The barn’s front doors stood open; black smoke poured out of them and up toward the sky. The fire raged a brilliant array of colors—crimson reds, deep oranges, and even a smattering of yellows and blues. Most of the windows had shattered from the heat. A couple of men and an elderly woman raced back and forth sloshing buckets of water at the blaze, a futile gesture. Another man struggled to hold the reins of a panicked horse as its nostrils flared wide and its eyes rolled white with fear; several others whinnied in a corral safely away from the fire’s fury.
The squad car skidded to a stop in the gravel and both of them were out of the car before the dust began to settle. A man near the barn doors spotted them and came running. He was short, balding, with a pot belly that pushed against his overalls. Sweat slicked his skin and grime caked his clothing. His face was beet red from the heat. One of his eyebrows looked to have been singed off.
“That’s Roy,” John said before the man got too close.
“It’s all burnin’ to the ground, sheriff!” Roy shouted, distraught. “Everythin’ I got in the world is goin’ up in smoke!”
“The fire truck should be right behind us,” John answered calmly, looking over the chaotic scene. Peter could see that Olivia’s father was a natural leader; not rattled, even in the face of danger, he was the type who’d look for a solution as others complained about the problem. Peter also noticed that John wasn’t concerned with why the fire had started, at least not yet; there’d be plenty of time for that once it was extinguished.
“Ain’t gonna be nothin’ left by the time it does!” the man wailed.
Ignoring Roy, the sheriff directed Huck and the man who’d accompanied them from town to take control of the bucket line; maybe if they focused the water they might be able to save something. Turning to Peter, he said, “We’ll rescue the horses still inside.”
But then, just as they started toward the barn, they heard the shrill sound of sirens behind them. Turning around, they saw the fire engine make its way down the drive, bouncing along the rough road. John frowned. “I’ll need to coordinate things with the chief first,” he said. “Give me a minute to get them set up and then we’ll go in.”
“I’ll start without you,” Peter said.
“Are you sure?”
Peter nodded.
“It’ll be dangerous on your own.” Peter thought that he saw a flicker of concern pass across the lawman’s face. “If something happens…”
“There isn’t time to wait.”
In many ways, Peter was a lot like Olivia’s father; whenever he saw a problem that needed solving, he wanted to confront it sooner rather than later. Waiting meant that fewer horses would make it out of the barn alive. He’d witnessed too much death over the last few years; now he wanted to save something.
“Be careful,” John told him before hurrying toward the engine.
Peter took a deep breath and ran for the barn.
Peter slammed into the wall of heat radiating from the burning building; it was so hot that it forced him to narrow his eyes and momentarily turn away. Through the smoke, he made out Huck pointing and shouting as he directed the line of buckets throwing water against the barn’s side. One after another, they went back and forth to a nearby duck pond, slipping in the mud they made, dredging up loads of the murky water.
Shielding his face, Peter hurried to the pond. When the next man approached, he took the bucket from his hand, filled it, and then poured it on himself. It wasn’t much, but if he was going to enter that inferno, he’d need whatever protection he could get.
Back at the barn doors, he hesitated. Even over the sounds of the fire, he could hear the horses whinny in fear. A few feet away, a man was on his knees, spent, coughing up smoke; he was the one Peter had seen when they had arrived, the one who’d been tasked with rescuing the horses. Peter was on his own. He knew that the longer he waited, the worse things were going to be, and the greater the chance that he wouldn’t make it out alive.
Then stop standing here! Go!
Pulling in a deep breath, Peter dashed into the barn. Past the doors, the flames were everywhere at once; the heat was so intense that the water he’d doused himself with began to steam from his clothes and skin. Covering his eyes and mouth with his arm, he kept going forward, making his way toward the horse stalls.
Several of the stalls stood empty; they’d either been unoccupied or belonged to those the Laffertys and their hands had managed to get outside. But it didn’t take long for Peter to come to one that still held a horse. It was tawny with black spots, huge in size, deeply muscled across its back and down its flanks. The poor animal was so terrified by the fire that it was kicking, desperate to get free; its powerful hooves slammed into the planks of its pen.
