The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel)

by Harrington, Alexis

  That afternoon, nervous but determined, Amy tidied her hair and put on a spring hat that she’d finally splurged on—now to her regret—and went to see Daniel Parmenter. All this time, all these years, Adam had made her believe that everything that went wrong in their marriage was her fault. But after this morning, she’d begun to realize that it wasn’t true. She’d have no true peace until she was not legally bound to him any longer.

  His clerk had her take a seat in front and Dan came out to join her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up his forearms and his tie was askew.

  “Please forgive me, Mrs. Jacobsen. I’m afraid you’ve caught me in the middle of a research project.”

  “Would you rather that I came back another time?”

  “No, no, as long as you don’t mind sitting among some books.”

  She released a little sigh of relief and nodded. “That’s perfectly fine. I appreciate you interrupting your work to speak with me.”

  He led her to his office and directed her to a chair, brushing a clean handkerchief over the seat. He hadn’t been exaggerating about the books. “I’m researching some property ownership laws and I’m afraid I’ve managed to get sidetracked. Research can be like that. One interesting fact leads to another. Please—sit.” He settled across from her. “Now, how can I help you?”

  She looked around to make certain she would not be overheard, but his door was closed. Inhaling deeply, she knew what she must do and should have done her first day here. “I’m not sure how to go about this, or how to approach—I’ve never known anyone who did this—”

  “Just say it quickly. That will help.”

  She dropped her gaze to a book sitting on the desk in front of her. “I want to divorce my husband.”

  If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “It’s not all that common, but it happens far more often than you’d think. You are not the first married woman looking to escape from, shall we say, an unhappy union.”

  “Is it difficult?”

  “No, it can take some time. But really, there are just two requirements. You have to show cause. You know, give a reason.”

  Her head came up. “Reason?” She imagined the intimate details of her life recorded in some legal document and filed in the county records for anyone and everyone to see.

  “An example would be abandonment. A man goes out for a newspaper and simply disappears. Or decides he’s had enough and packs up and walks out, leaving the wife and possibly children with no means of support. Then there’s infidelity, although that can be more challenging if the law requires proof. Another reason is mental or physical cruelty. I imagine you might be more familiar with that.”

  Amy felt her face heat up like a cast iron skillet on the stove and she closed her eyes briefly. Did she have a scarlet B for Beaten sewn to her dress front? “And the other requirement?”

  “In order to get the ball rolling, after we work out the details on our side, we must serve divorce papers to the spouse. That means we need to know where to find him. If he’s nowhere to be found, the announcement must be published in newspapers.”

  She cringed at the thought. “I hope that won’t be necessary. I-I believe I know where Mr. Jacobsen is.”

  He went on to explain some other fine points when she asked, “What about this house I’ve inherited? Do I get to keep that? It was left only to me, but I can easily imagine that if Adam finds out about it, he’ll expect to confiscate it.”

  He nodded. “In some states, he could take it outright. Oregon is more equitable when it comes to division of assets.”

  “You mean I have to share it with him? I’m not looking for anything from him—we never had anything. I just want to be left alone.”

  He studied her with a mild, comforting expression. “All right.” He searched through the stacks on his desk until he found a ruled yellow pad and his pen. “Let’s get things started. Tell me what’s going on.”

  So Amy did.

  “I suppose it was bound to come to this, but I’m not looking forward to it.” While Bax sat in the passenger seat holding their weapons, Whit Gannon piloted the Model T over rutted back roads that led to the hills behind Fairdale. It had been dry for a few days, so at least the mud had solidified a bit. “Some of these boys know and care about what they’re doing. They make decent stuff. Others don’t and it’s hard to tell the difference until someone like Winks dies.”

  “Isn’t that a smoke plume up there?” Bax asked, pointing to a forested hillside.

  “Hmm, yeah, that looks like the right place. They must be just getting started. Once a good fire is going, it doesn’t smoke.”

  “How did you hear about this?”

