The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) (6 page)

She told herself this, even as she remembered seeing him trot toward her on the street yesterday afternoon, the nickel-plated deputy’s badge pinned to his vest, gleaming dully under the clear sky. And then hearing him hail her.
Amy!

As she filled the washer with clean rinse water, it occurred to her that sh
e’d
never given much thought to money before she married Adam. She had never had to worry about such things and had supposed that nothing would change with him. It had been a rude awakening to realize that he was a penny-pinching skinflint. Sh
e’d
had to wheedle money from him for every hairpin or pair of stockings she needed. As time passed, he only became more miserly.

In the kitchen, Deirdre presided over the wood-fired stove, cooking eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast for breakfast. So far, Amy had seen no evidence of the odd behavior Daniel Parmenter had hinted at. She was a shy woman, and a whiff of sadness seemed to envelop her, but Amy chalked it up to her widowed status.

On the back stairs that led to the kitchen from the second floor, she heard the clomp of men’s footsteps. Tom and Bax appeared in the kitchen, where the table had been set for everyone.

“Mrs. Gifford, ma’am?” Tom said.

Deirdre turned and nodded at the young man. “Breakfast is almost ready. I know you’re due at the mill—”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am, it’s not that, although I do appreciate it. I’m looking for my dirty clothes. I left them where I always do, in that basket in the bathroom. I wondered if yo
u’d
seen them, since we’re supposed to take care of our own stuff now.”

“I have your wash here, Mr. Sommers,” Amy said over her shoulder, hearing the question. “And yours, too, Mr. Duncan.” She left the machine to do its job, wiping her hands on her apron, and started shaking out things that had already been through the wringer. “Mr. Duncan did a favor for me yesterday, and I thought
I’d
return it by taking care of his wash. I included yours, too, on the house,” she nodded at Tom. “Just this
one
time.”

Bax looked at her with raised brows and a baffled expression. Then comprehension seemed to sink in. He walked out to the porch, ducking around wet laundry that hung from the retractable clotheslines. “Thanks, Amy.”

His eyes bore an intensity that was ever present, and she wondered what had happened to him to put that look in their gray depths. “You’re welcome.”

Amy sighed. She had a feeling that “just this one time” was going to become permanent.

“How have you been feeling?” Jessica asked Susannah Grenfell. “You look
luminous
!” The two women sat in Jess’s examination room.

Susannah grinned and patted her pregnant belly. “I’m starting to feel like one of the mares.”

Jess laughed. “Well, at least you’ll get a bit of a break—only nine months instead of eleven or twelve. Although toward the end, it will seem like that long, and you’ve got another two and a half months to go. How is Tanner handling this?”

The other woman shook her head. “I never saw him worry more. And he’s the sort who’ll sleep in the stall with a mare that’s about to foal. He treats me like I’m an invalid and fusses over me so much, I try to find things for him to do to keep him busy. He’s missed Wade and Josh since they’ve gone back to live with their mother. He fostered them for so many years when Em was working and couldn’t keep them.”

“You’re hoping for a boy, then.”

“You know women don’t care, as long as the baby is healthy.
Tanner
might be hoping for a boy. At least I’ll have you for the delivery instead of Granny Mae.”

“There weren’t a lot of choices. When Margaux was born it was either her or Cole. I didn’t think he was up to the task. Actually, she’s a pretty good midwife, and yes, I know she used to help farmers around here pull a calf now and then, although she’s gotten too old for that. She’s become Margaux’s substitute grandmother.”

Susannah leaned forward. “But what about Amy? Everyone is buzzing about her.”

Jessica sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I’m not surprised. It was the shock of
my
life to walk into Laura Donaldson’s old place and see her standing in the kitchen. I can’t say that I’m holding a grudge—she’s my sister, my only blood relative. And Adam isn’t with her, thank God, but I’m not sure just what’s going on. She claims he’ll be along soon.” She shook her head. “Really, I think people around here will tar and feather him if he shows his face, and I doubt that anyone would try to stop them, not even the sheriff or Reverend Mumford. As for my sister, she left a lot of hard feelings and burned bridges behind her.”

Susannah, who had believed Amy was her best friend, later realized she was just using that friendship to get close to Cole. The shadow of an old hurt fluttered across her face. “I didn’t realize how selfish and immature she was.” She stood up and gathered her coat.

Jess stood, too. “I don’t think anyone else did either. But I guess she’s about to find out how they feel about it.”

Amy did find out, almost everywhere she went.

One day she and Deirdre were walking home from Bright’s Grocery on Main Street when she saw an old schoolmate, Glynis Landon, approach, holding a little girl by the hand. Amy smiled at her automatically, recognizing an old acquaintance, and not thinking of all that had happened since. Glynis merely glared back. Although the streets were muddy after another rainy spell, the woman pulled on the girl’s hand to cross to the opposite side rather than be forced to share the sidewalk with her. Amy lowered her head for a moment, surprised by how much it stung. After all, this certainly wasn’t the first time sh
e’d
experienced humiliation in the past few years, both public and private.

