BooksBarbecue
Back The Runaway
Chapters (80)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY NICK PETRIE
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  79. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  80. What’s next onyour reading list?

Had someone else already come to pick up the driver? That didn’t seem likely. Why would you leave your car in the middle of nowhere with the door open, the windows down, and the keys still in it?

Peter turned and took another long slow look around. Not a soul.

Maybe the driver was a kid, gone joyriding and scared of getting caught. Peter was pretty sure joyriding didn’t earn you a death sentence in Nebraska, but getting caught in the open without proper gear might just do the job. Peter was already feeling the chill, standing in the wind without a coat.

What if the driver had a medical problem, a heart attack or seizure, and lay crumpled and hurt and possibly unconscious in the grass nearby?

He put his hand on the car’s dusty hood. Not warm, but not quite cool, either. The engine had stopped an hour ago, give or take.

“Excuse me.”

Startled, Peter spun on his heel and saw a young woman standing on the far side of the cottonwood tree, just past the wide fan of exposed roots. Where the hell had she been?

She was perhaps the most pregnant person Peter had ever seen.

“My car stopped working.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “I don’t suppose you can give me a ride to town?”

5

She wore a faded print dress that fell below her knees, reminding Peter of a dust bowl photograph from the 1930s. She wasn’t full in the face and body in the way of most pregnant women. With those skinny legs below and birdlike collarbones showing above the open neck of the dress, she looked like a teenage girl who had swallowed a beach ball on the way to the junior prom. Either she had the metabolism of a hummingbird or she didn’t have enough to eat.

“Uh,” Peter said.

She walked toward him around the upturned tree. She wore clunky untied winter boots that looked huge on her feet, but she stepped over the rocks and dirt with a careless, unconscious grace. Over the dress, she wore an off-brand canvas barn coat, faded blue, with the torn cuffs and collar that came from long use. The coat was much too big for her, but she still couldn’t close it around her belly.

“I wasn’t hiding from you,” she said. “I was peeing. When you’re pregnant, you pee a lot.” Unembarrassed, she gave him a frank, appraising look that seemed strange on her young face.