Without thinking, Peter reached out and grabbed the latch that held the gate shut, but the moment he touched it, he drew his hand back in pain; the metal had gotten so hot from the fire that it burned. Silently cursing, he yanked out the hem of his shirt. Wrapping it around his hand, he punched at the latch until it finally came loose. A second later, the horse came charging out of its pen as fast as a bullet. Peter had only an instant to dive out of the way to keep from being trampled. He gave thanks that at least the horse headed straight for the open doors and safety.
Peter did the same at the next two stalls, remembering to stay well clear when the animals rushed out, but when he opened yet another gate, the horse remained inside. It was younger than the others, smaller, a white pony with a black smear down the middle of its forehead. It snorted fearfully, watching him with wide eyes, its ears back. Already backed into the far corner of the stall, it kicked up loose straw with its hooves, trying to get farther away. While hoping that the animal would come to its senses, Peter heard the unmistakable snap of a beam somewhere overhead. There wasn’t much time left for the frightened horse to change its mind.
He was going to have to go in after it.
“Easy now, boy,” Peter said, inching his way into the stall, doing his best to ignore the fire all around them.
The horse whinnied loudly in answer.
With the gloom momentarily thinning, Peter was relieved to see a bit in the animal’s mouth and a leather lead dangling beneath its muzzle. Until then, he’d had no idea how he might entice the horse out of its stall; grabbing for its mane or slapping its flank might have resulted in his own leg being broken.
Inch by patient inch, he moved closer, one hand across his nose, the other held out in front of him, reaching toward the lead.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, but when he spoke, the horse suddenly rose up on its back legs, kicking the air with its front hooves. Peter stopped, unsure what to do now.
Without thinking about it, he began to speak to the terrified animal in German, saying things his mother had once uttered to soothe him. “Das wird schon wieder,” he said, telling the horse that everything would soon be all right. For whatever reason, and to Peter’s great relief, it worked. Though still clearly terrified, the horse stayed still long enough for him to grab the lead. Tentatively, he placed his hand against the animal’s face, which seemed to calm it further.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, leading the horse out of its stall.
In the few moments he’d been inside the barn, the fire had worsened. Flames were everywhere. The heat seared the air in his lungs. Black smoke tried to smother him. One loud crack was followed by a crash as another part of the structure gave way. The water that he’d doused himself with had long since evaporated, leaving his skin to burn.
Once he and the horse were within sight of the door, he peered through the inferno, looking outside. John stood there, frantically waving his arms, shouting something that Peter couldn’t hear. Behind the sheriff, firemen stood and watched; clearly, they’d decided that the blaze was too far along to try putting it out.
“Go on!” Peter shouted, swatting the animal on its rump.
The horse did as he insisted, bolting for its freedom. B
ut it was so traumatized by the fire that it careened to one side, slamming into the barn door before making its way outside.
Peter had been just behind the horse, but when it hit the door, he’d stopped. He watched in horror as part of the barn’s front crumbled, sending burning beams and planks crashing to the ground at his feet. The noise was deafening. By the time everything had settled, there was a gaping hole high above where the hay loft should have been, but where the open doors had beckoned moments before, it was now blocked with burning debris. He was trapped.
Just like on the battlefield, Peter was once again faced with the prospect of his own death. But unlike then, when he’d thought of his parents, of the peaceful life they’d lived together in Bavaria before the Nazis had come to power, of his dreams for the future, he now thought of Olivia. When John had told him that his daughter had a fiancé, his first inclination had been to surrender, to come clean about who he was and never see her again.
But now he wanted to fight.
Too many things remained unanswered. Peter wanted to know why Olivia had never told him about her engagement. He wanted to know who this other man was and why she’d chosen him. He wanted to know if he had only imagined the attraction he’d felt between them. Most intensely, he wanted to know why, if she was promised to another, she had kissed him the way she had…
The only way to know these things was to live.
