Page 4 of The Way Back Home

He nods. “With everything going on, I didn’t check the log books. I didn’t know we had a guest staying.”

“I didn’t know about your parents,” I say. “If I had, I would have booked somewhere else.”

His jaw ticks. “There is nowhere else. Unless you wanna walk the six miles to Foley.”

“Great,” I say sarcastically. My shoulders fall in defeat. “Just great.”

“So, if you’re done kicking the crap out of the case, I’ll take it into the house for you.”

“I’m not staying here,” I say.

“Well, suit yourself, but it gets kinda cold out here at night.” He shrugs. The gesture looks odd on someone so big and stoic. “You’d get eaten alive by bugs.” The corner of his mouth turns up a fraction of an inch. “If the coyotes didn’t chew off your toes first.”

“Fine, but I’m staying only for the night.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You can return my month’s deposit, and I’ll find a rental first thing in the morning.”

“Tomorrow’s a town holiday.”

“What?”

“Fourth of July,” he says impatiently, as if this is something I should know.

“But it’s only the first tomorrow.”

“Yup and the whole town closes down for four days.” He bends and grabs my two largest suitcases, hefting them with ease.Bastard.

Magnolia Springs isn’t that far from Fairhope. I could have stayed at home and driven the half hour each way to the shelter, but I’d wanted an adventure. I was restless and wanted to oversee every aspect of our new expansion. I already rented my house out to one of my employees, and I know staying in Fairhope won’t be tackling the problem from the ground up. They say it takes a village to raise a child—the same is sometimes true for healing a veteran. They need support, they need people in their corner, and I can’t be the person they turn to when I’m thirty minutes away and they have a gun to their head, ready to pull the trigger. I could always call Ellie or Jake to come get me until the Fourth of July holidays have passed, but I know how tough this holiday is for them, and with Spencer and little Maybelle, they have enough going on. Besides, I’d be right back to square one. I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it, even if it means living with the angry Marine for a few days. I’ve lived through worse.

“Come on. You ain’t going nowhere sitting here kicking your suitcases,” August says.

I scowl at him, but a pang of guilt worms its way through my chest. I’m not really mad at him. I’m angry at myself. Not only had I opened my big fat trap and insulted the man in perhaps the worst cause of foot-in-mouth syndrome I’ve ever displayed, but I was also stupidly selfish. August and little Bettina buried their parents today, the Cottons had lost their lives, and here I was crying over a few blisters and the thought of having to stay with the jerky Marine until this jerky town decided to open its businesses again.

August is already halfway down the drive when I grab the third case, the one that contains my super special La Perla that I keep for days when I’m feeling down. What I do has its shortcomings—aside from the shoveling of dog shit from the kennels, that is—but some of the Marines I work with have torn my heart out with their stories. And for a woman who hasn’t always been the happiest person walking the planet, for someone who spent a lot of time researching the best ways to kill herself, I can relate to their despair. I sometimes find it hard to leave work behind. Working with the dogs helped me, and now I help others, but it wasn’t always the case, and life wasn’t always easy. Lifeisn’talways easy. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’ve battled in my thirty years. I battle every day with who I am, with the woman I see in the mirror. I might not have been through combat, but I fought like hell to get here, just like our returned soldiers.

I watch August as he walks on ahead of me, carrying my cases as if they weigh nothing. His gait is pretty good for an amputee, which means he’s either had a really great physiotherapist, or he’s worked his ass off to make it that way on his own. He definitely has a limp, but to the untrained eye, it’s not obvious right away. I’d be willing to wager good money that the average person would never guess, unless he was wearing shorts. Of course, I’d be willing to bet everyone here knows about it. Everyone knows everything in a small town. Especially when there’s tragedy surrounding it.

It doesn’t make him any less of a man in my eyes, or any less gorgeous, unfortunately. Thankfully, he’s not a complete asshat. He could have left me out here to fend for myself. First thing Friday I am out from under his feet and into a rental.Hopefully.

August waits at the base of the stairs for me. His expression is stoic, but I’m pretty sure he’s mocking me on the inside, and though it kills me, I pick up the pace so he doesn’t have to wait too long. When I reach the stairs, Bettina sits on the stoop, just a few feet away. She eyes me warily for a minute. “You havwe wots of bags.”

I attempt a smile. “I sure do. I don’t like to travel light.”

“I nevwer been outside Madnowia Spwrings,” she says, and I can’t help but smile because her little lisp is the sweetest thing.

“Well, I haven’t been a lot of places either, really. I mean, there was that trip I took with my ex to Dallas, though that’s not much fun, and it wasn’t much like a vacation.”I’m rambling. August clears his throat.

“Mamma says you was stwarting up a dwog kennel.”

“Sort of. I help pair soldiers with assistance dogs.” I slide my gaze to August whose jaw is tight as he looks above my head, and down the drive. He’s probably thinking I talk too much, and wishing he’d left me outside the gate with the coyotes.

“I like dwoggies,” Bettina says, toying with the hem of her midnight-blue dress. She looked adorable with her peter pan collar and little cap sleeves. Her long chestnut hair falls down to her waist and is pushed back from her face with a headband adorned with a huge bow. This girl is going to break some hearts. A few more years and August is going to have to get real friendly with a shotgun again to ward away the boys. “Mamma says we can’t hawe one, ’cause all da people who stwayeded here might be allwergict.”

“Bett, go on inside and change out of your good dress,” August says.

“Bwut I don’t wanna.” She stands up and folds her tiny arms across her body—it must be a Cotton thing—and I know I shouldn’t encourage her, but I chuckle because she is the spit out of her brother’s mouth. August shoots me a disapproving glare, and I quickly shut up. “I wike this dress.” She stamps her foot and tears of indignation well up in her eyes. “And Mamma wiked it.”

“Now,” August orders, so that we both snap our heads toward him. “And hang it up. I don’t wanna find it on the floor of your room where you stepped out of it.”

Bettina screams, “I hate you!” and bursts into tears, running across the porch, inside and up the stairs, where a door slams. I cringe. I’m no stranger to meltdowns. Ellie’s son Spencer is autistic, and he has one every other minute, but it’s hard to watch any child’s feelings getting hurt.

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