The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) (4 page)

He froze. Deep in that closet behind the suitcase was a loose floorboard, a perfect hiding place where he kept something important that she knew nothing about. The board wasn’t easily noticeable, with a lamp or in broad daylight. With the tip of his penknife, he pried up the board and held the lamp over it. He saw a dark, empty hole.

Panic filled him, and then a fury so great that for a moment his vision was dimmed to a dull, red haze. He dropped flat to his stomach and plunged his hand into the hiding place and groped around, feeling for something, anything that might be what he sought.

He found nothing.

He raged through the tiny house, pulling out more drawers, spilling their contents, and overturning furniture. Then, with a kitchen knife, he cut open the cushions on the settee and tore apart the bed. Stuffing made of coconut shell fibers, feathers, and fabric scraps filled the air. He kicked and plowed through everything that landed on the floor, but he couldn’t find what he was looking for.

Winded and sweating, he dropped into a hard hickory chair, the only piece of furniture still upright. Would Amy—cowed, obedient, timid Amy—really have the guts and the gall to leave and take his property with her? How had she even found it? Was there another man? The questions and possibilities flitted around his brain. She couldn’t go back to Powell Springs. No one there, not even her sister, would forgive or forget what had happened in those last days of the war. But if she didn’t come home by tonight, h
e’d
go about finding her. Then h
e’d
teach her a lesson she would remember for the rest of her life.

Her short life.

Under a rare blue sky, Whit pulled the Ford out into traffic in front of the Multnomah County courthouse. “I don’t remember the last time I had to make two trips into Portland in the same week,” he said, dodging an Alpenrose Dairy wagon that rumbled past. “I’m not too partial to the crowds and hubbub of city life.”

Bax rode shotgun, happy to let someone else drive the shuddering vehicle for a change. “You know, I would have filed those documents when I was here the other day if yo
u’d
told me about them. I’m not that eager to come to Portland, either.”

“It doesn’t matter. We had to sign them in front of the county clerk. I guess they must think we don’t have anything better to do than lose two hours to come down here and drive back.”

Bax glanced at the neatly trimmed park that covered several blocks along Fourth Avenue and gestured at it. An ornate octagonal horse trough and fountain, topped with a huge elk, stood in the middle of the intersection. It looked a lot better than the one that stood in Powell Springs with a Statue of Liberty replica in its center. “Even this can’t make up for all the cars and delivery wagons and people jammed on the sidewalks.”

“I guess we’re just country boys at heart,” the sheriff said. “If I had to live among all these sky-high buildings—five-six stories—
I’d
skedaddle back to open, rolling fields where I belong.”

They were making progress down Fourth, working their way over to the Morrison Bridge, when traffic came to a dead stop. Up ahead, some traffic mishap between a horse-drawn delivery truck and a taxicab blocked both lanes of the street. Vehicles surrounded them, making escape impossible.

“Damn it, I guess we’re just going to have to wait this out. I hope I’m not ready for the poor farm in Fairdale by the time we get loose,” Whit said, rubbing the back of his neck.

While they sat there with nothing to do but watch for signs of improvement ahead and take in the sights around them, Whit’s sharp gaze riveted on a well-dressed couple coming out of a luggage store.

Bax noticed Whit’s keen attention to the pair. The woman was wearing a fur-trimmed coat with a fancy hat, and the man guiding her by the elbow wore an expensive-looking suit and a diamond stickpin that even from where Bax sat seemed as big as an aggie marble. “Must be nice, huh?” he commented, assuming Whit was fascinated by the high-toned pair.

As they passed, Whit twisted in the seat, craning his neck to watch them. “I swear I know that man. Not the woman, but he reminds me of—naw, it’s not him. It can’t be.”

Bax turned, too. “Who, Mr. High Society over there?”

Just then, traffic began moving again and the objects of their scrutiny fell behind their view and disappeared into the flow of pedestrians on the sidewalk.

“Yeah.” Whit waved off his own comment, and as they picked up speed he shifted the car into second gear. “Lately I’ve come to realize that if a man lives long enough, everyone starts to look familiar, whether he knows them or not.”

“You’re not ready for the rocking chair yet.”

“
Yet.
Maybe I could get a job like Wyatt Earp, offering my expert opinion on the West for the moving-picture business.”

They both laughed at that idea, then Bax said, “But yo
u’d
have to move to California.”

“Yeah. That’s not happening. Hell, I don’t even like coming to Portland.” After a pause he added, “I sure wish
I’d
gotten a better look at that fancy dude, though. There was something about him . . .”

The next morning Amy closed the front door behind her and set off for Dilworth’s Women’s Furnishings & Dry Goods. The weather had cleared and the mellow sun made a valiant attempt to dry out the sodden ground, but it would take several days of blue skies to accomplish that. The hydrangea bushes along the sidewalk had begun to leaf out. Birds that had hidden in the shelter of trees yesterday during the downpour flitted across the sky, carrying tiny twigs and pieces of fluff to build their nests, and she could hear them calling to each other. Spring was here at last.

Last night, sh
e’d
lain in bed and felt comfortable and safe for the first time in years. For those few hours, no one would bother her; she didn’t have to listen to high-pitched arguments or screaming children in some rundown rooming house or shifty neighborhood. Adam wouldn’t bother her, although she didn’t feel free of him—and she certainly was not free. For the time being, though, she had a reprieve. That would give her time to decide what to do next.