Peter looked at the burning rubble in front of the barn doors. Splintered wood mixed with broken glass and nails, all of the things that had once held the building together. Now it all burned. To get out, he had to find a way past it. Turning around, he considered trying the opposite direction, to see if there was a rear exit, but he couldn’t see through the smoke and flame. Heading that direction could mean succumbing to the fire or, if it was also blocked, not having enough time to get back. He couldn’t take the risk.
Doing his best to ignore the heat, Peter began looking for a way out. He was about to give up, to go against his better judgment and try the rear of the barn, when he saw it. A thick beam had gotten wedged sideways; plenty of wreckage lay on top of it, but there was a small gap beneath. From where Peter stood, he wondered if he wouldn’t have to force himself through, but it was the only option he had left.
Don’t think! Just do it!
Taking a couple of quick steps, Peter leaped over the burning debris, aiming for the hole. Hanging in the air, it felt as if the fire was reaching for him. He landed in the gap a little to the left of where he’d intended, his bare skin scraping against the burning wood, and had to grab hold of the braced beam with his hand to keep from tipping backward. The pain was instantaneous and agonizing. Fighting down panic, he forced his way through.
When he crashed down the other side, skidding across the flaming debris, Peter’s shirt caught fire; before he’d come to a complete stop, he was trying to pull himself free, wriggling and tugging it off his chest. Within seconds, another pair of hands began helping him. Finally, the shirt came off and he flung it away, the flicker of flame still devouring it.
“Give me your hand.”
John stood above him. Peter took the offered help and together they brought him to his feet. They hurried away from the barn just in time; before they reached the police car, there was a tremendous crack and they turned to watch the barn’s roof cave in, shooting sparks and clouds of smoke high into the afternoon sky. Peter knew that if he’d still been inside, he would be dead.
“Are you all right?” the sheriff asked.
With his top half bare, his broad chest heaving, Peter tenderly touched his arm. Blisters had already begun to form where he’d touched the burning beam. There was a similar swath running across his shoulder and down to his collarbone; he had no idea when that had happened, but thought that it must have been when his shirt caught fire.
“I’ll be fine,” he answered.
“I was yelling at you to get out of there,” John said. “It was already so far gone that the fire chief didn’t want to get out of his truck.”
“I couldn’t hear you. All I wanted was to get those horses out.”
“Roy’s going to be mighty happy that you did.”
“Any idea yet what started the fire?”
“Nope,” the sheriff replied; Peter saw the man’s eyes lock on Roy Lafferty, following him as the man paced back and forth in front of his destroyed barn, tears and sweat running down his face. “But I’ll keep asking questions until I get the answers I need.”
Peter nodded.
It was time for him to do the same with Olivia.
Otto picked his way through the budding trees and thick bushes as he climbed toward the top of the ridge. He stopped just short of the summit and wiped the sweat from his brow with his hand. He looked back behind him at the black smoke that continued to billow into the blue sky and smiled, knowing that it was his handiwork.
Ever since Otto had left the cabin, he’d constantly been on the move. He’d broken into a home and stolen some clothes. He had looted an unlocked garage for a bit of food, a tattered blanket, and a few other odds and ends. He’d scrounged up enough to feel confident that it was time to strike, to begin terrorizing the Amerikaners in Hitler’s name.
Soon after, he had set his sights on the barn. There’d been a small container of kerosene on a workbench near the rear. After splashing it around, he’d lit a match he’d taken from the garage and, within minutes, the barn had been engulfed in flames. He was well on his way back into the woods by the time he heard the first shouts of alarm.
While Otto knew that it would have been safer to start the blaze at night, there were still risks, particularly that it would’ve been much harder to get away in the dark. Still, there was a part of him that had wanted to stick around and watch, to see who came to put out the fire. He’d learned during the war how valuable it was to know the enemy’s leaders; after all, these were the men who’d captured Becker. But in the end, he understood that the reward wouldn’t have been worth the risk.
