Blind Tiger, page 42
He gave her a lopsided grin. “I was wishing I could see yours, too.” He palmed her breast and ran his thumb across the nipple. “More than just see.” He bent his head and caressed her nipple with his tongue then sucked each into his mouth before leaning away from her. “I’ve daydreamed for hours about doing that.”
“You have?”
“Since I saw you wrestling with that sheet. Even that saggy dress you had on couldn’t keep me from wondering what was underneath. Every time the wind kicked up, I got a fairly good idea.”
“You gave no sign.”
“I thought you were married.”
“Have you ever been?”
“Married? Naw. There weren’t any girls on the ranch except for one hand’s mother, who cooked for Mr. Hobson. The girls in town were just, you know. Us cowboys made that house a stop on our alternating Saturday nights off.”
She folded one arm beneath her head. “You never had a special girl, Thatcher? One who either got away, or who you left behind?”
“No.”
She just looked at him.
“No,” he repeated.
“You’ve never been in love?”
“No.” He lifted a strand of her hair off the pillow and began winding it round and round his index finger. “There was a woman in France. Not one of the ‘French girls’ you referred to,” he said wryly. “She was a nurse in the hospital. She was from Scotland. When she talked it sounded like bells jingling.”
“Was she pretty?”
“In her way. Every soldier in the ward liked her. They’d flirt with her. She’d flirt back. All in fun. Whenever one would die, she took it hard, because she’d lost her fiancé during the first year of fighting. That’s why she volunteered.” He pulled his finger from the curl of hair he’d formed, laid it back on the pillow, then began to trace the shape of her eyebrow.
“She was crazy about horses, found out that I was a cowboy, wanted to know all about my life on the ranch in the wild, wild West. Sometimes after her shift, she’d come sit with me and we’d talk.”
When he didn’t continue, Laurel whispered, “There’s more to this story, I think.”
He gave a small shrug. “When I was discharged from the hospital, I was given a three-day leave before I had to report for duty. She invited me to stay with her. She had a small place. Only one room and a toilet, but she’d made it cozy.”
“How often did you stay with her?”
“Just that once. After that three days, we said our goodbyes.”
“Did you write to each other?”
“No.”
“Did you see her after the war?”
“No.”
“Did you try?”
“No. It wasn’t like that, Laurel. She was a caring person. For all the cheer she gave her patients, she was sad. Still in love with her fiancé. We were a comfort to each other, that’s all. Two people trying to take some pleasure where there was damn little to be found. Those three days were just a time-out from the hell going on around us.”
“Like this is now?”
He quit concentrating on her eyebrow and met her gaze directly.
Placing his arm around her waist, he spread his hand wide over her bottom and pulled her against him. “Nothing like this. Nothing’s ever been like this.”
His deep kiss became a long, continual one that caused renewed arousal to spiral inside her sex. Gradually, the kiss changed character, taking on heat that melted any lingering inhibitions. Up till now the word “erotic” had hinted at dark and mysterious things of which she had no experience or knowledge. Now, she felt steeped in the essence of the word’s definition.
Thatcher ended the kiss only to whisper against her lips, “I have to have you again.”
Her desire for him had also risen to the level of need. “Yes.”
He murmured indistinctly as he moved to lie between her legs. “I’m going to kiss you.”
But he didn’t do as he was wont to and cradle her face in his hands. Instead he clasped her hips between them and blazed a trail of wet kisses down the center of her body.
His hands assumed mastery over her movements, but their guidance was gentle and unrushed. He repositioned her legs to accommodate his shoulders, cupped her behind the knees and raised them, stroked the backs of her thighs, then slid his hands under her bottom. It was a delicious shock to feel the prickliness of whiskers against her navel, in the valleys under her hipbones, and on the insides of her thighs.
She couldn’t hear everything he whispered directly against her, but she felt the words as they formed on his lips, felt the warm breath that wafted over her sensitive flesh as he spoke them.
She never would have imagined that his mouth could be both softly persuasive and aggressive at the same time, but it was. His tongue was simply wicked. It shattered her, and she surrendered to it utterly.
She was still in the throes of her orgasm when he braced himself above her. In a possessive push, he sheathed himself. He gave only a few more rapid thrusts before his body tensed and she felt his pulsing deep inside her. She closed around him as tightly as she could, and they held that way, until they both went listless.
Long moments later, he placed his hands at each side of her head and sank his fingers into her hair, tangling the strands around them as though he wanted to be ensnared.
He remained heavy and full inside her, filling her. His face was feverish against her neck. His breath, which had been gusting, eventually slowed. He inhaled deeply once and exhaled slowly.
Before he slept, he spoke a single word. “Laurel.” Only that.
It was enough.
Fifty-Six
Thatcher’s clothes were still damp, but he had no choice except to put them back on. He was moving quietly so not to waken Laurel, who was a damn tempting sight, hair streaming over her pillow, face relaxed in sleep. Her bare shoulder had escaped the covers. He thought of leaning down and kissing it but was afraid she would wake up. She needed her sleep.