  Whit resettled his hat and gripped the steering wheel with his right hand. “I talked to Luke Becker—he’s an old guy who’s lived around here with his wife for over forty years. I used to help out in the summers on his farm when I was a kid. He was a nice man, a young widower, and his wife was a mail-order bride from Chicago. He brought her out here to help him raise his daughter. They had four more children after that. Anyway, he said he sees wagons hauling barrels and cases of Mason jars past his place on a pretty regular basis. And he knows who they are. I just don’t want him and his wife, Emily, getting harassed for reporting it. They’re in their seventies now. Their kids and grandkids visit all the time, and I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  Bax gripped the two shotguns between his knees, and both men were armed with pistols. “I wish we knew how much of this is going on around here. We might be trying to fight a forest fire with a watering can.” He felt a little jumpy about it—he hadn’t even pointed a weapon at anyone since the war. But then, why would he?

  Under a dull, gray sky, they made their way up through the woods and came upon a setup of a medium size still camouflaged by trees. A stream of clear, cold water flowed nearby, a necessity for the task, but there was no evidence of anyone living here. In another couple of weeks, the trees would be completely leafed out and this metal contraption of boiler and coiled tubing would be almost impossible to spot.

  “Not the fanciest operation,” Bax commented, getting out. Whit joined him, and he handed the sheriff a shotgun.

  “No, it doesn’t take much. I don’t see anyone but keep your eyes open.” Whit glanced around and pointed at a tarp-covered pile shrouded by fir limbs. “Go see.”

  Bax gave him a wry look that implied thanks so much. Anything could be under there. He shifted his weapon to his shoulder and waded through the spring ground cover to lift the corner of the tarp. “Sawdust.” He added with a touch of irony, “Premium grade.”

  “Okay. Let’s knock this thing down. I know it’ll just pop up somewhere else, but we can’t leave it. And if we do a decent job, we’ll put them out of business for a while.”

  Bax scanned the surrounding area, looking for any sign that they were being watched. But it wouldn’t be hard to hide here, and it sure as hell wasn’t hard to imagine getting shot from some blind up the hill. They went to the back of the car and pulled out an axe and a sledgehammer. With the first swing of the tools clanging on the still, startled birds fled the nearby trees, squawking and giving shrill cries of complaint. The underbrush rustled with two or three unseen creatures and the whole forest seemed to shudder with the noise.

  Steam rose from the hot sawdust mash, which flowed downhill like boiling oatmeal to scald everything in its path. The men didn’t stop until the cylindrical tank was as flattened as an old tin can, the coil was crushed beyond salvage, the sawdust pile was scattered everywhere, and both of them had sweated through their shirts.

  “Hooo!” Bax exclaimed, dragging a forearm across his brow. “I haven’t done work like that in a while!”

  They put all the tools back and Whit brought out a printed sign that featured a skull and crossbones with the text, WARNING! Moonshiners Will Be Prosecuted to the Full Extent of State and Fe
deral Law. He nailed the sign to a tree.

  “Do you really think that will work? There’s sure no shortage of raw materials around here. All the sawdust in the logging camps and the mill could keep someone in business till the end of time,” Bax asked, taking a drink of water from a canteen he’d brought along. He passed it to Whit.

  Whit laughed and took a long swallow. “Hell, no, it won’t work! But at least they’ll remember that we’re watching them.”

  “We can’t take on all of them—there aren’t enough of us to go around.”

  “I won’t bring in the feds. They make more trouble than they solve. Besides, I don’t want them to shut down Tilly, or give me grief for not doing it myself. I know he sometimes cuts good whiskey with water or bad-tasting stuff like Worcestershire sauce or angostura bitters he gets from the druggist. If a customer is giving him a hard time, he has a special bottle dosed with cod liver oil that will give the man a chance to ponder his rude behavior later in the outhouse.” Bax laughed at that. “But he’s never hurt anyone, and now after Winks, he’s got the fear of God in him. He’s not buying from anyone he doesn’t know, or taking any bottles that aren’t sealed. Tilly isn’t our problem.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When Bax unlocked the back door and walked into the kitchen the next evening he smelled dinner, and Amy was standing at the stove stirring a pot of something. She’d filled out a bit since she’d first arrived, and her small frame bore more fully rounded curves. The picture, like a still life painting, made him imagine a mellow evening and coming in from a day’s hard work to find the precious gift of a woman who loved him, despite his past. Despite everything.

