Though Peter was surprised, he knew that he shouldn’t have been. Germany’s blitzkrieg through Europe had brought the world to war and taken countless lives. Hitler deserved to swing from the tallest tree that could be found. But to assume that every German believed in their Führer and his murderous cause was a terrible mistake. Peter thought about those he’d known back in Bavaria who, soon after Hitler was declared chancellor, had dared to speak out against him. One after the other, sometimes in the dead of night, all of them had disappeared. In particular, he remembered Holger Robben, the kindly old man who had run the drugstore and who, one fateful afternoon, had made an off-color joke about Hitler within earshot of someone who didn’t find any humor in it. That night, the drugstore’s windows had been shattered into pieces, and the inside put to the torch. Just like that, the man’s life was ruined. Peter’s own fortunes had been little different. He hated everything the Nazis stood for, but in order to protect his mother, to ensure that she would be safe and to keep her from receiving some of the same punishment as their neighbors, he’d gone off to fight, an unwilling soldier from the very beginning.
But to hear Olivia’s hatred for Germans nearly broke his spirit. Without revealing his true identity, that he was one of the very people she felt such disgust for, how could he hope to convince her that she was wrong?
Misinterpreting the cloud that passed over his face, Olivia said, “You look like you might be hungry. Would you like something to eat?”
Managing a weak smile, Peter nodded. He was hungry. His stomach hadn’t stopped growling since he’d woken; other than the meager scraps he and Otto had wolfed down at the cabin, it had been several days since he’d eaten anything.
“Let me go see what I can find.”
Olivia headed toward the door but, just as she was about to leave the room, she stopped, turning back to him.
“I just…there’s one thing that keeps nagging at me,” she said.
“What is it?” he asked, feeling a bit nervous.
“When we met, you said that the reason you’d come to town was to talk to my father, the sheriff,” Olivia explained. “But before you could say any more, Sylvester’s truck turned the corner. Does it have something to do with this secretive job of yours?”
Peter froze. He remembered every word of their conversation. Desperately, he tried to come up with some plausible answer, something that was believable. Stumbling, he raised his hand, wanting to run his fingers through his hair, a tic that often showed when he was nervous, but the moment he touched his scalp, he set off another terrible tremor of pain. Gnashing his teeth and pinching shut his eyes, inspiration struck him and he grabbed for the only straw available to him.
“Maybe…maybe the doctor was right…” he began. “That crack on my head must’ve been a doozy…I just can’t remember…”
Olivia nodded, frowning at the same time. “Don’t worry about it now,” she said. “Just get your rest. I’m sure it’ll all come back with time.”
With that she went, leaving Peter to his worries. He was in serious trouble. If he really wanted to spend more time with this woman who’d enthralled him so completely, whom he, as unbelievable as it seemed, was falling in love with, he was going to have to come up with a better excuse.
And quick.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Over and over, Otto brought down his still-cuffed hands as hard as he could onto the dulled blade of the broken axe. Sweat stood out on his forehead. Moments of dizziness weakened him. Dark blood wet his restraints, dripped onto the worn workbench, and splattered onto the ground at his feet. Regardless, he kept going, hard but steady, desperate to be free.
CRACK. CRACK.
Watching Becker make his way toward town, Otto had tried to resign himself to the fact that there was nothing more he could do. The only option that remained was to wait. He’d impatiently paced around the cabin, tried to lie down and get some sleep, anything to take his mind off the situation he found himself in. When his hunger got the better of him, he once again ransacked the cabin, reopening every cabinet and drawer, growing so frustrated at not finding anything that he smashed a nightstand into kindling. In the end, he’d only managed to make his hunger worse.
CRACK. CRACK.
Somehow, he’d made it through the night. At every creak of the cabin or whisper of the wind through the trees, he’d startled awake, sure that Becker had returned. But every time, Otto had still been alone. When the sun had begun to shine in the east, he’d begun to have his first doubts. Maybe the damn Amerikaners had gotten on their trail faster than he’d expected. Maybe his fellow soldier was a useless fool and had gotten captured thanks to his own stupidity. Either way, he had to assume he was now on his own. That meant he had to get free.
