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?

“Yes, ma’am. Lesson learned.” Slowly, he gathered his knife and the torn scrap of the pregnant woman’s dress and tucked them away. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’m going to stand up now. I really do need to get moving.”

“Where’re you headed?”

On his feet, Peter got a better look at her. Somewhere between fifty and sixty, she was one of those women who got more solid with age. “Across the river,” he said. “East of the bridge.”

She gave him a sideways look. “Is that home?”

“No, ma’am. The men who took my truck live there.”

“You know who they are?”

“No, ma’am. I just know where they live, more or less.”

“Dangit, I said I wouldn’t pry, didn’t I?” She took off her nasty woman hat and slapped it against her leg. Her hair was steel-gray, cut short.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “I’m going to leave now.”

“Hold up.” She glanced over her shoulder at the trailer with the tarp-wrapped rectangle strapped to the front. “How far east of the bridge?”

“Maybe fifteen miles? It would help if I could look at a map.”

She sighed and stuffed the pistol down into the side pocket of her bibs. “Does that pitiful look on your sorry face work with all the girls?”

He allowed himself a smile. “Just one, ma’am. But she’s six hundred miles away.”

20

The excavator operator’s name was Roberta. “But everyone calls me Bobbie.”

Leaving Peter in the open field under the ferocious supervision of Cupcake, Bobbie climbed into the truck’s cab and retrieved a blue first-aid kit, a bottle of water, and a creased, coffee-stained Nebraska Gazetteer atlas that showed everything from interstate highways to gravel roads.

She left the door open, put the Gazetteer on the truck’s corrugated steel step, parked her backside on it, then opened the first-aid kit in her lap. The dome light shone brightly down. “Let me see your arm.”

Peter rolled back the fleece. It wasn’t pretty. A half-dozen nice punctures and some torn skin. Bad dog. At least his pants had protected his leg.

While Cupcake watched, growling, her legs still poised to leap, Bobbie bunched up a large gauze pad and soaked it with water, then wiped the blood away to expose the injury. Then she soaked fresh gauze with mercurochrome and scrubbed the bites vigorously. Peter sucked in his breath at the pain, but resisted the urge to curse. Something told him Bobbie wouldn’t like it.