on their good name and reputations. But he was alive, for whatever that was worth. He wasn’t the same, but alive.
Awake now, he was relieved to find himself in his rented room in Powell Springs.
Slowly he rolled over to his back in the darkness of the quiet room in the quiet house, and felt the crisp sheets brush against his bare skin. He was conscious of Amy Jacobsen lying just on the other side of the wall. Nothing about her personality should draw him to her. He was no angel, but she had done a dishonorable thing, trying to steal her sister’s intended. She possessed all the charm of a bottle of castor oil, and he hadn’t seen her smile even once yet. Thanks to her, h e’d have to take his wash to Wegners, which was damned inconvenient, and that lit a low flame under his patience with her. But there was something . . . something about her that wouldn’t let him cross her off the list of images that floated across his mind during the day. Something bad had happened to her, of that he was certain. Whatever it had been, it was enough to change her from what h e’d heard was a sparkling, confident, though selfish young woman into someone who looked ten years older than she probably was.
But, hell, everyone had their secrets. Some, like his, were bad enough to destroy lives—it had cost him everything.
So, she had hers. He had his own.
Outside, the rain was back, driven by heavy wind gusts that rustled the trees and shrubs and slammed hard drops against the windows. The sound served to remind him that her life was complicated by a lot of things, including a husband, and that only a fool wouldn’t keep his distance.
Bax pulled the covers up to his chest to ward off the chill and waited for sleep—and maybe that damned dream—to claim him again.
The next morning, the sky was still gray and threatened rain. With her sleeves rolled up and wearing an apron over a black skirt, Amy stood at the Maytag electric washing machine on the back porch. It was only a year old, and Deirdre told her that Mrs. Donaldson had bought it just before she fell ill. To Amy, it was a wonder of technology that bordered on magic. It cut in half the drudgery of washing. In the tub, a load of Bax’s shirts and underwear agitated beneath the layer of suds created by curls of laundry soap she had shaved from a bar of Fels-Naptha. She had originally planned to charge him and Tom Sommers for this. But after Bax stepped in to help her with Sylvia Dilworth, she felt she owed him something, even though that help had been uninvited, and it was exasperating. She couldn’t very well give him free laundry and expect Tom to pay, so her plan to make money from this drained away with the wash water. It would be just this one time, though. She was determined that a single good deed wouldn’t obligate her to a never-ending handout.
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
Awake now, he was relieved to find himself in his rented room in Powell Springs.
Slowly he rolled over to his back in the darkness of the quiet room in the quiet house, and felt the crisp sheets brush against his bare skin. He was conscious of Amy Jacobsen lying just on the other side of the wall. Nothing about her personality should draw him to her. He was no angel, but she had done a dishonorable thing, trying to steal her sister’s intended. She possessed all the charm of a bottle of castor oil, and he hadn’t seen her smile even once yet. Thanks to her, h e’d have to take his wash to Wegners, which was damned inconvenient, and that lit a low flame under his patience with her. But there was something . . . something about her that wouldn’t let him cross her off the list of images that floated across his mind during the day. Something bad had happened to her, of that he was certain. Whatever it had been, it was enough to change her from what h e’d heard was a sparkling, confident, though selfish young woman into someone who looked ten years older than she probably was.
But, hell, everyone had their secrets. Some, like his, were bad enough to destroy lives—it had cost him everything.
So, she had hers. He had his own.
Outside, the rain was back, driven by heavy wind gusts that rustled the trees and shrubs and slammed hard drops against the windows. The sound served to remind him that her life was complicated by a lot of things, including a husband, and that only a fool wouldn’t keep his distance.
Bax pulled the covers up to his chest to ward off the chill and waited for sleep—and maybe that damned dream—to claim him again.
The next morning, the sky was still gray and threatened rain. With her sleeves rolled up and wearing an apron over a black skirt, Amy stood at the Maytag electric washing machine on the back porch. It was only a year old, and Deirdre told her that Mrs. Donaldson had bought it just before she fell ill. To Amy, it was a wonder of technology that bordered on magic. It cut in half the drudgery of washing. In the tub, a load of Bax’s shirts and underwear agitated beneath the layer of suds created by curls of laundry soap she had shaved from a bar of Fels-Naptha. She had originally planned to charge him and Tom Sommers for this. But after Bax stepped in to help her with Sylvia Dilworth, she felt she owed him something, even though that help had been uninvited, and it was exasperating. She couldn’t very well give him free laundry and expect Tom to pay, so her plan to make money from this drained away with the wash water. It would be just this one time, though. She was determined that a single good deed wouldn’t obligate her to a never-ending handout.
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
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