Blind Tiger, page 22
“Well, I don’t know how to flute pie dough.”
They smiled across at each other, then she set her fork on the rim of her plate and clasped her hands in her lap. “You were right, Mr. Hutton. I—”
“Why won’t you call me Thatcher?”
For a moment she was thrown by his interrupting her to ask that. She picked up her fork. Set it back down. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for us to use first names.”
“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.
Her nightclothes were made of summer-weight cotton, old and soft from so many washings, but they began to feel like chain mail against her chest, equaling the pressure collecting behind her breastbone.
When she could stand it no longer, she said, “I had better check on Irv.” She pushed back her chair and came out of it so quickly, she tripped on the hem of her housecoat.
She hadn’t quite made it out of the dining room when he touched her arm from behind. “Laurel, wait.”
She didn’t upbraid him for using her first name. Of greater consequence was that he had covered the distance from the table in half the time she had and was now standing close behind her. So terrible and tantalizing that she kept her back to him.
“What, Mr. Hutton?”
“Why didn’t you ask me about Corrine?”
“I did ask you about her.”
“You wanted to know more.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.” He reached for her hand and turned her around, then kept his fingers clasping hers as they faced each other. “Why didn’t you ask how come she was with me?”
“Because it isn’t any of my business.”
“Yes, it is.”
He drew on her hand, bringing her closer to him, close enough for her to feel his body heat. Denying to herself that she felt anything at all, she kept her head lowered and whispered insistently into the open placket of his undershirt, “No, it isn’t.”
“Well, it’s about to be.”
With his other hand, he tipped her chin up. His eyes moved over her face, pausing momentarily on each feature. He brought his hand up to her cheek and rested it there. His thumb stroked her chin, coming close enough to her lips to make them tingle. He lowered his head, then more, more still, until his face filled her field of vision and she felt his breath drift warmly over her lips.
Her eyes closed.
His lips met hers softly, whisking back and forth, sipping gently, teasing her so maddeningly that she came up on tiptoes to secure the connection.
He made a low sound as his arm curved around her waist. The hand against her cheek slid beneath her chin, supporting her jaw and neck as he tilted her head and realigned their lips.
His were parted. Hers responded in kind.
Tongues touched, shyly and fleetingly, but electrically. Breaths caught and were suspended. He waited. For her it was agonizing, this indecision, this self-denial, this wanting, wanting, but fearing.
But then he spoke her name on a ragged breath, and something inside her that had been fettered for a long time broke free and took flight.
He sensed it immediately and deepened the kiss with hunger and heat, a low growl, his tongue searching. His arm tightened around her waist until their bodies met where his was straining and hers was aching.
He nudged the dip between her thighs, and stayed, and pressed, and still it wasn’t close enough. She placed her hands on his chest, clutched handfuls of his jacket…
And then gave a cry of sudden pain.
He released her immediately and backed away. “God, Laurel. What’s the matter?”
She looked down at her right hand where a drop of blood beaded up out of her palm. “I don’t know.” Mystified, she looked up at him. “Something in your pocket?” She reached into his left breast pocket and came up with a star-shaped badge.
She gaped at it, then dropped it as though the pin had pricked her again. The badge clinked against the hardwood floor. She looked up into his face, her breath rushing in and out. “You’re a deputy sheriff?”
“No. Not officially.”
She backed away from him, drawing her housecoat more tightly around her. “Were you in on that raid?”
“Not by choice.”
“Either you were or you weren’t,” she said, raising her voice. “If there hadn’t been a raid, Irv wouldn’t have gotten shot.”
“If he hadn’t been in Lefty’s back room, he wouldn’t have gotten shot.”
“You’re blaming him?”
“No. All I’m saying is that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and so was I.”
“Oh, were you? If Irv hadn’t been shot, would you have arrested him?”
“Wasn’t up to me. I didn’t arrest anybody. I hauled your father-in-law out of there, carried him to his truck, and drove him home.”
“For which I’ve thanked you. Now I want you to leave.”
“It wasn’t my doing, Laurel.”
“Don’t use my name!”
“I got railroaded into taking part, Laurel. Sheriff Amos—”
“I don’t care.”
“Sounds like you do. Sounds like you care one hell of a lot.”
“Will you just go?”
“What difference does it make to you if I was official or not?”
“None. Absolutely none. You…your…nothing you do is any of my business. Or didn’t I make that clear to you not three minutes ago?”
He leaned forward and said with emphasis, “It was an eventful three minutes.”
True. With desire spreading through her like warm syrup, all sorts of events had taken place in intimate places. To cover her mortification, she went on the offensive. “Why did you keep that badge concealed? It makes me wonder what else you’re hiding.”
“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?”
“Yeah. The night after he did this to me.” She pointed to her face and patted her arm in the sling. “The sheriff came out to Lefty’s and asked did I know anything about his killing. I told him nothing except I was glad he was dead.”
Laurel remembered Irv telling her that he had seen Dr. Driscoll at the roadhouse, attending a girl who’d been beaten. Things had come full circle.
“Anyhow,” Corrine continued, “all ol’ Gert cares about is money, money, money. I thought she was gonna beat the tar out of Wally for ruinin’ what she called my ‘earnin’ capacity.’ Now he’s dead, she’s takin’ it out on me that my face is messed up and my eye has gone wonky. She’s gotten meaner by the day. So, last night, when I saw a chance to get away from her, I took it.”
“With Mr. Hutton.”
“Um-huh. He sure is nice. Handsome, too. I clapped eyes on him the second he walked into Lefty’s. I thought to myself, now there’s a man that might be worth droppin’ drawers for. Gert must’ve thought so, too. The bitch pounced, offerin’ her wares, I’m sure. He didn’t go upstairs, though.
“Then, after the shootin’ started, I ran outside like everybody else. I saw Mr. Hutton come out carryin’ the old man. He laid him in the back of the truck. I ran over, took in what was happenin’, offered to help if he’d let me tag along. He cussed somethin’ fierce. You know how a man does when he’s had about all the aggravation he can tolerate? But then he said okay and told me to get in the truck.
“I didn’t give him time to think twice. I hopped in, put your daddy-in-law’s head in my lap, so it wouldn’t be bangin’ around while we was driving. Along the way, though, he started bleedin’ real bad. I hollered at Mr. Hutton to stop. He came back, took a look, and that’s when he pulled off his shirt and stuffed the bullet hole with it. Are y’all sparkin’?”
