Take Me Home (9781455552078)

by Garlock, Dorothy

  He was also relieved to be away from Otto. Before leaving, Peter had listened to the man go on about what he should and shouldn’t do in town; truthfully, he hadn’t paid much attention, but just nodded his head. Ever since they’d been shackled together, Peter had been uncomfortable, listening to Otto’s tirades against Americans and Jews, as well as his unwavering belief in Hitler and the Nazis. But it was all over now. Soon, both of them would be where they belonged, where they would have been had it not been for the crash.

  So I might as well enjoy what little freedom I have left…

  Soon, Peter found a road and began following it, staying along the shoulder. Towering trees rose on either side, the sun shining through their nearly bare branches, many of them only now showing the first buds of spring. Ahead, he could look down at a meandering stream of water winding its way toward the town he’d seen from the cabin. It was like most of the others he’d seen from the prison train; a clump of buildings with a church steeple towering highest of all. Homes spread out in every direction, many following the flow of the creek, eventually dwindling as they met the countryside. While it was certainly different from German towns, Peter was struck by its beauty, as well as the feelings of community it raised in him. He thought of his mother, as he often did. He doubted that Rothesburg, the town in which she lived, looked this lovely; it had probably been bombed into rubble by now. Worse yet, he had no idea if she was alive or dead.

  Walking along, lost in thought, Peter was startled when a man suddenly stepped out into the road from behind a hedge. He was older, wearing a worn tweed coat and carrying a bundle of sticks, which he dropped into a larger pile. Noticing Peter, the man cheerfully said, “Good morning.”

  Momentarily stunned, fearful that he would do or say something to betray that he was German, it took Peter a second to recover. Somehow, he managed to find a friendly smile. “Morning,” he replied.

  “Out for a walk?” the man asked.

  Peter noticed the man give him a subtle look-over. His eyes lingered for a moment on Peter’s wrist; he’d tried to clean where the handcuff had dug into his flesh, wiping away all of the blood, but he knew that the cut looked red and angry.

  “Actually, I was in a bit of an accident,” Peter replied, the English coming to him surprisingly easily. Pointing back up the road behind him, he added, “Something darted out in front of my car a couple of miles back. I had to swerve to keep from hitting it and ran right into a tree. I’ve been walking ever since.”

  “Probably a deer,” the man said with a compassionate nod. “This time a year they start to get a little frisky, if you know what I mean.”

  “Could’ve been,” Peter replied with a chuckle. “There wasn’t much light and it all happened so fast I’m afraid I didn’t get too good of a look.”

  “You all right?” he asked, nodding at Peter’s hand.

  “I’m fine. Nothing broken, at least. It looks a lot worse than it feels.”

  “You should still head into town and get it looked at.”

  Running a hand through his hair, Peter said, “The truth is, I’m not exactly sure where I’m at.”

  “This here’s Miller’s Creek,” the man explained. “It ain’t much more than a spot on most folks’ maps, but it’s a fine place all the same.”

  Peter wasn’t sure, but he thought he must be in Wisconsin. Still, he didn’t ask; it would be far too suspicious. “Do you know where I might find a lawman?” he asked instead.

  “You mean the sheriff?” the man asked, his eyes narrowing a bit.

  “I thought I should let him know about my accident,” Peter answered quickly. “The wreck is off the road, but come dark, someone driving along might not see it. There’s already been one crash. I’d hate to be the cause of another.”

  The man nodded, accepting Peter’s explanation as the truth. “The sheriff in these parts is a good man. Name’s John Marsten. The police station’s across from the bank on Main Street. You get yourself turned around, I expect anyone you ask could point you in the right direction.”

  “Much obliged,” Peter answered. The two men shook hands and he was again on his way.

  Walking along, Peter smiled to himself. He’d learned where he was, as well as where he might find someone who could put an end to all of the madness he’d gotten into with Otto. But in talking with the older man, he was relieved that his English had betrayed no hint of his true identity. He’d grown up listening to his father, talking with him, thinking that he sounded like an American born and raised, but he’d always wondered if he spoke with an accent or some other tell that would give him away as a foreigner, but apparently, there wasn’t one.