Last night, after napping for a while, they’d gone downstairs to the bathroom and bathed together by the glow of a kerosene lamp. She had overcome some of her shyness and had asked delicate questions. His candid answers had made her blush. But not to be outdone by “French tarts,” she’d asked him to coach her on how to please him. It was he who’d wound up in thrall of her ardor. And talent.
They’d fallen asleep, spooning, but he’d awakened an hour later, hard with wanting her again. She purred in permissive response to his hopeful nudges, but when she tried to turn, he reached across her and spread his hand over her middle, holding her in place.
“Ever since that damn rooster attacked, and your bottom bumped up against me…”
Just thinking about that slow, drowsy sex made him want to be coupled with her again. But each of them was facing a challenging day. She would be grieving Davy O’Connor and consoling his brother. Sheriff Amos was expecting him.
He gave her one last, longing look, then slipped out of the bedroom unheard.
* * *
Fred Barker was already in his shop when Thatcher arrived to return his rifle. “Why don’t you keep it?” Barker said. “After what happened last night, I reckon you might need it.”
“You heard about the ambush?”
“Heard the ambush as it happened. Wife and me thought firecrackers were going off. This morning, learned different from the milkman. That O’Connor boy was a hell-raiser. I’d’ve locked my daughter up was he to’ve come anywhere near her. But being gunned down like that…”
Barker shook his head in sorrow. “Somethin’s gotta give around here, Thatcher. Hang on to that Springfield. It’s not like it’s the only rifle I have.”
“Thanks. I’ll take good care of it.” He asked Fred if he could spare Roger to do the stable chores. “Sheriff wanted me to be on hand today.”
Fred spat into the dirt. “He’s gonna need all the men he can get. Do you believe a lightning strike caused that fire?”
“Fire?”
“Jesus, Thatcher. You ain’t heard about that?”
* * *
The sheriff’s office was more crowded than it had been since the morning the search for Mila Driscoll was organized. Then, Thatcher had only heard the commotion from his jail cell.
This morning, as he entered the building, he had to wedge himself between the interior wall and the throng of men surrounding Bill, who was standing in the center of the large room, fielding dozens of questions even as he issued assignments.
“We don’t know how many confirmed dead yet,” he was saying. “I’m afraid to calculate. Relatives we’ve talked to said that Hiram had called a clan conference. The only acceptable excuses for not attending were that you were being born or dying.
“There could have been dozens inside that house, including women and children. So far, we haven’t come across any survivors. Which leaves us knowing squat about what happened during that meeting.”
Thatcher listened as did everyone else as Bill shared what little he had learned. Hiram’s nearest neighbor, with whom he wasn’t on the best of terms, had heard a “loud bang” the night before.
“He took it for a lightning strike, rolled over and went back to sleep. This morning when he noticed several thin trails of smoke coming from the direction of Hiram’s place, he thought he ought to go check.”
When not a single Johnson appeared on their private road to challenge him for trespassing, the neighbor had become even more apprehensive of what he would find at the dead end.
“He said the house had been incinerated,” Bill told those gathered around him. “Despite the rainstorm last night, parts of it were still smoldering. He drove to the nearest telephone and called me.” Bill stared down at his boots for a moment. “All I can say is, it must’ve been a hell of a blaze. It’s a scene out of hell.”
Bill had left a team of deputies there to keep curiosity seekers away. Even those few Johnsons who hadn’t attended the meeting, but had immediate family members who had, weren’t allowed beyond a certain point.
“I’ve requested a team of state investigators specially trained in arson to come up from Austin. May be tomorrow before they can gather all their gear and make the drive. In the meantime, the rest of you continue investigating the ambush on the O’Connors. You have your duties. Get to them.”
Many shuffled out. Others got on telephones. Bill came over to Thatcher, who said, “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”
“Be glad you missed it.”
“The Johnson place?”
“Thatcher, if that fire wasn’t an act of God, it was the work of Satan himself. There were kids in that house. Babies.”
Thatcher had seen charred bodies of soldiers on the battlefield and of civilians in bombed-out villages. He had hoped never to see such a grotesque sight again. Neither he nor Bill said anything for a moment, then Thatcher asked if Mike O’Connor was still alive.
“Last word I got, he was holding on, but they’re keeping him sedated. Doc Perkins said he’d let me know as soon as he’s stable enough to be questioned.”
Thatcher nodded absently, then asked about Gabe Driscoll’s present frame of mind.
Bill said, “I haven’t been in to see him this morning. Someone else took him breakfast.”
Thatcher took a look around the room. It hadn’t escaped others’ notice that he and Bill were conferring privately, a privilege that Bill didn’t afford everyone. Scotty and Harold tolerated Thatcher, but only to an extent. Most of the veterans of the department still regarded him with suspicion and hostility. He was sure that some held to the belief that he was guilty of doing something to Mila Driscoll. That continued to plague him. Whether or not they ever welcomed him into the fold, he had to lay that misconception to rest.
Which is why he wanted to speak to Bill alone. “Let’s go take a look at that road where the getaway car was waiting for the shooters.”
“I doubt we’ll find any clues.”
