Page 8 of The Way Back Home

Lordy, were my first instincts right. August Cotton is a big jerk. I slowly stand up in front of him. “You know what? I’ll make things better when you can start acting like you deserve it.”

“You don’t think I deserve better than this?”

“That depends on what you’re referring to, now, doesn’t it? I know you fought for our country; I know you lost something there, but at least you came home.”

“To what?”

“Auggie?” Bettina’s little voice comes from the end of the hall, and we both glance down at her. I hadn’t realized my chest was pressed against his and though my face is red with anger and frustration, I’m practically panting. His breaths are even and not labored in the slightest, and I curse his stupid Marine training for helping him be so calm in the face of conflict. Though I’m sure with where he’s been, I seem like an angry gnat in comparison.

He brushes past me, and I grab his arm to stop him from walking. It’s a reflex, and a stupid one, because in a heartbeat I’m thrust up against the wall with his hand at my throat. His eyes are completely vacant as he glares at my face without appearing to even see it. I scrabble for purchase, clawing at his thick fingers. I can’t breathe, his grip on me is too tight, and I can feel how easy it would be for him to end my life right now, right here in front of his little sister.

Bettina screams, and then he blinks as if he can’t figure out what the hell he’s doing here with his hand at my throat. He lets me go, and I drop to the floor, my own hands flying to my bruised flesh as I cough and struggle to suck in a breath. But when I glance up at him, the horror in his eyes damn near breaks my heart. It outweighs my fear. Call me stupid, but it’s always been that way. I’d go through hell and back just to save a life—it’s the least I could do for the torture my veterans endure every day, and that look in his eyes tells me there’s something here worth saving. August Cotton hasn’t given up his humanity yet.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, and by the way his jaw ticks, I know I’m not the only one who noticed how his voice trembled. “Don’t ever fucking touch me.”

He storms down the hall and slams his door, and then I collapse against the wall and cough, breathing heavily as I try to get my heart to return to normal. A sob draws my attention. Bettina stands in her doorway at the end of the hall, holding a stuffed piglet as she cries. I slowly rise and take a step toward her, but she squeals and slams her bedroom door. I let out a heavy breath and sag against the wall, wondering for the first time in my career if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. The Cottons need me, I’ve never been surer of anything in my whole life, and this is exactly what I came here to do. I just hope it doesn’t kill me first.

CHAPTER FOUR

Olivia

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, when the house is still enough to hear the walls expanding from the heat of the day, I decide to head downstairs to see what I can rustle up for supper. There’s an endless supply of casseroles in the giant freezer, many with names written on the Tupperware, and I wonder why August hasn’t fed any of this to Bettina in place of the frozen pizzas she complained about last night.Pity casseroles. Likely from well-meaning neighbors and townsfolk. I decide not to touch any of them. There’s enough food here to feed an army, but whatever August’s reasons were for not eating it, I’ll respect them and leave them be.

Instead, I start taking inventory of what he does have in the cupboard and fridge, as well as the freezer. There are vegetables fresh enough, and an uncooked pot roast. Two hours later when August comes back inside from working in the yard, he makes his way to the kitchen to find me, his mother’s apron on, all four burners on the stove going, and the scent of home cooking filling the large house around us.

He’s annoyed. That much is evident by the furrow in his brow and the midnight eyes that narrow on me when I turn to face him, but he bites his lip, likely to keep from saying whatever bitterness is on the tip of his tongue.

Bettina comes traipsing into the kitchen and stops dead, staring at me by the stove. “Are you a fairy gawdmother?”

I smile at her, but before I can say anything in the way of reply, August snaps, “Bett, go wash up.”

“But—”

“Go,” he commands, and the little girl pouts and drags her stuffed pig along the ground behind her. I watch her leave with a sad smile. When she’s no longer in hearing distance, he turns on me.

“Are you stupid or somethin’? A man strangles you, and you make him supper?”

---