  But she jumped when she saw him and gave him an odd look. The frightened, wary face she’d worn when she arrived was back. And this time it seemed to be directed at him. “We’ll be eating in a few minutes.” The food smelled great—he hoped it was more than she’d served last night. She’d split a chicken four ways and everyone got one piece. He’d seen a few dog scraps left over in the roasting pan, but they disappeared right after dinner.

  As if the announcement summoned him, Tom came bounding down the back stairs to the kitchen. “Is Deirdre—I mean Mrs. Gifford going to eat with us?”

  Amy smiled at him. “It’s all right, Tom. You can call her Deirdre. We’ve become pretty informal around here.” Her gaze cut to Bax and back again. “She’s lying down right now. She can’t seem to get over her chest cold. I’ll take her something myself.” She gave Bax another strange glance, not smiling now.

  Bax sat in his chair in the dining room, baffled by her shifting moods—distracted and nervous, suspicious and worried. She’d begun treating him like a leper yesterday. If it was because of that kiss . . . it was just a kiss he’d given her and she hadn’t protested. In fact, he’d felt her respond. Could he have been wrong? He dragged himself away from the memory of it to concentrate on the day’s problem.

  “Tom, have you noticed anything going on near the mill operation that seems funny?” He went on to explain the sawdust still he and Whit had knocked down that day. “Sometimes bootleggers follow logging camps and set up their operations near mills because they can scavenge the sawdust.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone, but I can ask around. I heard about poor old Winks. Tilly was practically bawling into his bar towel.”

  Bax nodded. “I didn’t really know him but I get the impression he was kind of like furniture around town. Always there.” He hitched and lowered his brow. “Now he’s not.”

  Amy put a soup tureen on the table and a plate piled with slices of homemade bread, then took her place. “I can’t remember a time when Winks wasn’t hanging around someone’s porch or scrounging up odd jobs.”

  Bax looked at the thin, pale broth in his soup bowl with its grains of barley, remaining bits of yesterday’s chicken, and a few vegetables, and hoped something more substantial was coming next. But when the soup was gone and the bread eaten, she began clearing the dishes. He and Tom exchanged puzzled looks, but she would not meet either man’s eyes. This was a big change from the meals they’d grown accustomed to—roast, chicken and dumplings, pork chops, served with butter- and cream-rich mashed potatoes, candied yams, spring peas, and big desserts. This put Bax in mind of hospital food—or worse. And for Tom, who worked harder than a rented mule at the sawmill, this was no meal at all.

  But if Deirdre was sick, he thought, maybe this was the most Amy’d had time for. In the awkward silence that followed, the men pushed out their chairs. He picked up a soup dish and carried it to the kitchen. He found her putting together a tray for Deirdre with the same soup, tea, and toast.

  “Are things all right?” he asked, keeping his voice down.

  Amy whirled to face him. “Yes, of course,” she said with a quick brightness that sounded forced even to her own ears. What could possibly be wrong? she asked herself, feeling a hysterical laugh trying to work its way up her throat. She was being blackmailed, she had barely enough money to feed them all for one week let alone three more after that (and the men had already noticed the lack), bills that needed to be paid, a vengeful husband in town tracking her every move with a hired thug who had come to her door and would probably come back, and an ex-convict living under her roof. Things were positively grand.

  “You’d tell me if something has happened, wouldn’t you?” he asked. He stood so close to her she felt the heat from his body. Or it seemed like she did.

  “Of course. Certainly.” She smiled at him, a broad grin that stretched her cheeks so much they hurt. “Everything is just fine.”

  He looked down, searching her face with a close scrutiny that almost paralyzed her. The corner of his mouth dropped and he shook his head. “Nope. I don’t believe that.”

