Page 2 of The Way Back Home

CHAPTER ONE

Olivia

IGLANCE UP THE ABANDONEDplatform for possibly the hundredth time in an hour. Aside from the hanging baskets of Silver Bells and a giant clock that ticks loudly and is two minutes too slow, the bus station is empty. Greyson said he’d be here to pick me up at three, but it’s ten after four, and I’d bet my last dime that he isn’t coming. With a final glance along the platform, I gather up my cases and heft them toward the stairs.

There are a few things that the Cotton’s should know about me: One, I devote a good deal of my time to helping others. I rescue dogs from death row, and I pair them with broken Marines. It’s damn hard work, but I haven’t found a Marine yet who I couldn’t fix. The tougher the Marine, the tougher the challenge, and I ain’t ever been one to walk away from a challenge.

Two, I’m a southern woman, born and raised. That means I like my clothes pressed, my face made up, and my hair big. Three, my purse contains all the essentialsandthe kitchen sink. And four, I might have just the smallest itty-bitty obsession with nice lingerie.

I swear on all things holy it’s an expensive habit I’ve tried hard to break, but like my penchant for men who are all wrong for me, Snickerdoodles and Birthday Cake Oreos, I never could just stop at one. I’m a firm believer that a woman should be able to look in the mirror and appreciate her body no matter the size or shape in a nice pair of panties. So, all of this is to say that the cases I’m lugging down the platform steps are anything but light. I’m not even sure I know how to pack light.

I lug the bags downstairs one by one. There’s no one around—not even a clerk at the ticket dispenser. That’s Sundays in small towns, I guess. It’s the same in Fairhope, and anywhere else you might go in the South. Sundays are for church and family or in my case . . . for making love to my vibrator. After my last failed relationship, I’ve sworn off men for a while. There are more than a few upsides to this. For one, there isn’t anybody there to eat my Oreos. The downside? There isn’t anybody to eat my, er ... Oreo.

After working up a sweat with my bags, I make it out onto the street, and surprise, surprise, it’s empty. If the apocalypse had torn through here last night, turning all of the good people of Magnolia Springs into zombies who shambled into another town, no one would have known. The buildings are old but well maintained, there are Black-eyed Susans and Purple Dome Aster in the flowerbeds, and there isn’t a single building that takes away from the town’s old-world southern charm. Magnolia Springs is a community well loved, and one well-kept, as the mayor had promised me on the phone. I don’t care how the town presents; I’m more concerned with the occupants of it.

For years, the Magnolia Springs bus station has transported fresh-faced boys and girls off to war, and I am betting more than half of those kids have never come home. The ones who have returned? Well, they’re mine now. At least, they will be, given time. The broken, the able-bodied and not-so-able-bodied, and the ones who find themselves here wandering around this modern-day war zone we call life not knowing why they returned or wanting any part of the living. Those men and women are my wheelhouses. They’re the reason I’m here.

My shelter, Paws for Cause, has rehomed abused and abandoned dogs, trained them up and paired them with more than five thousand ex-infantrymen. We’ve saved more lives than any free-standing organization associated with the military. Therapy dogs work, and I am stupidly excited about bringing the possibility of hope and companionship to the people of Magnolia Springs.

I just have to find Tanglewood, the big old plantation house on the outskirts of town that has been transformed into a bed and breakfast first. Tanglewood will serve as my lodging for the next month until I can get myself sorted with a rental. I booked a room there over the phone months ago, and Greyson, his wife, Pearl, and I have stayed in touch ever since. It’s odd that they didn’t show at the station, given that when we last spoke, they’d both been real excited at the idea of my coming to town. They have a son who needs my help, and after learning a little about the Marine, I didn’t argue with them. He’s off traveling around this great and vast nation, but maybe by the time the shelter is up and running, I’ll have the perfect four-legged traveling buddy for him.

