Read Online The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) by Alexis Harrington - Free Book Online Page A

accident. Anyway, a lot of men have scars now. We went through a horrible war, Amy. Maybe he was in the army and was wounded.”
    Amy sat down at the table, and the other woman visibly relaxed a bit. To Amy, it seemed the Great War had occurred in the distant past while she was still living in Powell Springs. After she left, the focus of her life had narrowed to her own basic survival, and so many other things had happened to her in the interim. “Yes, yes, I thought of that. He’s been nice to me, too, a couple of times—” And not so nice a few times as well, she thought. “I didn’t mean to say anything. But I was so surprised, the words just popped out. If you could have seen the look on his face when I mentioned it . . .” Amy shuddered. Sh e’d seen that kind of furious expression before, the sudden, frightening switch from one mood to another, and knew what it could lead to. “He practically bared his teeth at me like a vicious dog. I thought he might hit me, he looked so angry. Then he had the nerve to throw his dirty shirt at me.”
    Deirdre’s eyes widened, and she put her hand to her throat. “Oh, no, that just can’t be! It’s so hard to believe it of him. He’s always been quiet and polite. He doesn’t make any demands or cause trouble. Some men don’t like to be reminded of what they went through in the army.”
    “We don’t even know if he was in the army,” Amy replied, not really listening to Deirdre’s rationale while old memories of her own marched through her mind. “You never know about people. You might think you do, and then you see a whole new side, one you never expected.”
    “But if there’s a-a problem , don’t you think Whit Gannon would have discovered it by now? He’s a good judge of people.”
    Amy pushed the creamer toward Deirdre. “Maybe.” But she was still wary.
    Deirdre let the coffee sit. “I have a sore throat—the coffee wouldn’t help it. What are you going to do about him?”
    Amy took back the cream and drizzled it into her own cup. “Nothing for now, except keep an eye on him.”

    Harlan Monroe walked into Robert Burton’s office with a manila folder. Like the others in the house, it was an impressive room, lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves that contained valuable first editions and antique volumes. A large Oriental carpet covered the floor, one which a servant tended daily, combing its fringed edges as if it were a pampered cocker spaniel. Paintings and sculptures from around the world decorated the room, and behind Burton’s mahogany desk hung a fine, rare tapestry from the court of Louis XIV. A pair of French doors opened onto the red tiled terrace that wrapped around the east side of the magnificent home and provided a broader view of Mt. Hood and the Willamette River. “For your signature, sir.”
    “And what are these, Monroe?” the man asked.
    “Checks for the usual household expenses, the grocery bill from Strohecker’s, the utilities, staff pay, and so on.”
    Robert Burton was in his seventies and still a vital, commanding presence in any room. His hair was Arctic white, although his carefully trimmed Vandyke beard bore a hint of the dark hair h e’d once had. He had but two infirmities, which he made an effort to camouflage: arthritis that had put an end to his morning horseback rides around the hilltop property where his house was built, and eyesight that was failing to the point of being a serious disadvantage. He could see well enough to navigate his way through the house—h e’d had an elevator installed to avoid the marble grand staircase—and for the most part still recognized faces and could address people at a well-lighted dining table. But in his office, he needed a strong magnifying glass to read even the largest print. All the eye specialists he had visited agreed that his condition, something they called disciform lesions, was stealing his sight. There was no cure.
    Now he opened the folder and moved the