CRACK. CRACK.
Rooting around on his hands and knees in the faint dawn light, Otto had finally found the axe head that had broken off after only a few whacks. On the workbench, there was a gap between two of the boards; whether because of rot or shoddy craftsmanship, Otto couldn’t have cared less, but he was thankful all the same. Wedging the piece of steel into the space, pushing until he was sure it was secure, he’d begun slamming the chain down onto the blade.
CRACK. CRACK.
He didn’t know how many times he’d struck the axe head. Fifty? A hundred? More? Occasionally, sparks flew from the steel, but the cuffs’ chain held. It didn’t take long for the metal that still bound his wrists to pierce his flesh, drawing blood. But Otto didn’t slow, didn’t even consider a different plan to gain his freedom. Until his last ounce of strength ebbed, he’d keep trying. For himself. For Hitler. For Germany. For the revenge he would take on these people the moment he was no longer their prisoner.
CRACK. CRACK. CLINK…
Otto looked down at his trembling, bloody fingers. The chain that had bound his hands was finally broken, a snapped link lying on the workbench. Taking a deep breath, he stretched his muscles, sticking out both of his sore arms, a movement he’d been unable to make for far too long. It hadn’t been easy, but finally, he was free.
The only question left was what to do next.
The first thing was to get something to eat; just thinking about food made his stomach grumble loudly. Otto knew that if he wanted to eat, he would need to steal his food. Right then, he would’ve killed for it. Once it grew dark, he’d pick his way along the edge of town in search of someplace like this cabin, unoccupied and isolated, break in, and take what he needed. If he was lucky, he’d find some clothes to replace his prison uniform; ideally, a long-sleeve shirt to hide the cuffs that still circled his wrists.
Wherever he went, whatever he did, Otto knew he’d have to be cautious. If the authorities in town had captured Becker, they’d be on high alert. It’d be dangerous, risky. But he couldn’t get caught. Not now. There was still far too much that needed to be done. Once he got his bearings, some food in his belly, and then somewhere safe to sleep, his real work could begin.
Otto held no illusions of returning to Germany or, for that matter, living much longer. He was deep in enemy territory, a fugitive in the American heartland. But maybe this was a blessing in disguise. Maybe here, he could do far more good than he ever could’ve done on the battlefield. Before he died, he would sow the seeds of terror in Hitler’s name.
Looking down on the unsuspecting town, Otto couldn’t help but smile.
Chapter Ten
JUST FOLLOW MY FINGER.”
Peter did as Dr. Hoskins instructed, tracking his hand as he moved it from left to right, then up and down, and finally in a circle. Whenever the doctor’s finger neared the window, Peter winced slightly, his eyes narrowing as he tried to block out the pain from the light, but he never broke his gaze. When the doctor finished, he sat and studied his patient for a moment, humming a bit under his breath.
Three days had passed since Peter had been hit by the truck. Over that time, his apprehension about being in the Marstens’ home had grown. Whenever there was a knoc
k on the guest room’s door, he jumped, expecting it to be the United States Army, sending soldiers to come and collect their runaway prisoner.
But so far, it had yet to happen.
Olivia’s family was almost as nice and charming as she was. Her mother rarely stayed in his room for long, bringing him meals and books to read. Elizabeth was always smiling and polite, though Peter still had the feeling she considered him an intrusion on their lives. Grace, Olivia’s younger sister, reminded him of a cat he’d had back in Germany, overflowing with curiosity but not bold enough to do anything about it. He’d noticed her sneaking glances when the door was opened, but she’d never spoken a word to him.
