Take Me Home (9781455552078) (8 page)

“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 everything 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.

A
T FIRST,
P
ETER 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.

Fortunately, Sylvester's truck had sputtered to a stop shortly after barreling into Peter. Olivia imagined that something had been seriously damaged when the undercarriage scraped against the curb; if it hadn't stopped, the truck could have kept going right into Delores Wright's front porch. Out of the corner of her eye, Olivia saw Sylvester stumble out of the truck's cab, but she paid him no mind, focusing instead on Peter.

He lay flat on his back, one arm draped limply across his chest and his eyes closed. A cut had been torn in his shirt sleeve, revealing a trickle of blood. His wrist also looked hurt, though it had yet to bleed.

“Peter,” she said insistently, kneeling beside him. “Can you hear me?” She gave his shoulder a gentle shake but there was no response. Panic inched its way into her thoughts.
Is he dead?
Pressing her head against his chest, she strained to hear or feel something that would tell her he was still alive. But before she could do more than touch him, a slurry voice spoke from behind her.

“What…what in tarnation happened…?” Sylvester mumbled, weaving toward her. Just as in her father's jail cell, Olivia could smell him from a distance. His eyes were wet and bloodshot, and a stain ran down the front of his wrinkled shirt. “Did somethin' jump out in front a me again?” he asked.

Something inside Olivia snapped. This wasn't like before. Sylvester hadn't run off the road into a tree, hurting no one but himself.

“Don't you dare come any closer!” she shouted; the fury of her words was enough to cut through Sylvester's alcohol-induced haze, causing him to stumble to a stop. “Can't you see what you've done? You may have killed him!”

“Kill…killed what…?” Sylvester muttered. “I was gettin' out a the way of some dog that come runnin' 'cross the road, s'all…”

“Go stand next to your truck and don't move an inch!” Olivia ordered. “When my father finds out what you've done this time, he's going to lock you up and throw away the key!”

For a moment, it looked as if Sylvester was going to argue further; his mouth opened and shut like he was a fish out of water, but no words came out. Finally, he did as Olivia told him, wobbling back in the direction he'd come, nearly falling over a time or two, before slumping against his truck's twisted front bumper.

Once again, Olivia pressed her head against Peter's chest and listened. Desperation knocked in her heart, hoping that he would be all right. At first, she heard nothing, but then, just as she was about to despair, she detected a slow, shallow beating.

He was still alive!

Uncertain what she should do next, Olivia was relieved when Sally came running around the corner of the house. Her wide eyes went from Olivia and Peter, to Sylvester and his truck, then back again.

“What happened?” Sally shouted.

“He hit Peter,” Olivia explained, pointing at Sylvester; the still-drunk man waved back. “It's…it's my fault he…got hurt…” she continued, remembering the fateful moment. “I couldn't move…so Peter pulled me out of the way…that's why he got hit…”

Olivia knew it was the truth.
Peter saved me!
If it hadn't been for his quick thinking and sacrifice,
she
would've been the one struck.
She
would be lying on her back and possibly clinging to life. This man she had just met, who didn't know a thing about her, had protected her. For that, as well as the way he'd made her feel, an unexpected rush of emotion, she had to help him.

“Is he alive?” Sally asked nervously.

Olivia nodded. “But I don't know how badly he's been hurt.”

“What do we do? Should we call the doctor?”

“We need to move him,” Olivia answered with a conviction that surprised her. “I can't just let him lie here.”

“But where are we going to take him?”

Both of them looked up at Delores Wright's house. The older woman stared back from inside; when the widow realized that they were looking at her, she quickly shut the curtains. Clearly, Delores didn't want the trouble and, given how hard it had been to talk her into handing over her newspapers, Olivia knew it could take hours to convince her to open her door. There just wasn't time.

“We'll take him to my house,” she said.

Olivia and her family lived across the street and around the nearest corner, five doors down. If they could get him there, then they could call Clem Hoskins, Miller's Creek's doctor.

“How are we supposed to get him that far?” Sally asked. “Even with both of us lifting, I doubt we could get him to the sidewalk.”

“Let me give you ladies a ride,” Sylvester offered before hiccupping.

Olivia ignored him. Instead, she looked around for something, anything that might solve their problem. Then she saw it. By some miracle, the wagon she and Sally had been piling old newspapers in hadn't been completely crushed by Sylvester's truck. It lay on its side, one end dented, empty of its former load.