All that mattered now was that he would live to fight again. One day, he might grow too bold or too careless and would pay for it with his life. Until then, he’d continue to fight his enemy deep within their nation.
This was only the beginning.
Chapter Thirteen
HONEST TO BETSY, that was one of the craziest things I’ve ever seen,” Huck exclaimed, slapping one meaty hand against his knee as he reclined in his chair at the police station. “I can’t figure how you done it! I’d have been fried to a crisp for even tryin’!”
Olivia waited for Peter’s answer, but he didn’t give one. The more she thought about it, she realized that he hadn’t said much since she’d arrived, breathless from running after word had spread around town about the fire.
Peter sat shirtless in his seat, another borrowed item of clothing lying on the table next to them. With a cloth and a bottle of alcohol, Olivia gently dabbed at the raw, blistered flesh of his arm. She tried to be as careful as she could, but every time she touched him she felt him flinch; he struggled to remain impassive, to keep from showing the pain he obviously felt. Olivia didn’t know what shocked her more, the ugliness of his burns or the amazing story of how he’d gotten them. Still, to intimately touch him in such a way, to see his muscular body, sent a ripple of excitement racing through her.
“That hole you jumped through didn’t look much bigger’n a knot in a tree,” Huck continued. “I ain’t sure how you made it!”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Peter muttered.
“You best hope not,” the deputy said with a laugh, his ample belly jiggling, “’cause I think you done used up ’bout ten years’ worth this afternoon.”
Peter frowned. When Olivia had first arrived, he’d looked straight at her, glanced down, and then turned away. She’d assumed that it was due to fatigue or the shock of almost dying in the burning barn, but the more time passed, the more withdrawn he became, until she began to wonder if it wasn’t her that was makin
g him behave this way.
“I’m wonderin’ when someone’s gonna thank me for all this.”
Sylvester Eddings slumped on his cot, his head resting against the wall of his jail cell. He looked miserable, with a couple days’ worth of whiskers on his sagging cheeks, his eyes bloodshot and narrow; since he hadn’t said a word or moved an inch since she’d arrived, Olivia had thought he was asleep.
“What in the hell’d make you think you deserve any thanks for what Peter done?” Huck asked, chortling but curious.
The jailed man took a deep breath before he spoke, his lungs wheezing. “’Cause if I hadn’t hit him with my truck,” he explained, “he woulda already done left town. Who woulda saved them horses, then?” The old drunk chuckled at his own joke before he even told it. “Even if both them barn doors had been thrown wide open, I bet your fat ass woulda had to squeeze to get inside.”
The smile on Huck’s face deflated so fast it was as if it had been popped. “Funny talk from a man who can’t keep himself outta that jail cell.”
“I done told you I shouldn’t be in here,” the jailed man grumbled bitterly.
The last time Olivia had listened to Sylvester as he sat inside a jail cell there’d been more playfulness in his voice, due in large part to his still having been drunk at the time. Now, after being locked up for nearly a week, he was stone sober, a condition that clearly didn’t suit him. But Olivia didn’t pay his grumpiness much mind; she was more concerned with Peter’s surliness.
“If half of what Huck said is true, what you did was incredibly brave,” she told him as she finished cleaning his burns.
Peter glanced at her, the first time he’d looked at her in quite a while, but once again turned away. “I did what I had to,” he said simply.
Setting down her cloth, Olivia began to unroll a strip of gauze. As she started wrapping it around his arm, her heart and thoughts raced. It bothered her that something wasn’t right between them. By now, she’d become convinced that he was upset with her; otherwise, she was certain that he would have told her what was bothering him or, at the least, given her a smile to set her mind at ease. But he hadn’t. The problem was that she hadn’t the slightest idea what she had done.
Take Me Home (9781455552078) Page 13