Page 3 of The Way Back Home

“What do you know about it?” he says.

“Plenty, actually. It’s what I do—work with Marines. I pair them with service dogs, and from the sounds of things, he could really use my help.” I tuck my hair behind my ears because it’s a hundred degrees out and the tousled waves that I’d created this morning are practically sticking to my forehead like wet noodles. “I’ve dealt with a lot of men and women in denial about their post-traumatic stress disorder, but from what Greyson has told me, their son takes the cake. I’m itching to get my hands on him.”

“Their son’s just fine,” he snaps.

I frown. Lord. This guy needs to eat a Happy Meal or two. I make a study of where my bags are at, preparing to run as fast and as far as I can and get the hell outta here, devil feet or not, but a soft voice calls from the passenger seat, “Auggie, who’s that lady?”

Something about that name sounds familiar, but before I can put my finger on it, the jackass here is coming out from around the truck. Despite the heat, he’s wearing a clean, white button-up and a pressed pair of slacks. He walks toward me with an uneven gait and stops just inches from where I’m standing.

“That lady is leavin’,” he says to the little girl, only his eyes never leave mine. They burn with anger and impatience, and then it hits me like a sledgehammer to the face.

“Auggie?” I whisper to myself more than to him.Crap on a cracker. “Wait,you’reAugust Cotton?”

August is Greyson and Pearl’s son.Holy shit. August Cotton is standing before me, his dark blue eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, and his mouth set into a hard line.Oh shit, oh shit. This is not how I wanted our first meeting to go.

“I’mAugust Cotton,” he says, folding his huge arms across his chest. I swear, if the baked Alabama earth would just open up beneath me, I’d gladly dive right into the fiery pits of hell to avoid the way he’s staring.

“Oh.” I clear my throat and smile sheepishly up at him. “I didn’t—”

“Mean nothin’ by it?” he finishes, sarcastically. And although I know I put my foot in it, this is not at all how I wanted to introduce myself to a potential client.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m sure today has been a bad day for everyone, but I just walked three miles to get here in a new pair of boots, so if you could just call the Cottons on your phone we can straighten all this out. The sooner I can get that sorted, the sooner I can relax in the bubble bath and just forget about this whole thing.”

He wets his lips. “Well, I’d love to help you into your bubble bath sooner, Miss Anders, but my parents are dead. We buried them today, not more than a half hour ago to be exact.”

“What?” I say, my brow knitting in confusion.

“Car accident, two weeks ago.” He lowers his voice. “Killed them both.”

“Oh my God.” My heart sinks, and my eyes well up. “I’m so sorry. Here I am raving on about having to walk a few miles, and you just ... oh hell, I feel terrible. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He holds his hand up. “I don’t want your pity, and I definitely don’t need your help.”

“I understand ... I’ll just ...” I peter off, and with a deep sigh I pick up my luggage, even though my shoulders burn with the strain.

“Auggie,” the little girl says, and he pushes past me to get to her side of the car.

My feet ache. Tears come freely as I remember the countless hours I spent talking to the Cottons about Tanglewood and their son, and how excited they were about the prospect of Paws for Cause coming to town. With tears clouding my vision, I stumble on one of the tuberous oak roots peeking up through the pavers. I feel August’s eyes burning into me from behind.

The salt water coursing down my cheeks might seem like an overreaction considering the Cottons and I have never met face to face. But it isn’t just the news of Greyson and Pearl’s death that has me so upset—it’s everything, from these damn bags, my poor pitiful feet, and the fact that I have nowhere to go. It’s another three miles back to the station, I know there’ll be no more busses running this afternoon, and I don’t know where I’d go even if there were. I am royally screwed. And to make matters worse, August Cotton is a jerk. A hot jerk, but a jerk none the less.

When I finally make it to the end of the drive, I drop the bags. I can still feel August’s eyes on me, but I can’t hold the weight any longer, not even to save face in front of an angry Marine. He’s probably standing there laughing at me right now because I can’t carry three suitcases without throwing out my shoulder, but I don’t care. The last six yards of the driveway I shove and kick and practically throw my bags, so they’re no longer on Cotton property—okay maybe they are, because I’m pretty sure they own the land on either side of the house too, but that don’t matter. I’m officially no longer in their driveway. I move a little left of the gate and dump my large case, and sit down on it, wondering what the hell I was thinking bringing so many sets of matching bras and panties. They don’t weigh much, but the storage cases I keep them in do. I’m not messing up my La Perla for anyone or anything.

I take off my boots and rub my sore, blistered feet. Sniffing back tears and snot, I try to breathe, but my head swims. I liked the Cottons, but I do not like their son one bit. I kick the case nearest to me until it falls over in the baked grass.

“Stupid asshole, Marine.” I kick the other bag. It’s idiotic, really, because it hurts my feet like hell. That doesn’t stop me from jumping up and making that luggage pay. When my feet are numb, and I’ve successfully taken out all of my frustration, I turn around and about leap out of my skin when I see August Cotton standing there.

“You ’bout done?”

“What? Am I not far enough off your property?” I snap, folding my arms over my chest. I may be a little embarrassed at my outburst, but I don’t want him to see that.

“Bettina told me about the mix-up,” he says impatiently.

“Bettina?”

“The four-year-old in the passenger seat of my car.”

“Oh.” I sniff. “That’s little Bettina? She’s just as pretty as Greyson said she was.”

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