Page 28 of The Way Back Home

I hear an engine behind me, but the one-lane bridge is too narrow to pass even a bicycle so I peddle double-time for another few yards until I’m back on the road again, where I steer my bike onto the shoulder.

“How’s that chain workin’?” August’s voice comes from the truck that pulls up alongside me.

I startle and almost careen off the road and into a ditch, but I right the handlebars just in time and glance at him. I stop the bike, and his brakes screech to a halt. “It’s good, thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, and glares out the windshield. This man really doesn’t like to be thanked. “Where are you headed?”

“To the shelter. I picked up the keys this morning.”

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. Think of it as payment for braiding Bett’s hair this morning.”

“Okay,” I say. I don’t waste time arguing with him—what would be the point? Stubborn as I am, I doubt it’s an argument I would win. I’m betting August Cotton could disagree all day long and not so much as show a single emotion or break a sweat. I slide off the seat and wheel it toward the back of the truck. He climbs out of the vehicle and lifts the bike over his head with ease, setting it gently down in the tray. I smile as I watch the way his biceps bunch and release, but I look away before he can catch me staring. Flush faced, I climb into the truck and wonder what it would be like to lie naked with him, his big body on top of mine, or even beneath, though I have serious doubts that he’d let that fly.Control freak.

August climbs into the truck. It’s not without its difficulties, but he makes it look as if he’s always had a prosthetic limb. He glances over at me with an expression that could only be described as a smirk, shifts the stick in gear, and we peel away from the corner. Five minutes later, we’re pulling into the front yard of the shelter, and boy am I glad that I accepted his offer because it was a good half hour from town. Which makes me wonder why Kathy Abernathy and the rest of Magnolia Springs has such a big problem with the idea of these dogs in their midst. I bet you could go a whole day out here without ever running into another soul.

I turn to August to offer my thanks, but he shuts off the engine and pulls the keys from the ignition. I frown, wondering what he’s doing.

“Are you comin’?” he asks.

“You don’t have to come in.” I shake my head and climb out of the truck. The grass is overgrown; I’ll need to hire someone to come take care of the lawns and landscaping, and the outside of the building could use a lick of paint or two. There are a handful of shingles that need replacing on the roof, but still, I smile up at the building, because it’s all mine.

“They leave the door unlocked for you?” August’s gaze is no longer on me, but zeroed in on the shelter.

“What? No. Of course not.” I follow his gaze and find the front door ajar.

“Stay here.” August climbs the stairs, and I shadow him along the footpath. He pushes open the door. I can’t see anything around his broad shoulders, but he inhales sharply and his back stiffens. “Shit.”

I push past, and my heart slams against my chest as I take in the room. It’s completely totaled. What was once a little rundown in the realtor’s pictures is now completely destroyed. There’s shattered glass everywhere underfoot, the countertop is in pieces, and broken furniture is strewn all around the room. I step inside and turn three hundred and sixty degrees. Everywhere I look there’s a fixture ruined, drywall kicked in, or something left in pieces. And the very worst of it is the graffiti on the opposite wall. A woman on all fours being pounded into from behind by a dog. This wasn’t just some random defacing of property; this was aimed at me. Anger strikes a pang in my heart, heat claws at my cheeks, and tears prick my eyes, but I won’t let them fall.

When I turn to August, his eyes are on me, and his expression is furious. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and I hold my breath because I’m not even sure he’s in the same room as me right now or if he’s some seven thousand miles away in a place the world forgot. Apparently, he’s still here, because he clears his throat and makes his way through the debris to a back room filled with more broken junk. There’s a desk and chair—also broken—and a little TV with a built-in VCR sitting on a ledge in the corner. He hits the button on the VCR. It groans to life and protests as he tries to eject the tape. Eventually, August must grow tired of waiting for the thing to make up its mind, because he yanks the plugs from the wall and tears the thing apart, smashing the tiny television but breaking open the VCR in the process.

“What are you doing?” I shout, dodging a stray piece of circuit board that flies toward my leg.

“Collecting evidence.”

“Wouldn’t the tape have run out by now?”

“Old Man Tinker always had a problem with vandals. It’s only been a month since he sold it, right?” August fiddles with the inside of the VCR, attempting to free the tape. “The Realtor might’ve been checking on the place to make sure nothing happened to it before you could pick up your keys.”

He sorts through the mess he made, lifts the tape, and hands it to me. I’m sure I look astounded. I feel it too. I knew he was an impatient man, but this? Also, now I’ll have to buy a whole new monitor because clearly someone has it out for me here. “Hopefully you’ll find what you need on there. Take it to Sheriff Webb; she’ll see somethin’ done about it.”

“I’m not going to the police.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because the people in this town already hate me enough.”

“And?”

“I’m trying to build a business here, August. I’m attempting to get people to trust me and let me into their lives in order to make them better. The last thing I need is more residents running me out of the town I’m trying to build something in.”

“Suit yourself.” He shakes his head. I turn to leave when I find him carting out the TV and ruined VCR. He sets them down off to the side of the room, and then picks up what used to be a chair and dumps it in the middle, throwing more broken pieces of furniture on top.

“What are you doing?” I frown.

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