauldron.

“He make it back?”

“Yes.”

She kept her head down and didn’t elaborate, but he’d had his question answered. He hoisted the duffel bag onto his shoulder. “I’ll need a place to stay in town. Any suggestions?”

She was about to shake her head, when she hesitated, as though remembering. “In the window of Hancock’s store. There’s a sign advertising a room.”

“Where’s the store?”

“You can’t miss it.”

“Laurel?”

Startled, she looked in the direction of the shack from where the man’s voice had come. “I’m here,” she called.

“The baby’s coughing again.”

Just then a baby’s wail could be heard coming from inside. The woman propped her stick against the lip of the wash pot and started toward the door of the shack. As she rushed past Thatcher she said, “Be on your way now.”

“Thanks for the water.” Before she disappeared inside, he said, “Wait, what was that name again?”

She paused in the open doorway and looked back at him. “Hancock’s.”

“No. Your name.”

“Oh. Laurel. Plummer.”





Five



As Laurel rushed inside, she nearly ran directly into Irv, who was standing just beyond the threshold but far enough back in the shadows that he couldn’t be seen from the yard. He held a double-barreled shotgun crosswise against his chest. He raised his index finger to his lips, signaling for her not to make a sound.

She went over to the crib that Irv had made for Pearl out of scrap lumber he’d salvaged from one of his fix-it jobs. Her daughter’s face was near purple from crying and coughing. Laurel picked her up and held her against her shoulder as she firmly patted her back, trying to loosen the phlegm that had made her croupy for more than a week.

Irv remained stock-still, watching the stranger until he had reached the road and headed in the direction Laurel had told him would lead to Foley. Only then did Irv relax his stance. He returned the shotgun to its usual spot, resting it between two hooks mounted above the door.