stench enveloped her, and she screamed again in horror. The warning had been written in blood, and a dead chicken lay on the bed below it, its body and feathers bloody and mangled.
MATT FROZE, silently telling himself he’d imagined the scream from the cabin next door, that the shrill sound had been the wind blowing.
But he glanced at Ivy’s cabin, anyway, and a sense of foreboding washed over him. If she had cried out, he was the last person to help her. He had his own agenda this go-around, and it sure as hell didn’t include rescuing her ass again. Even if it was the prettiest piece he’d seen in years.
No, his boots remained firmly planted on the ground.
But his conscience kicked in.
If the real killer still lived in town, he’d be nervous about Ivy’s return. Just as he wouldn’t be thrilled to see him.
What if he was in there now? What if he attacked Ivy….
Muttering a curse, limbs tight with agitation, Matt stalked through the mud to her cabin, then pounded on the door. A mixture of emotions pummeled him—dread, excitement, the need for revenge. After all these years, he’d finally meet her face-to-face, look into those eyes and watch her reaction to him in person. Several tense seconds passed and he knocked again, but Ivy didn’t answer. The pounding storm filled the air with foreboding.
Christ.
Various ugly scenarios roared through his head. Ivy being raped and murdered. Her throat slashed like her mother’s had been. Blood covering the goddamn floor.
Even as he assured himself Ivy was fine, that he had imagined her cry for help, his hand snaked forward to reach for the doorknob. He wouldn’t sleep unless he knew she was safe. Besides, if a murder occurred in the cabin next to him, he’d probably wind up in jail once more, taking the fall.
He couldn’t be locked behind bars. Not ever again.
Self-preservation kicked in, and he halted just before his hand closed on the knob. His fingerprints had landed him in trouble the first time. He wouldn’t make the same mistake. Instead, he dragged his shirttail from his jeans, wrapped it around his hand and clutched the doorknob.
Slowly, he pushed open the wooden door, the rusty hinges squeaking. Ivy cried out again, then flung herself against the sofa, clenching the back. He raised his hand to calm her, at the same time searching the dimly lit room for an intruder.
“Wh-what do you want?” Ivy whispered.
“Is someone here?”
“No…”
He jerked his head toward her with a frown. She was cowering from him. Then her gaze flashed sideways quickly, as if to search for something to protect herself, and his temper spiked.
“You don’t remember me, Ivy?”
Those big green eyes that had tugged at him when she was little did a number on him now. They snatched at his sanity and resolve. She was afraid of him. Her reaction shouldn’t bother him, but it cut him like a knife.
He knew he looked like hell. His hair was too long and he needed a shave. Scarred as he was, he probably looked downright scary. The past few days, little kids had stared at him on the street. Women had yanked their heads away. Old ladies had whispered and rushed past as if he were some hideous beast.
Ivy’s fingers dug into the upholstery. “Yes, I saw you on the news. You’re Matt Mahoney.”
He balled his hands into fists. Her gaze followed the movement, and she backed up another step. She thought he intended to hit her, he realized. Then he remembered her old man beating on her and her mama, and understood her reaction.
“I heard you scream,” he said in a gruff voice. “I came to see if you were all right.” Her gaze flashed sideways again, and he followed the movement.
“What the hell?” His gut tightened at the sight of the bloody warning on the wall. Then he saw the dead animal and cursed.
“You were outside in that SUV, watching me.” Her voice rose in hysteria. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you? You were in Chattanooga, too. And now this…”
He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t do this, Ivy. And I haven’t been following you.” Not technically, anyway.
She flinched as lightning illuminated the room, and he found himself wanting to turn his head to spare her from seeing his scar. But he forced himself to remain immobile, his gaze pinning her in place. It was her fault he’d ended up in jail. Her fault he’d been convicted.
She needed to face the reality of what her silence had cost him. The brutality he’d suffered because he’d helped her.
And she needed to give him some answers.
IVY CLUNG TO THE AFGHAN, the anger and bitterness in Matt Mahoney’s body language stealing her breath. He’d been tough back when she’d known him, but just a teenager looking for trouble and a good time.
Now, he seemed hard. Cold. Aged and bitter. Prison had probably done that to him. She tried not to think about the horrors he must have endured inside. She’d read stories, seen articles, news reports….
She’d wanted to think that he’d survived.
But the icy bleakness in his eyes told a different story. Still physically fit, he stood tall and proud, though, like a warrior prepared for battle. The long gash on his cheek appeared even more stark in real life, but the rest of his body was sculpted like an athlete’s. His muscular arms were defined, and he didn’t have a fat cell anywhere that she could see. And in spite of his shaggy wet hair, the scar and his brooding expression, he was more masculine, sexier, than she’d ever imagined.
But his soul was completely black. It had been destroyed.
She offered a tentative smile, but a warning flashed in his eyes.
A warning she would definitely heed.
Maybe he had left the bloody message and chicken as a sick idea of revenge.
“I was watching you outside,” he snarled, “but I didn’t write that threat or kill that chicken, Ivy. Unlike your father, my style is not to terrorize women.” He cut his eyes toward the wall, then started toward her, his fists still clenched, his long arms swinging by his side.
Reacting on autopilot, from memories Ivy thought she’d long ago forgotten, she threw up a hand. “Stop. Let’s talk.”
He didn’t stop, though. He kept coming, his heavy boots hammering the wood floor, his husky, angry breathing rattling the tension-laden air. She frantically searched for a weapon. Glanced at the phone, gauging whether or not she could reach it.
His gaze fell to it, and he gestured toward the handset. His hand was steady. Scarred, too, with large knuckles, his fingernails short and blunt. “You going to call the sheriff, or am I?”
Her pulse clamored in her throat. “You really want me to phone the sheriff?”
“Hell, no,” Matt muttered. “The law is the last damn thing I want to see my first night in town. But
