Dread thumped against Scarlett’s temples as she stepped out onto the porch of her cabin. Clouds rolled across the waxing crescent moon, teasing her as light and shadow played across the trees crowding up to her front door. Holding her breath, she hunched forward and squinted into the darkness until her eyes and muscles ached.
Since she couldn’t see a thing beyond the tree line, she tilted her head and listened to the sounds of the forest—a rustle of dried leaves, the snap of a twig, the soft coo of a nighthawk.
Had her mind been playing tricks on her when, from inside the cabin, she’d heard the strangled cry? It could’ve been a wounded animal who’d moved on in his pain and suffering.
She hadn’t been back in Washington one week from her art show in New York and already she was on edge. She no longer had to fear Jordan Young, the man who’d been harassing her. That FBI agent, Duke Harper, had shot him dead to protect Beth St. Regis.
The Timberline Sheriff’s Department had done a clean sweep of her property to make sure Young or his cohort hadn’t planted any more traps. She had no reason to be afraid in her own cabin, on her own land. But she was.
Even before she’d heard what sounded like a muffled scream tonight, she’d been uneasy since her return to Timberline. She couldn’t put her finger on the reason for the feeling, and had dismissed it as leftover angst from going into a dream state to help Beth sort out her own visions. Any time Scarlett used the extrasensory powers she’d inherited from her Quileute granny, it left her jumpy.
Cupping a hand around her mouth, she called out, “Hello? Anyone there?”
Not that she expected an answer, but it beat cowering on her porch. Only the wind responded as it whistled through the branches of the trees.
She huffed out a breath and backed up to her front door. She turned and glanced over her shoulder before stepping across the threshold and slamming the door behind her. The top dead bolt stuck as she tried to click it into place. After four tries, she gave up.
The dead bolt had been Granny’s idea, but Scarlett hadn’t used it in years. Now that she needed that extra layer of protection, the darned thing had rusted or jammed or whatever. She’d have to replace it.
She twitched the curtain back into place and returned to her chair in front of the fireplace, where a crackling blaze welcomed her. Five minutes later, with a book open in her lap and her legs curled beneath her, a loud knock on the front door disturbed the peace and set her heart racing again.
This time she went to the front door with a poker clutched in one hand and her cell phone in the other, even though she couldn’t get cell reception out here. She jumped as a louder knock resounded through the room. Another thing this door was missing was a peephole. Why hadn’t she gotten a peephole installed along with the dead bolt?
She shoved aside the curtain at the window next to the door and peered onto the porch. The light spilling onto the deck illuminated a large man. She swallowed and backed up, but the movement must’ve caught his eye and he pivoted toward the window.
“Are you okay in there?”
Sweeping aside the curtain, her cell phone prominently displayed, she asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m Jim Kennedy. I have a place—” he waved behind him “—up the road. I heard a noise and came out to investigate. Was it you?”
Her muscles coiled. He sounded sincere, but it could all be a ploy to lure her outside and... “Jim Kennedy?”
“Yeah, my folks had this place before...before. The Butlers used to live here. Y-you’re not Gracie Butler, are you?”
Kennedy. She knew the name. She’d known the man, or at least the boy—a rough boy, a solitary boy. “The Butlers sold out and moved to Idaho, where Gracie and her husband settled.”
“So you’re a local?”
They couldn’t stand there yelling through the door all night. As she yanked it open, she had the fleeting thought that she’d known Wyatt Carson, too, and he’d turned out to be a psychopath.
The man before her stepped back, his eyes widening as if surprised she’d opened the door. Her gaze raked over his six-foot-something frame. He’d have nothing to fear from wandering around the forest at night.
“I’m Scarlett Easton.” She thrust out her hand. “I grew up on the rez, but went to Timberline High. You were in my geometry class.”
He blinked and heat rushed to her cheeks. Why in the world had she brought that up? She only remembered because she used to copy off his paper sometimes—not because she’d been intrigued by the loner who had a shock of black hair always falling in his eyes and rode a motorcycle.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Stivers? Sophomore year?”
“Scarlett, yeah. You used to copy my answers all the time.”
Her lips twisted into a smile. “Once in a while. Do you want to come in? I heard a noise, too. A scream, or...something.”
“Sure.”
She widened the door and stepped to the side as he limped over the threshold. She averted her gaze. The limp was new unless he’d just injured himself.
“Did
