Read Online The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) by Alexis Harrington - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexis Harrington
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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.
Two houses down the street, a man in rumpled clothes, partially screened by a laurel hedge, peered at Bax Duncan as he jumped into a county sheriff’s car and drove off. He allowed himself a very satisfied smirk.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. This day was turning out to be even better than h e’d expected. Yes, indeed—that thousand dollars might be about to turn into a bigger jackpot.
CHAPTER FIVE
“What do you know about Bax Duncan? Weren’t you the one who rented a room to him?” Amy had Deirdre seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. The scent of Amy’s dinner rolls baking in the oven filled the air.
Deirdre cringed as Amy stood over her with her hands on her hips. She hadn’t touched the coffee. “Yes, it was just after Mrs. Donaldson passed away. He works for Sheriff Gannon. Is something wrong?”
Amy described the earlier episode with Bax and his shirt. “Do you know anything else?”
“No—he doesn’t talk about himself much. He doesn’t talk much at all.” Deirdre pulled out her handkerchief in time to catch a series of sneezes. Sh e’d been sniffling since last night and now it sounded like a cold had a firm grip on her.
“And doesn’t that make you wonder why? Have you seen the scars on his back?”
Deirdre frowned and swallowed. “Goodness, how—why would I? He’s always been nice to me. You know, respectful. He might have gotten those scars in an
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.
Two houses down the street, a man in rumpled clothes, partially screened by a laurel hedge, peered at Bax Duncan as he jumped into a county sheriff’s car and drove off. He allowed himself a very satisfied smirk.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. This day was turning out to be even better than h e’d expected. Yes, indeed—that thousand dollars might be about to turn into a bigger jackpot.
CHAPTER FIVE
“What do you know about Bax Duncan? Weren’t you the one who rented a room to him?” Amy had Deirdre seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. The scent of Amy’s dinner rolls baking in the oven filled the air.
Deirdre cringed as Amy stood over her with her hands on her hips. She hadn’t touched the coffee. “Yes, it was just after Mrs. Donaldson passed away. He works for Sheriff Gannon. Is something wrong?”
Amy described the earlier episode with Bax and his shirt. “Do you know anything else?”
“No—he doesn’t talk about himself much. He doesn’t talk much at all.” Deirdre pulled out her handkerchief in time to catch a series of sneezes. Sh e’d been sniffling since last night and now it sounded like a cold had a firm grip on her.
“And doesn’t that make you wonder why? Have you seen the scars on his back?”
Deirdre frowned and swallowed. “Goodness, how—why would I? He’s always been nice to me. You know, respectful. He might have gotten those scars in an
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