The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) by Alexis Harrington Page B

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