Then there was the sheriff, Olivia’s father. When they’d first met, John Marsten had shaken Peter’s hand vigorously, thanking him for what he’d done for his daughter. John had told Peter to consider their home his, to stay and rest for however long he needed. But no matter how kindly the lawman was, his presence still unnerved Peter; it was hard for him to relax when John stood beside the bed with a holstered pistol. Still, there was one detail that Peter couldn’t help notice; John never asked about why he’d come to Miller’s Creek, particularly about why it had been to see him. From that, Peter had to assume that Olivia hadn’t told her father. But why not?
Another question that kept nagging at Peter was what had happened to Otto. Days had passed since he’d left him at the cabin. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed there were only a couple choices his fellow prisoner could make. If Otto had chosen to follow Peter into town, there was little doubt in his mind that Otto would have been noticed by now; with his hands still chained together, he would have stuck out like a sore thumb. If he’d been found out, Peter was certain he would have overheard John Marsten talking about it with his family. Otto’s capture would have also led the authorities to Peter; after all, the brute hadn’t escaped alone. Of course the other possibility was that Otto had gotten on another train and headed elsewhere. With Otto gone, there wouldn’t be any real danger in Peter’s pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Things might change with time, but for now, he could remain Peter Baird from Pennsylvania. A part of Peter felt relieved; wherever he was, Otto wasn’t his problem anymore.
Dr. Hoskins sat on the edge of the bed and began to remove the bandages on Peter’s arm. Bruises still colored his flesh, but they were slowly beginning to fade. Peter couldn’t help but stare at the scabs around his wrist, cuts that had been made by his handcuffs; he knew that everyone assumed he had sustained them when he’d been hit by the truck, but he felt nervous seeing them. The doctor turned his arm one way and then the other, inspecting the stitches that he’d made when patching him up.
“This is healing nicely,” he commented. “No signs of any infections.” Turning Peter’s head, he gently touched the knot at the rear. “This isn’t as swollen, either. How does it feel?”
“I get headaches now and again,” Peter answered. “And I’m still kind of sensitive to light, but not as bad as before.”
“Good, good,” the doctor mumbled. Rewrapping his patient’s arm, he added, “Well, my boy, I can safely say you’re on the road to recovery.”
“How long until he’s up and about?”
Olivia stood beside the door; she’d been there since the doctor had entered, watching everything. As a matter of fact, to Peter it felt as if she was always somewhere close by, keeping an eye on him, not that he didn’t like the attention. Since he’d first woken, Olivia had visited him often, telling him about her day at the hardware store; the night before, she had dragged in the radio so that they could listen to a serial program. Twice, he’d woken from a nap to find her sitting quietly beside the dresser, reading. Fortunately, she hadn’t asked any more uncomfortable questions; the anticipation of hearing them set him on edge. But that didn’t mean Peter wished she would go away. Quite the contrary. By now, he would have expected to not have his breath taken away every time he saw her, but her beauty still felt like a kick in the gut. Each time he heard her voice, each time she laughed at some joke she’d heard, or laid her hand upon his, even if for just a second, he became more smitten than ever.
“I reckon he could get out of bed any time now,” Dr. Hoskins explained. “As a matter of fact, I’d recommend getting some fresh air.”
Peter nodded. Other than making trips across the hall to the toilet, a short distance that nevertheless made him feel woozy, he’d been bedridden since the accident. Getting out of the Marstens’ guest room meant that his health was improving, but it also meant that he was closer to having to make a decision about what to do next; stay or run.
“Good,” Peter agreed, although he wasn’t sure if he meant it.
“When do you suppose he’s going to leave?”
Olivia gasped, unable to believe what her mother was asking. They stood in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for dinner, a breeze rustling the curtains of the open window. Neither one of them had been speaking, happy to listen to music on the radio, so the question had been as unexpected as it was unseemly. Olivia was so rattled that she nearly dropped her knife into the sink.
“Keep your voice down!” she hissed. “He might hear you!”