  Eventually, Peter crossed a rickety bridge that spanned the waterway that must have given the town its name, and entered Miller’s Creek. Using the tall church steeple as a landmark, he headed in that direction. A deliveryman drove past in his truck, giving a short tap on his horn and a friendly wave; Peter returned the gesture without thinking.

  He walked down a street divided by a row of trees. Houses lined both sides of the road, many with automobiles parked out front. From nearly every home, an American flag fluttered in the breeze; the sight felt very different from what Peter was used to in Germany, where the red, black, and white swastika was everywhere. Back home, while there were thousands of people who flew the Nazi symbol out of a love for what it represented, there were many who did so out of fear of what would happen if they didn’t. He doubted that there was any such dilemma here.

  Peter turned one corner and then another, the church steeple drawing steadily closer. He was trying to figure out what he was going to say to Sheriff Marsten when he saw something up ahead. Two young women were hauling boxes of newspapers toward a large wagon on the sidewalk. One of them stopped on the walk, clearly straining with the weight of her load, before dropping it down at her feet with a plop. She leaned back, stretched her aching muscles, wiped the sweat from her brow, and then looked up, catching Peter staring at her. He froze, his heart beating faster.

  She was beautiful, almost breathtaking. In all of his life, he’d never seen a woman who could make him feel the way he did in that moment. And then she smiled at him, a gentle upturn of the corners of her mouth, her blue eyes narrowing as her blond hair swirled across her shoulders, and Peter’s feelings for her intensified. In his head, he knew that he should just continue to the sheriff’s office, turn himself in, and then assist in Otto’s capture in any way he could. What he shouldn’t do was go over and talk to that woman.

  But he wasn’t listening to his head.

  What he wanted was coming from his heart: to know her name; to hear the sound of her voice; to look for a bit longer on her beauty; to say something, anything, that would make her smile a bit brighter. Afterward, he could keep walking, find the sheriff, and do just as he’d intended.

  But only after…

  The next thing Peter knew, he was walking toward her; he could no more have resisted her lure than a bee could a flower.

  Olivia grimaced as she carried another load of old newspapers from Delores Wright’s garage. Her muscles ached from the weight of the boxes. Sweat beaded her brow. But whatever discomfort she felt was well worth it. She and Sally had been coming to see the widow for more than a year, always asking if she would hand over her papers to be recycled. Delores and her late husband, Frank, had owned Miller’s Creek’s mercantile for more than twenty years; for almost every one of those days, Delores had faithfully brought home a newspaper. Whenever they asked her about surrendering her trove, Delores had always turned them down, clinging to the belief that she might need them someday. Still, they’d never stopped asking; surprisingly, today the old woman had finally relented.

  “If it’ll really go to help with the war effort,” Delores had sighed, “then I suppose you can have ’em.”

  That didn’t mean that letting go of them was easy. Delores stood beside the garage, a pained expression on her face, watching Olivia and Sally hauling everyt
hing away; it was as if they were taking her jewels or some other family heirloom rather than yellowing newspapers.

  By now, the wagon was piled high and they were far from finished. Olivia suspected that the only way to get all of them would be to either make multiple trips or arrange for a truck; regardless of which solution was chosen, Olivia wanted to make sure they got it all. She took her recycling responsibilities seriously; just as with her job at the hardware store, she wanted to do her part on the home front to defeat the Germans and the Japanese.

  As she made her way down Delores’s walk, the strain of Olivia’s load finally became too much to bear and she let it drop heavily to the ground. Taking a deep breath and wiping the sweat from her brow, she glanced toward the street. Unexpectedly, she saw a man standing on the sidewalk, looking right at her. He was tall, with blond hair, and broad across the shoulders. He was also handsome; watching him stirred something in Olivia, a feeling that while unfamiliar, was far from unwelcome. Instead of feeling uncomfortable or embarrassed by his attention, Olivia returned his stare. Watching him, she felt her pulse quicken. Seconds passed, but she didn’t look away. Then, surprisingly even to her, she smiled at him.