Right now, I just need a bus, a taxi—hell, I’ll even settle for a damn lift from a stranger, because carrying these bags in this heat is murder. After a long bath and a decent night’s sleep, I can finally start work on the next chapter of my life.

I pull my phone out of my purse and bring up Tanglewood’s address, then I open another browser and punch it into Google Maps, just to see how far I might be walking. Three miles. Too far with these bags. I’m just about to call up a taxi service when my phone flashes its little memory bar at me like a warning too late, and the screen goes dead.Shoot. I didn’t bring my portable charger with me. Of course, I have the actual charger in my suitcases, but then I don’t see no power point to plug into. It’s late afternoon on a Sunday, and there isn’t another soul around. None of the businesses are open on Oak Street, so I take a stab in the dark about which direction I’m supposed to be heading, according to the brief glimpse I got on Google Maps. I pick up my bags and start walking.

What feels like three hours later, but is most probably only one, I stumble across Tanglewood Road on the outskirts of town, and find the huge Greek Revival-style plantation house. It’s crisp and white, and has these huge Greek columns with dark green shutters over the French doors, and what I swear is the longest oak-lined driveway in history. I drop my bags at the gate and pull my hair back off my face. I had my best friend Ellie cut and color it before I left. She’s a hairdresser, the best in Fairhope, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to manage it without her.

I walk through the gate, past the little swinging sign that says Tanglewood Bed & Breakfast, and I feel like smacking the damn thing. Walking three miles in the southern heat with more than half your weight in luggage entitles you to a complaint or two in my book. By the time I reach the front porch, I’m practically dragging my suitcases behind me in the dirt. Sweat trickles down my spine, my shoes are covered in dust, and my feet ache like the devil himself done gone and stepped on them. I leave my bags where they are and carefully navigate the stairs, wincing each time the hard leather rubs against my blistered flesh. I need to get these boots off before my feet swell so much I have to cut them free with a pair of gardening shears.

I grab the door knocker and bang three times.Nothing. No footsteps, no “just a minute.” Just ... nothing.

I try again, knocking louder this time ... because I want them to hear me, not because I’m almost at my wit’s end. I need a long luxurious bath. With bubbles. There had better be bubbles.

“Hello?” I shout to the brilliant white façade of the front door. “Pearl? Greyson?”

Still nothing.

I ring the polished brass bell next to the door, hard.Ding, ding, ding. No answer. I trudge down the stairs, and I’m fixing to lose my shit completely when a beat up white truck pulls into the drive and begins the long descent. It feels like it takes forever for the vehicle to stop in front of the house, and I’m practically accosting the man inside before he can make it out.

“Hi, I’m sorry,” I say, heading toward the truck. “I’m looking for—”

“We said no visitors.”

I frown and balk at his sharp tone. “Well, okay but I’m supposed to ...”

He climbs out and slams the door behind him. The man is tall and built like a grizzly bear. He stands opposite me, and I thank the good Lord that the hood of his truck is between us because it’s clear that it’s more than just his build that’s grizzly. “What’s the matter with you? You show up here on a Sunday? Today, of all days? Whatever it is you want, whatever they owe, you can wait until they’re—”

“Okay, I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot here.” I hold my hands out in a warding gesture, and I’m sure my eyes are as round as dinner plates. “I’m Olivia Anders. I’m supposed to—”

“Lady, I don’t give a shit who you are,” he says, leaning over the hood. “Now if you don’t get off this property I’m gonna call the sheriff.”

“Whoa,” I say, backing up a step. “Okay, big guy, I don’t know what your problem is, but I need to see Pearl and Greyson. I was told there would be a car waiting at the station to pick me up. I paid for that service, along with my room a month in advance, so I’d really like to speak with the owners of this house.”

“Then you’re gonna have to visit the cemetery,” he says slowly and clearly, as if I were a child who had trouble comprehending plain English.

“Oh, lord, it’s not their son, is it? Greyson said he was troubled. I’ve known plenty of vets who couldn’t be around their family after returning home. War is traumatic, and—”

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