Even though they were far from the guest room, the thought of Peter listening to what her mother had said made Olivia flush with embarrassment. Several hours had passed since the doctor had left, so she hoped that he would be sleeping, but…
“I wasn’t against you bringing him here,” Elizabeth kept on, ignoring her daughter’s concerns. “The house was close and you had to take him somewhere. But it doesn’t take someone long to overstay their welcome.”
“He may very well have saved my life!” Olivia argued.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t grateful, but I can only imagine how tongues are wagging in town. Why, I bet we’re the biggest tidbit of gossip in Miller’s Creek!”
In a way, Olivia’s mother was right. Every day since the accident, someone had come into Pickford Hardware and asked her about what had happened, wanting her to recount it moment by terrifying moment. In a way, Peter had become a hero, the stranger with a heart of gold, like something out of Hollywood, willing to risk his life in order to protect a beautiful young woman. People were talking, but not in the way Elizabeth imagined.
“Besides,” her mother explained, “the sooner he’s out of the house, the sooner we can start planning for your wedding.”
Cringing, Olivia quickly turned her attention back to the cucumbers she had been cutting up. Every single day since she’d told her mother about her engagement to Billy, Elizabeth had been pestering her with questions.
What should we write in the announcements?
What music do you want to play when the two of you leave the altar?
I don’t want to invite your Aunt Audrey. What do you think?
No matter how hard Olivia worked to avoid answering, she never managed to change the subject for very long.
“Have you and William set the date yet?” This was the question her mother asked more than any other.
“Not yet,” Olivia grumbled.
“I swear,” Elizabeth replied with a frown. “If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if you really wanted to marry William at all!”
Surprised, Olivia’s breath caught in her throat. Maybe this was the opportunity she’d been hoping for. After her ill-advised kiss with Billy beneath the evergreen, Olivia had more doubts than ever about marrying him; there’d been nothing, no spark, no passion on her part. In the end, she’d made things worse.
And then there was Peter.
Olivia liked spending time with him. Peter Baird was easy to talk to; he listened attentively to her, even when she talked about the boring, everyday goings-on at the hardware store. When he laughed, sometimes wincing in pain from his injuries, she couldn’t help but join in. Even if it was the result of unfortunate circumstances, she enjoyed his company. It also didn’t hurt that, even as banged up and tired as he was from the accident, she found him
extremely handsome. There was something about him that made her hurry home from work. When she first knocked on the door to his room, her heart began to beat a little faster. She knew that what she was doing and feeling was wrong or, at the very least, inappropriate. Even if he’d saved her life, Peter was a stranger, someone she’d known for only a matter of days. Besides, she was engaged to another man. What would Billy think if he knew how much time she was spending with Peter? How upset would he be if he knew what feelings another man was stirring in her?
For all of these reasons, Olivia decided that she needed to be honest with her mother, to admit her doubts and fears and maybe, just maybe, receive a little understanding in return. But then, just as she opened her mouth, struggling to find the right words, her mother continued her thought, dashing her wishes.
“Of course, who wouldn’t want to marry a man like William Tate? If you turned him down, you’d be the laughingstock of the whole town!” Elizabeth explained, punctuating her words with nervous laughter. “Why, I doubt that I’d ever be able to live down the embarrassment!”
This time, Olivia dropped her knife.
Surprisingly, her mother noticed. “What’s wrong?”
Slowly, incredulously, Olivia shook her head. Anger, frustration, and sadness pounded in her chest. She was a fool for thinking that her mother would ever understand how she felt. The only thing that mattered to Elizabeth was herself. It didn’t matter that Peter had kept her daughter from harm; she was worried about what people would think about a strange man staying in her home. It didn’t matter that Olivia feared she was making a mistake by marrying someone she wasn’t in love with, not the way that she should be; her mother was concerned by how embarrassed she’d be if her daughter didn’t accept.
“It’s nothing,” Olivia managed, struggling to hold back her fevered emotions, to keep from letting out all she kept locked inside.
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