“I doubt we will, too, but I’m afraid these walls have ears.”
Bill gave him a sharp look, then announced to the room at large that he would be back shortly.
* * *
Laurel woke up later than usual, with a fully risen sun lighting the bedroom through the shades Thatcher had lowered last night.
Thatcher. At the mere thought of him, warm happiness suffused her. She was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t stayed until she woke up, but she knew the hard day he had in store.
At the same time, she was almost glad he wasn’t facing her across the pillow just now. She blushed at the thought of ever looking him in the eye again. The things he’d taught her!
Derby had regarded himself as quite a Casanova. His lovemaking had been vigorous, and he’d strutted that as a sign of his virility. He’d always taken for granted that she was satisfied, when the gratification had been his alone. The sex had been for him, not her. To be fair, she didn’t believe he’d been selfish. He simply hadn’t known any better.
If not for Thatcher, neither would she.
He had awakened her to levels of sensuality she’d never known were available or would have dreamed possible. In response to her apprehension over what he expected, over what she could expect from him, he’d been patient and persuasive. His touch, knowing smile, and whispered words had been temptation made manifest. His tenderness, passion sanctified. Throughout the night, he’d given her rapturous pleasure and had taken his.
But in addition to the fervent lovemaking, he had also attended to her wracked emotions. Without words, he’d held her close against him. Just that. His quietude had assuaged her grief over Davy’s murder, her anxiety over Mike’s condition, her distress over the unknown future.
That thought prickled something at the back of her mind, some revelatory thought. But it had been fleeting, as elusive as the glimmer of a single firefly in a dark wood.
Once, when she was a young girl, she’d chased a lightning bug through the woods that bordered her daddy’s cotton field. It had flickered only one time, but she’d been certain she’d seen it, not imagined it. She’d plunged after it in the hope of catching it to put in a jar near her bed. She’d darted through the trees and underbrush, had run in circles, until she had exhausted herself and had given up the chase in defeat.
She felt as frustrated and downcast now not to have netted that flash of clarity. It had been meaningful enough to give her instant pause, to raise goose bumps on her arms.
She closed her eyes, lay perfectly still, and strained to recapture it. But try as she might, she couldn’t. It had retreated into the recesses of her subconscious. Maybe it would show itself at another time, probably in a moment when she wasn’t searching for it.
Having been lazy long enough, she forced herself to get up. She washed and dressed, and was pinning up her hair when she heard the back door open and the scrape of footsteps in the kitchen.
Her heart swelled. Maybe Thatcher had come back for a good morning kiss after all.
More probably, though, it was Irv, returning from the stills. She dreaded having to tell him, Corrine, and Ernie about the O’Connors, but she also hoped that they hadn’t heard the dreadful news from someone else first.
She pushed the last pin into her hair, and then started downstairs, calling as she went, “Irv?”
* * *
Once in Bill’s car and on their way, Thatcher asked after Mrs. Amos.
“Not doing good, I hate to say. I’m worried, Thatcher. No ordinary bellyache lasts this long. With all these crises going on, if I can’t take time off to get her to a doctor, I’m going to ask her friend to take her.”
“What about Dr. Perkins?”
“He’d just give her more drops. She needs to be examined by somebody born after the Civil War. Have you heard of that sanitarium in Temple?”
Thatcher shook his head.
“Couple of doctors down there—names are Scott and White—are building quite a reputation. I may look into getting her in down there.”
They drove along the road where Thatcher had last seen the getaway car’s taillights disappearing around a bend. Bill drove beyond that point, then pulled his car to the side of the road.
“This is pointless. What’s on your mind?”
Thatcher said, “Have you sent anybody out to Pointer’s Gap yet?”
“It was on my list of things to do today, but with the ambush, the fire, I haven’t had the men to spare, and you’d have to go with them to show the way. So, no.”
“Have you arranged for a lawyer for Driscoll?”
“It’s not a priority.”
Bill’s expectant expression prompted Thatcher to get on with it. “This is going to sound like I’m beating around the bush but bear with me.”
The sheriff checked his pocket watch. “It’s a busy day. Five minutes, Thatcher.”
“Last night when you dropped Laurel and me at her house, she was on the brink of a breakdown.”
“Over Davy O’Connor.”
“Sure. But also, yesterday afternoon she had an upsetting visit from Bernie Croft and Chester Landry.”
“Let me guess. They wanted her to merge her business with theirs.”
Thatcher said nothing. Bill waited a few seconds then sighed with exasperation. “They’re bootleggers, Thatcher. They wouldn’t have been interested in Mrs. Plummer’s pie business.”
“I’m not saying anything about her.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve known for years that old Irv dabbled. He didn’t cause anybody trouble, so I looked the other way. Other moonshiners did, too, because he didn’t put too deep a dent in their market. But the lady has gotten everybody riled.”
“Croft and Landry for sure.”
“She turned them down?” Again, Thatcher remained silent, but Bill nodded as though Thatcher had replied. “In return, they shot up her delivery boys.”
“At the scene of the ambush, Harold said to me that somebody had wanted to make a point. I think he was right. I think it was Croft.”