  She felt her own lower lip tremble and she clenched her jaw, terrified that she’d begin crying. “Really, Bax, I have to take this tray to Deirdre before it’s cold.” She had to escape from him before he pried anything out of her. She picked it up and slipped around him to hurry up the stairs.

  In the hallway, she heard the sound of Deirdre’s cough through her closed door. She took a deep, steadying breath. Then, carefully balancing the tray against her waist, Amy knocked before turning the knob. She found Deirdre propped on pillows and in her nightgown, looking pale and sweaty. Her red hair contrasted sharply with her ashen face, which seemed to fade into the pillowcase.

  “I’ve brought you some chicken broth with barley,” she said. This bedroom on the north side of the house was dim, despite the two hours of daylight remaining. It smelled like a sick room, stuffy, the air heavy with vain hope.

  “I’m so sorry to make you wait on me like this, Amy. I should be better anytime now.”

  “I think you’d better go see Jessica. This has dragged on long enough and you need a doctor.” She put the tray on the night table next to Deirdre and helped her fluff her pillows to put her in a sitting position. Then she opened one of the windows a couple of inches to let in fresh air.

  “But I know I’ll be better soon. I’ve just been overdoing it, I guess. If the cough would only let up, I could get some rest.” As if to emphasize the point, her now-gurgling cough set off again. It took her a moment to regain her breath. “That’s part of the problem. It wakes me up.”

  Amy set the tray on Deirdre’s lap. “What about the cough medicine you got from Granny Mae?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Then we’ll have to get more for you. Did it really work?”

  “Pretty well.”

  Amy couldn’t imagine why since it was just a mishmash of black pepper, honey, and some kind of powder, with a whole clove and a scrape of nutmeg thrown in for flavor.

  “All right. I’ll see to it tomorrow.”

  Deirdre took a sip of broth and put down the spoon. “I could get it myself. I don’t want you to bother.”

  “That’s all right. You n
eed to get your strength back.” Amy sat in the chair beside her bed. At one time, she would have had no patience for sitting in a sickroom with a rabbity martyr. But since those days, she’d taken care of women recovering from childbirth and miscarriages, botched abortions, beatings, and illnesses. Jessica had once tried to tell her what her life had been like in New York, working in the tenements for the public health department. To Amy, it had all sounded melodramatic and highly exaggerated. She knew better now. “Have more soup,” she urged Deirdre. “You won’t get well if you don’t eat.”

  Her patient dutifully finished the broth and half a piece of toast, then sagged back against her pillows.

  “Tom was asking about you,” Amy said, giving her a teasing smile, hoping to win one back. She stood and took the tray.

  “Oh, um, that’s nice.” She offered a faint smile in return and touched a hand to her hair. “I’m glad he can’t see me right now.”

  “He seems like a nice man.”

  “I think so too,” Deirdre agreed, but the conversation was cut short by her thick, ropy cough. She put her handkerchief to her mouth and it was dotted with rust-colored stains.

  Amy turned away. Deirdre needed the medicine and a doctor. Tomorrow she’d get both.

  That night, Amy tossed and turned so much in her bed that she untucked all the sheets. They’d wadded themselves up into such a small bundle, she lay huddling at a bottom corner of the mattress hugging her pillows. Finally with a huff she got up. In the dim glow of a veiled half-moon that shone through the window, she remade the bed and sank back into its depths.

  For the past two days and nights she’d asked herself the same question. What on earth had compelled her to give away good money to protect Bax? It was bad enough to have to pay that thug, Milo, to keep him from telling Adam his vulgar lies about an invented relationship between her and Bax. But to keep Bax’s past a secret, too? A past, she realized, that could have been an invention of Milo’s as well. And if it was true—God, what kind of man was he, what had he done to be sentenced to prison? Strangely, she had the feeling that he wouldn’t be happy about the sacrifice she’d made, but would instead be angry. There was no one else in the house who would inspire that much loyalty in her. Maybe not even another person in her life at this point. She’d not heard from Jessica again after the dinner invitation, and she wasn’t sure where to lay the blame for that—on Jess, herself, or Adam. She might learn tomorrow when she went to Jessica’s office to bring her home for Deirdre.