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

Mae. Finally the old woman came through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, her apron as worn as her seamed face.
    She looked Amy up and down, with her bony arms crossed. “Well, Mrs. Jacobsen, this is a surprise.”
    Oh, God, if one more person—just one more—said that to her, sh e’d scream. “I came here because Deirdre Gifford is down with a bad cough and she begged me to buy a batch of your medicine. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have troubled you.”
    If there was one way to sweeten up Mae Rumsteadt, it was to acknowledge or praise her healing skills. Her hard expression softened. “Deirdre is sick?”
    “Yes, but she’s certain she’ll feel better with your help.”
    Granny Mae sighed. “All right. Come on to the back and I’ll mix up something for her.”
    Amy followed her and saw the chaos usually hidden from the customers’ view by the swinging doors. Next to a slab of ribs, a roast she must have been cutting up sat on the worktable like a stabbing victim, the knife still protruding from it. A big cast iron stove crouched against one wall like a black, fire-belching dragon with its eight burners, and each burner bore a simmering pot of something . Bunches of drying herbs and flowers hung from a beam above it all. Amy wasn’t sure if this was all food for the restaurant or other concoctions Granny Mae was brewing. She could easily imagine the old woman standing over a boiling cauldron, cackling like a witch in Macbeth .
    Mae grabbed a white soup bowl from the shelf and mixed together honey, ground black pepper, and some mysterious powder, and finished it off with two hefty splashes of liquid that looked like vanilla. Taking a funnel from a side table, she poured the mess into a brown bottle and topped it with a cork.
    “Here,” she said, handing it to Amy. “In case Deirdre doesn’t remember, tell her to take two teaspoons every two or three hours.”
    “How much do I owe you?”
    “Since it’s for Deirdre, nothing.” The unspoken alternative hung in the air— If it was for you . . .
    “Thank you.” Amy turned to leave.
    “Amy,” Granny Mae said, stopping her. She looked back at the woman sh e’d know her entire life. She saw judgment in her eyes but also a hint of compassion. “Why did you come back to Powell Springs?”
    She gave her a level look before answering. “Because I had nowhere else to go.” Then she walked out.

    “Duncan!”
    Bax was headed for home when he heard someone call his name. He turned toward the source and saw a rough-looking bum in an alley between two stores that had closed for the day. It was still light out at this time of year, but the street was quiet. The muscles in his gut tightened and he moved his right hand closer to his sidearm. Something about this lowlife seemed familiar but he couldn’t imagine why. He hadn’t seen him around town. He kept his distance and stared at him.
    “You have my attention. Who the hell are you?”
    The man grinned, showing missing front teeth. “You don’t remember me, Sarge? Tsk, tsk, tsk. And after everything we went through in France.”
    Bax frowned and his pulse began to thud in his ears. “No, I don’t.” He started to turn away.
    “Remember that last day of the war? You got yourself into hot water for—”
    Faster than he himself would have imagined, Bax rushed the stranger, grabbed his throat, and pushed him deeper into the alley. He thumped the man’s head, once, against the brick wall. At this close range, he smelled of tobacco and stale sweat. “Let’s try this again. Who the hell are you?”
    A flash of fear crossed the stranger’s face. “Milo Breninger.”
    Fog, mud, rain, deafening bombardments, corpses, disembodied limbs, misery, screaming horses, screaming wounded . . . In the time it took a shooting star to cross the sky, all these images whipped through Bax’s mind—images that would never leave him, not if he lived to be one hundred. Sure, he remembered him now, a scheming,