When she turned the corner onto Main Street, she looked at the tidy storefronts with swept sidewalks and attractive window displays. She sighed and allowed herself a private smile. It was good to see it all again.

But when she walked into Dilworth’s, she remembered that not everyone would be glad to see
her
. A couple of other women shopping in the store whose faces were vaguely familiar saw her and put their heads together to begin whispering.

She knew this would be a test of strength she might no longer possess.

Sylvia Dilworth herself eyed Amy from behind the counter where the shelves were lined with all sorts of goods—buttons, hairbrushes, cans of beeswax polish, bolts of fabric, and trims. A woman in her fifties, she was bound up in a corset that made her look like an overstuffed sausage that bulged at both ends, and her mouse-colored hair had been tortured into curls that matched the look, one that was about twenty years out of style. She didn’t seem surprised to see her, so as Amy supposed, news of her arrival had spread quickly. “Mrs. Jacobsen. I didn’t expect you to come back to this town again. And not to this store.”

Amy swallowed and forced herself to rise to her full height. “I used to come in often. I spent a lot of money here when I last lived in Powell Springs. And if I remember correctly, my sister took care of you and your husband during the influenza epidemic.”

Behind her, Amy heard the door open but she didn’t look up to see who else was going to witness her humiliation.

“Yes, she did. A fine woman, your sister, and Cole Braddock is a good
husband
to her.” Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “I’m glad they discovered the dirty trick that was pulled on them to separate them from each other.”

Amy paused, unable to think of an answer to the charge. Had Cole and Jessica told
everyone
what had happened? She supposed they hadn’t needed to. At last, in a low voice, she said, “If you feel that strongly, perhaps I should take my business somewhere else. Based on what I’ve seen, you have a lot of competition from similar establishments now.” The other two women watched the proceedings like avid spectators at a public hanging.

“Well, since you’re here, you might as well get what you came for. Money is money, even if it’s yours.”

Amy Layton would not have tolerated this rudeness for two seconds. But that confident person was gone, and now Amy Jacobsen handed her list to the old hag, able only to wonder why she didn’t turn on her heel and leave this place. She realized it was because she feared she would only suffer the same treatment everywhere else. It was her fault. Everything was her fault and she deserved what she got. Hadn’t Adam impressed that upon her often enough? In his anger, which showed itself more and more frequently, even he threw her disloyalty in her face. His own offenses—spying on his innocent neighbors and reporting them as traitors to the government during the war, frequenting the local prostitute, working to ruin Jessica’s reputation—faded to minor transgressions. Her memory raked through every unkind word h
e’d
uttered, every viselike grip on her arms or wrists, every derisive insult about her hair, her intelligence, her body, her appearance, her behavior. Just when the change had come about, she wasn’t certain. Gradually h
e’d
turned into a different man than the one who had courted her so fervently in Mrs. Donaldson’s living room. When h
e’d
changed, h
e’d
remade her as well.

“Did you bring a marketing basket?” Sylvia demanded, after sh
e’d
gathered everything on the counter.

“No, you always wrapped up my purchases with paper and twine before.” She tipped her head toward the big roll of brown paper in a holder next to her order. Sh
e’d
selected a number of small items such as spools of thread and cards of buttons that would get lost and be impossible to balance with everything else she had to carry if they were loose.

“We have a new policy. I’ll have to charge you an extra dollar for that.”

“A dollar! But—”

“Wrap up her stuff, Mrs. Dilworth. You don’t charge extra for that and you know it. And I’ll take a bottle of ink when you’re finished.”

The audience cast eager eyes at this new player in the drama.

Sylvia looked past Amy’s shoulder and gave the man a gray-toothed smile. “Nice to see you, Bax.”

Amy glanced back, surprised to see him standing there and even more surprised that he had intervened. Thank the stars she hadn’t bought underwear here, too. He didn’t return Sylvia’s smile, and hers faded. Grumbling under her breath, she wrapped up Amy’s purchase and tied it with twine.

Amy paid her, and with only a quick look at Bax, she scuttled out of Dilworth’s, trying to hold up her head but feeling like a whipped dog. Outside, she drew a deep breath to steady her nerves and hurried down the street, vowing never to return to that horrible place again.

Bax watched her leave and frowned at Old Lady Dilworth. He got his ink and emerged from the store in time to see Amy about a half block away, heading toward the house. He needed to get back to work, but something made him call her name. “Mrs. Jacobsen—
Amy!
”

She turned and paused, showing him only a three-quarter profile and looking around like a trapped bird. He trotted up to her before she could get away. “I wish that hadn’t happened back there. Most of the time that old bitch—um, battle-ax—is rude to me, too.” As he listened to himself, he couldn’t help but wonder what had gotten into him to even bother with this.

She wouldn’t look directly at him, but he could see the tears edging her eyes. He also noticed that furious-looking bruise near her throat that her collar didn’t quite hide. Clearing her throat, she managed a crisp, “Thank you, Mr. Duncan.”

“Bax.”

“Yes, well, Bax. Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I have to be on my way.”

As he watched her walk away, she tried to square her shoulders and straighten her back. He let her go without another word, still wondering why h
e’d
stuck his nose into that scene. He supposed it was because he thought he knew how she felt. The outcast, the one everybody shunned, including his own family, even the woman h
e’d
planned to marry. It was lonely, and sometimes solace could be found only with complete strangers. Or with people in the same circumstances.