Take Me Home (9781455552078) by Dorothy Garlock Page B

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.
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    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.
    â€œIf 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