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, unhap
py 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.
“Whatever the reason, I’m glad he was there,” John continued, placing his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Some folks might say he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but without him, only the Good Lord knows what might’ve happened to you.”
“He may have saved my life,” Olivia explained.
“For that, he will always have my thanks.”
Just then, there was a familiar knock on the side door to the kitchen; one heavy rap followed by three quick ones. Olivia had heard it hundreds of times over the years, had always welcomed it, and had often run to answer. But today, the sound filled her with dread.
It was Billy.
Chapter Eight
WHEN OLIVIA OPENED the kitchen door, Billy had his back to her, walking toward the far side of the drive; it looked to Olivia as if he was pacing, just as he’d done in front of the hardware store on the morning he had come to propose. At the first creak of the door’s hinges, Billy looked back at her, his expression one of worry.
“I just heard about what happened,” he said, hurrying back to her. “Are you all right? Have you been hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she tried to reassure him.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so worried,” Billy explained. “Marilyn Hargrove was telling everyone down at the bank how Sylvester’s truck had come roaring down the street, went right over the curb, and—”
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Olivia interrupted, “but not here.” Right then, the last thing she wanted was to have to worry about her family eavesdropping on their conversation, especially because she knew that she and Billy had plenty of other things to talk about, far more than just the accident. “Come with me.”
The twilight sky was fast filling with stars. Above them, a pair of bats darted through the remaining light, searching for bugs to eat. Rounding the house, Olivia skirted her mother’s victory garden; like most in Miller’s Creek, Elizabeth had taken to growing her own food to supplement what had been sacrificed for the war effort. Though the garden was now barren, it would soon be spotted with new sprouts and thick with produce by summer. Her backyard had also been the sight of many memorable moments for her and Billy: playing hide-and-seek, chasing after fireflies on a hot summer night, and climbing trees as high as they dared. Whenever they’d been together here, it had been nothing but fun.
But this night was different. For the first time in their long friendship, Olivia felt uncomfortable being with Billy. They hadn’t been together since he had proposed and things between them felt awkward, as if they were suddenly strangers. Part of the problem was that since she’d been blindsided by Billy’s asking her to marry him, Olivia wondered what other things she might not know, what other surprises he might have in store for her. Chastising herself, Olivia tried to shake her worries. It wasn’t as if she had planned on avoiding Billy forever.
Olivia led Billy to a familiar spot. A lone, towering evergreen rose at the rear of the property. Her father had always kept the lowest branches pruned back so that there was plenty of room to walk beneath the great tree. Pine cones and fallen needles littered the ground, and the air was full of the sharp scent of sap. John had built a rough bench; wiping away the odds and ends that had fallen onto it, Olivia sat. When Billy joined her, he took her hand in his own, his thumb rubbing over the ring he had given her, a much more intimate gesture than she was used to. She had to fight the urge to pull away.
“So what happened?” he asked.
Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Olivia once again recounted the horrible accident. Billy hung on her every word, only occasionally interrupting with questions. When she finished, Billy sat back on the bench, a look of astonishment on his face. “It’s incredible,” he said, “and a bit frightening, both at the same time. You could’ve been badly hurt.”
“I could’ve been killed,” Olivia corrected him. “I don’t even want to think of what would have happened if I hadn’t been pulled out of the way. Instead, all I have are bruises.”
“Let me see,” Billy asked curiously.
Gently, Olivia rolled up the right sleeve of her blouse until it was just past her elbow. Her wounds were ugly. Even in the last of the daylight, the discoloration was obvious; a dark mottling of purple, blue, and brown bruises that ran roughshod up her forearm, around her elbow, reaching even higher. Just after it had happened, it had been little more than a dull throbbing, but now it ached. When Billy reached out and touched her, Olivia winced and pulled away.
“Sorry,” he apologized.
“It’s all right. It just stings.”
“Did Dr. Hoskins take a look at it?”
Olivia shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just a bad bruise,” she said. “Besides, he had more important things to worry about.”
“That guy that came along and pulled you out of the way…” he muttered. “What did you say his name was?”
“Peter. Peter Baird.”
Billy nodded, his jaw set tight, his lips pursed as if he was deep in thought. “So this guy…” he began, “Peter…who you’ve never seen before, just happens to be walking by and offers to help you carry boxes of old newspapers…sort of unusual, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Olivia answered. “They were heavy and I’d dropped one. He saw it and came to help. I thought it was nice of him.”
Instead of agreeing, Billy fell silent. “How old is this guy?” he finally asked. “What does he look like?”
“Why does it matter?” she asked, sur
prised by his odd request.
“I want to know, that’s all.”
“He’s…he’s the same age as us…” she answered. “Maybe a little older…”
“Is he tall or short? Does he have blond or dark hair?” he kept on, the questions coming fast. “Is he handsome?”
Olivia gasped; she couldn’t believe what Billy was saying.
“I just find it odd that this guy was showing such an interest in you,” he kept on. “For all you know, he could be some kind of degenerate.”
“He’s not like that! He might very well have saved my life today!”
“And I’ll thank him for that,” Billy shot back, clearly growing upset at her refusal to answer him. “I just want to know who this man is,” he added. “Especially since he put his hands on my fiancée.”
It was then that Olivia understood; Billy was jealous. He was jealous of a man he had never met, simply because he’d spoken with her. He felt threatened that Peter had been by her side, regardless of the fact that he’d protected her from Sylvester and his runaway truck. His fears were so irrational, so emotional, that they were enough to make it evident that he clearly didn’t trust her. He was so insecure, so worried about their relationship, that he saw dangers everywhere he looked.
But while there was a part of Olivia that pitied Billy for his concerns, there was another that knew his worries weren’t entirely without cause. She still remembered the way she’d felt talking to Peter, how just seeing him on the sidewalk, watching her, had brought a smile to her face. One of the questions Billy had asked was whether she found Peter handsome; she doubted that her fiancé would have liked her answer. Peter was unlike any man she’d ever met. Though she’d only spent a couple of minutes with him, she definitely wanted to know him better.
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