“You know her, don’t you?” Deirdre asked.

Amy swallowed and cleared her throat. “Oh, I used to. I doubt that she remembers me, though.”

Deirdre waited a moment before responding. “Your business is none of hers. It’s not as if you ruined
her
life.” She gazed at Glynis and her child across the street, then turned back to Amy. “Some people don’t know what real grief is.”

Amy nodded, but didn’t trust her voice to speak again at that moment. She appreciated Deirdre’s kindness, even if it sounded a bit backhanded. Yes, Amy
had
ruined her own life.

There had been other incidents like that one and her visit to Dilworth’s.

She was now forced to accept that the price of refuge in her hometown was rejection.

A rare few did not see her as a pariah. Leroy Fenton, the telegraph operator who had unwittingly sent the telegram sh
e’d
signed Cole’s name to, telling her sister that he was breaking their engagement, had died. No one working at the railway station knew her now. And at the time of her disgrace, some people were far too busy with their own concerns of death, grief, and war to be bothered with social scandal. Others had shorter memories or didn’t care about her doings. Those individuals, when Amy encountered them, were indifferent to her. And that might be the best she could hope for. But sh
e’d
made up her mind that if people were rude to her, she didn’t owe politeness in return.

She had to remind herself that she could survive the snubs. Her singular goal, to pick up the pieces of her old life—before the war, before the scandal—was more important than any other sh
e’d
ever had. But while dread and apprehension had been her constant companions when sh
e’d
lived with Adam, sometimes she still felt a weight dragging at her heart. At least she had a couple of new dresses, underwear, and a pair of new shoes. Her old ones, worn through at the soles and water damaged beyond saving, had gone out to the burn pile in the far corner of the backyard.

The days passed as she settled into life at the boardinghouse. She and Tom had arrived at a compromise regarding the laundry, which she now did for less money than sh
e’d
originally planned. They were an odd little mix, she and her tenants. But more often than not, she felt her eyes straying to Bax Duncan when he was around.

Worse, her interest and curiosity were increasing about the man she saw. Tom Sommers was beefier—husky, with a barrel chest and big hands that made him look as if he could pick up a felled tree and carry it to a wagon. But Bax . . . he moved with a long-legged, rugged stride that tended to make her follow his movements with her gaze.

Early one afternoon, as she stood at the ironing board in the kitchen, running the iron over the collar of one of his shirts, his image rose in her mind’s eye. He was a lot like Cole Braddock and Whit Gannon in that way—tall, slim-hipped men who seemed comfortable in any situation. There was something more about Bax, though. In his eyes she glimpsed a troubled, shuttered look that did not invite questions. She knew nothing about him. He wasn’t inclined to talk about himself the way that Tom did, although most of Tom’s bashful comments were directed at Deirdre.

Amy was ironing a sleeve when she heard boots thumping up the back porch steps. As if her thoughts about him had conjured his presence, Bax walked in, obviously in a rush.

On the front of the shirt he was wearing, a large brown stain stood out like a cow pie. He unbuttoned the top two or three buttons and pulled it off over his head.

“What in the world hap—?” she began.

He recognized his own shirt on the ironing board and snatched it away from her. “I need that.”

“But only one sleeve is ironed!”

“I don’t care. I can’t wear this,” he said, wadding up the dirty garment and throwing it over a chair. “There was a fight at Tilly’s between a couple of loggers and I got in the way of someone’s flying beefsteak and gravy.”

“Oh, my—”

“At least it wasn’t a hammer fight.”

“A hammer fight!”

“I’ve seen two or three of those, and they never end well. Anyway, both men are sitting at Whit’s office. Since there’s just the one cell, we can’t put them together. One of them is locked up and the other is shackled to the hitching ring out front. He’s a big, liquored-up lummox, and he’s boiling mad, braying like a mule. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled the whole damned thing out of the concrete and escaped. I have to get back.”

Plainly unconcerned about a lady’s delicate sensibilities, he stood there naked to the waist and wearing no undershirt. He revealed more muscle and sinew than she would have expected him to possess. She tried not to notice, but with him standing so close she could only drop her gaze to the ironing board. He pushed an arm through the unironed sleeve. The other one, flat, crisp, and ironed shut, kept eluding his hand and he turned in a full circle, chasing the opening.

While his back was to her, Amy saw two scars on the left side of his back. One was completely visible. The other disappeared into the waistband of his pants. They were horrific—the color of calf’s liver—and she blurted out her question without thinking. “Dear God, what happened to your back?”

He whirled around to face her and gave her a scowl so dark and menacing that she backed up a step. “Mind your own damned business!”

Without uttering another word, he got both arms into the sleeves and started buttoning the shirt. Then he picked up the dirty one from the chair and shoved it into her hands. Charging outside, he slammed the door behind him and pounded down the back stairs, stuffing the shirttails into his jeans as he went.