  What do you think you’re doing?

  His reaction was immediate and unmistakable; a straightening of his torso, a hint of a returning smile, and a slight narrowing of his gaze; it was as if she’d touched him. From the wagon, she could feel Sally’s eyes moving from one of them to the other, wondering what was happening, but Olivia paid her friend no mind.

  Then he started walking toward her.

  Olivia’s heart beat faster. Who is this man? The only thing she could say for certain was that she’d never seen him before.

  “You look like you could use some help,” the stranger said once he had reached her, glancing down at the box of newspapers.

  “They were heavier than I expected,” she managed.

  Up close, he was even better-looking than he’d been at a distance. With the sun high over his shoulder, the light caught his hair in such a way that it almost shined. His blue eyes, roaming over her features just as intently as she was regarding his, were flecked with a darker color. Even his voice appealed to her, deep yet pleasant. While Olivia noticed that his clothes were a bit out of fashion and wrinkled, that there was a smattering of whiskers on his cheeks, and that he appeared a little tired, that did nothing to dampen her interest. Just as she had with her father, Olivia kept her ring hidden, her hand at her side.

  “May I?” he asked with a wisp of a smile, kneeling to take the box in his hands, holding its weight as easily as if it were filled with feathers.

  Olivia nodded.

  The man took the box over to the wagon, nodding to Sally on the way, and placed it on the pile. The newspapers shifted slightly, leaning awkwardly to one side; no matter how he tried to reposition it, the whole load seemed precarious.

  “I don’t think it’ll hold any more,” he said.

  “We’ll have to come back for the rest,” Olivia replied.

  “I’ll go and tell Mrs. Wright,” Sally added; before she walked away to talk to the widow, she gave Olivia an intense look, nodding toward the stranger.

  Now that she was alone with the man, Olivia said, “Thank you for the help.”

  “It was nothing,” he answered.

  “I appreciate it all the same.”

  A momentary silence fell over them, but it wasn’t awkward. Olivia wondered what the stranger was thinking, if he was enjoying her company as much as she was his. Eventually, her curiosity about him became too much.

  “I’m Olivia,” she said, extending her hand, wanting to be polite while hoping to learn his name in exchange. “Olivia Marsten.”

  The stranger had taken her hand in his own, enveloping it, his skin warm to the touch. He’d held it for a moment longer than might have been needed, although Olivia hadn’t minded, but he let her go, his smile faltering, if only for an instant, at the mention of her name. It reappeared a second later, but Olivia had noticed all the same.

  From somewhere in the distance, the sound of an automobile’s horn being repeatedly honked came to her ears.

  “Are you related to Sheriff Marsten?” the man asked.

  Olivia’s brow furrowed with curiosity. “He’s my father,” she answered.

  The stranger brightened a bit. “That’s one heck of a coincidence,” he said. “He’s just the man I was going to see.”

  Again, the sound of a horn’s bleating filled the afternoon; this time, it sounded closer.

  “And you are?” Olivia asked, cutting to the chase.

  The man shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Where are my manners? I’m Peter…Peter B—” he began, but then faltered; for the second time, his good cheer wavered; it was as if he had tripped on something, almost falling, but managed to right himself at the last instant. “Peter Baird,” he finished.

  “Why are you looking for my father?”

  Peter lifted his elbow and placed his hand on the back of his head. Sheepishly, he said, “Well, that’s sort of a—”

  Before he could finish, they were once again interrupted by the sound of honking. Both of them turned and looked up the street. An old, dented pickup truck rounded the corner, popped over the curb, and nearly collided with a telephone pole before it righted itself and headed down the street toward them, swerving every which way. The front end was all busted up, covered with dents, but it somehow kept running. Periodically, the horn sounded.

  “What’s going on?” Peter asked.