Maybe, just maybe…

Olivia went to the wagon and righted it. Even with one wheel that wobbled a bit when it rolled, it looked sturdy enough. Bringing it back to where Peter lay motionless, she and Sally managed to get him up and into the wagon's bed; both of them had to strain with all their might. He lay there awkwardly, his head lolling to the side, but no part of him touched the ground. Giving the wagon a hard pull, Olivia was relieved to find that she could move it. Now, all she had to do was get Peter home.

“What's your mother going to say when she sees us?” Sally asked.

“We'll just have to see.”

When they went past Sylvester and to the sidewalk, the old drunk was sound asleep against his truck, drool hanging from his lip, snoring like a hibernating bear.

Olivia's mother ended up surprising her. Elizabeth had seen them coming through the kitchen window and had run to meet them as they came up the drive. She didn't appear panicked by the sight of her daughter dragging an injured stranger along in a wagon, but rather calm-yet-concerned. Elizabeth didn't ask any questions about what had happened, at least not at first; instead, she focused on Peter's injuries.

“How badly is he hurt?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Olivia answered.

With all three of them lifting, they managed to carry Peter from the wagon to the guest room on the first floor. There, Sally wiped the blood from his cuts while Olivia rounded up blankets and pillows to make him more comfortable. While she was busy running around the house, she heard her mother on the telephone.

“Dr. Hoskins will be here soon,” Elizabeth said when she entered the room. Looking down at Peter, she asked, “Who is he?”

“His name is Peter Baird,” Olivia answered. “He was helping me haul newspapers when he…when he got hit…”

“Hit by what?”

“It's more like, by whom.” Olivia told her mother exactly what had happened, how Sylvester Eddings's truck had weaved down the street, how Peter had pulled her out of the way, and about how he'd been struck. Curiously, even to herself, there was one thing she didn't mention; that Peter had been looking for her father. She hadn't even told Sally. She supposed that it wasn't important, at least not now.

Clement Hoskins arrived five minutes later, looking harried, with tufts of his wispy white hair sticking out in every direction and his glasses slipping down his nose. He'd been the doctor in Miller's Creek for decades, long enough to have helped hundreds of people as they neared their deaths, and then delivered hundreds of babies to take their places. Examining Peter, he asked lots of questions about what had happened. He checked his patient's vital signs, raised the unconscious man's eyelids to shine a light in them, stitched up the deepest cut on Peter's arm, and wrapped his other injuries in bandages.

“I can't be certain something isn't broken,” he remarked as he packed his instruments into his medical bag, “but I doubt it.”

“Can he be moved?” Elizabeth asked; Olivia frowned, thinking that her mother was starting to show her true colors, unhappy at the thought of a strange man lying in her guest room.

To Olivia's great relief, the doctor shook his head. “I wouldn't advise it,” he said. “Quite frankly, the best thing for him would be to get plenty of rest. That knock to the head he took was a good one. Unless it's too much of a bother, I'd recommend leaving him where he is.”

“It's no trouble at all,” Elizabeth answered, putting on her best smile.

By the time Olivia's father came home, Peter still hadn't awakened; he occasionally twitched or groaned, but never opened his eyes. Outside, the day was marching toward night, the shadows long and deep. John Marsten looked exhausted. He'd arrested Sylvester at Delores's house, still asleep on the ground beside his trunk, still swearing his innocence. Olivia's father knew some of what had occurred, but he asked for her side of the story. Once again, she repeated everything up to Peter's getting hit, but still chose not to say anything about the stranger's reason for coming to Miller's Creek. All day, watching him, she had replayed their conversation, mulling over every word that he'd said, aware of the way he'd made her feel. When Sylvester's truck had first raced around the corner, he'd been about to tell her why he was looking for her father. Now, for her own selfish reasons, she decided to wait until she could hear the truth from Peter himself.

“Did he say where he was coming from?” her father asked; Olivia detected a hint of the inquisitive lawman in his question.

“No,” she answered. Curious, she added, “Does he look familiar to you?”

John shook his head. “I've never seen him before,” he said. He paused, and then added, “It's strange to see a young man his age traveling these days.”

Olivia had wondered the same thing. Ever since the Jap­­a­­nese attacked Pearl Harbor and Germany declared war against the United States, men of service age had slowly left for the armed services. Almost overnight, recruiting posters and stations were everywhere and the lines to answer the call were long. Nowadays, in Miller's Creek, it was unusual to see a man between the age of eighteen and forty; when you did, they often went out of their way to explain why they weren't in uniform; usually, it was because of a medical issue that classified them as 4F, unfit for military duty. Billy had suffered under this burden for years until he'd finally managed to receive a doctor's permission to join the fight against the Axis. Peter might have a similar excuse; maybe he had a problem with his heart or lungs, or maybe he was just like Billy, about to leave for training.