  “Oh, no,” Olivia answered, knowing just who it was. She would’ve recognized Sylvester Eddings’s truck anywhere; there wasn’t a person in all Miller’s Creek who wouldn’t have. He must have sobered up enough for her father to release him. The damage from the crash that had put him behind bars clearly hadn’t been bad enough to keep his truck from running. Olivia imagined that Sylvester had left jail and headed for the tavern or, if it was closed, searched until he found a bottle hidden away and started drinking again. Now, he was behind the wheel, clearly driving drunk.

  “If he’s not careful, someone’s going to get hurt,” Peter warned.

  Olivia cringed, thinking that Sylvester was about to sideswipe a car parked on the other side of the street, but he turned sharply at the last instant, the tires screeching, and gave the horn a quick beep. She could see him through the windshield, looking as if he was about to pass out. Suddenly, the car jerked violently from one side of the road to the other, and then back again.

  She gasped.

  It was heading right for them.

  Chapter Seven

  AT FIRST, PETER HADN’T KNOWN why he had lied. When he’d discovered that Olivia was the sheriff’s daughter, it had been a surprise; seeing how her eyes had briefly narrowed told him that he hadn’t been able to keep the shock from his face. Still, nothing had changed between them, not really. But then she’d asked him his name. He had started to answer, to tell her the truth, but something stopped him, some reason he couldn’t completely understand, and he’d quickly come up with Baird; it’d been the name of one of the American soldiers on the long boat trip across the Atlantic. As soon as he’d said it, shame had filled him.

  Even in the few minutes since they’d met, Olivia Marsten had proven to be far more than Peter could have ever imagined her to be; not only was she truly beautiful on the outside, but she was also charming, well-spoken, someone around whom he felt completely at ease. She was the last person he wanted to mislead.

  But then the truth had hit him.

  Looking into Olivia’s eyes, Peter had suddenly understood that the reason he lied was that he wanted to spend more time with her, to get to know her better, and that could never happen if he turned himself in as an escaped German prisoner. So he’d invented a new identity in order to keep from being taken away from her. It was selfish and misguided, but the thought of never seeing her again was unbearable.

  Peter was just about to come
up with another lie to explain why he was looking for her father, when the truck had careened around the corner. His first thought was to be grateful for the distraction, but watching the vehicle weaving around the road, nearly smashing into a parked car, he began to grow worried. His concern turned to fear when the truck drove toward where he and Olivia stood.

  “Move!” he shouted at Olivia

  But she was frozen in place. He had seen this reaction before; on the battlefield, when a man’s life was in danger, sometimes he could do nothing more than watch it happen.

  Peter glanced back at the truck. It was only a couple hundred feet away, its engine growling. This time, he knew it wouldn’t turn.

  Grabbing Olivia tightly by the wrist, he tried to pull her close but she resisted, her body rooted in place, her eyes wide with shock. Knowing he had only a matter of seconds to act, Peter did the only thing he could think of. With all his strength, he yanked Olivia’s arm, sending her off her feet and tumbling across the grass, her face full of shock. As violent as it had been, at least now he knew she was safe. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say the same for himself.

  The runaway truck popped over the curb, its undercarriage scraping against the concrete, and smashed into the wagon, sending newspapers flying in every direction, scattered like frightened birds. Peter tried to get out of the way, but the truck’s fender caught him flush on the hip and sent him hurtling through the air. The pain was instant and overwhelming. Just as when he and Otto had jumped from the freight train, Peter had the sensation of weightlessness, that he was hanging in the air, but this time the landing was even worse; he crashed with a thud, the air driven from his lungs, and cracked the back of his head hard on the ground. Struggling against the encroaching darkness, he had only the strength to raise his hand before it fell onto his chest and, for the second time in a matter of days, he tumbled down into unconsciousness.

  Olivia screamed. Lying on her side, her shoulder aching, she watched helplessly as Sylvester Eddings’s truck hit Peter and sent him flying through the air as if he was a rag doll. She gasped as he crashed back down to earth. Peter stirred, but an instant later fell still. Olivia scrambled to her feet and ran to him, struggling to control the sickening feeling that filled her.