by Rita Herron
MATT DOWNSHIFTED as he drove the slick, winding road toward Cliff’s Cabins. Next to the trailer park, a new subdivision of log homes had been built on the mountainside. The primitive landscaping, natural pine islands and spacious backyards looked inviting against the ridges. So far the new development was the only hint of progress in the sleepy town.
His hands tightened around the steering wheel as his last night in town flashed though his mind. Ivy had been terrified of him, of her father. How would she react when he confronted her? Would she cower away from him as if he were an animal? Scream and run? Call him a murderer?
The sign for the cabins dangled precariously from a lopsided wooden pole, blowing in the wind, and he veered onto the unpaved road that led to the rental units. A mile from the turn-off, he parked in the graveled lot, hurried inside the office and retrieved the key. The frail man at the desk glanced up at him over bifocals, but said nothing. Either he was so old or blind he didn’t recognize Matt, or he didn’t care. Back in his SUV, Matt backed up and circled the cabins, his gaze tracking the numbers: 32A—his; 32B—Ivy Stanton’s.
He parked, sat and stared at the cabin through the fog, his heart racing with anticipation. Should he knock on her door tonight? Force a confrontation?
An engine suddenly rumbled down the drive, and he glanced in the rearview mirror, as bright lights pierced the night. A black Jetta swerved, spitting gravel, then lurched to a stop in front of 32B. The lights flickered off, and he had to blink to adjust his vision. A woman gripped the steering wheel, then leaned her head forward, her shoulders shaking. He frowned. Something was wrong. The driver’s side of the car had been dented.
He swallowed, debating whether to offer her help, but the door swung open and the breath froze in his lungs. Ivy Stanton.
As if she’d gathered her control, she climbed out, the wind whipping a long denim skirt around her ankles, the rain beating at her face as she braced herself against the elements and ran toward the cabin. His gaze skimmed over her profile, his gut clenching. She was petite, maybe five-three, and slender. Cornsilk blond hair cascaded down her back and shoulders and shifted upward, caught in the breeze, the wet strands clinging to her cheeks just as they had fifteen years ago. And just as he remembered her as a child, she was pale-skinned and delicate. But instead of a small child, she’d morphed into a beautiful woman. And so damn sexy. Soaked, her cotton top clung to curves that begged for a man’s hands. Her nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric, highlighted by the lightning.
It had been a long damn time since he’d been with a woman.
Although he had had invitations from some of his prison buddies’ sisters and friends. Another strange group of prison groupies, women infatuated by inmates, wrote them letters, offering conjugal visits. He’d even succumbed to his basic needs and accepted a few offers.
But that raw sex had left him unsatisfied and feeling dirty.
Hell, he wasn’t sure he’d know what to do with a real woman, a nice one….
Matt cursed. Confronting Ivy was first on his list, being attracted to her, dead last.
As if she suddenly sensed his presence, halfway to the cabin, she pivoted in the darkness, her eyelashes fluttering over cheeks made rosy from the chill of the storm. Their gazes locked, and the eyes that had bewitched him as a child completely mesmerized him now. In them, he saw fear, pain and an emptiness that he felt mirrored in his own troubled soul.
Hell.
His body hardened again, the need to protect her as he had years ago building inside him, as intense as the thunder roaring above. But this time he ignored it.
The bitter memory of being dragged to the jail and imprisoned for her parents’ murders surfaced, stifling the lust mounting in his loins, and he jerked his gaze away.
She suddenly broke into a sprint, unlocked the cabin and slammed the door shut. Had she recognized him? Known he’d come here after her? Was she as frightened of him as she had been that night he’d rescued her?
He muttered a curse, telling himself it didn’t matter.
Ivy Stanton had been trouble fifteen years ago. A needy little kid. He’d been nice to her and look what had happened. He’d ended up in jail, his life destroyed.
But she wasn’t a needy little girl anymore. No, dammit, she was a stunning woman, one who had messed with his libido in ten seconds flat. Which meant she would be more trouble than before. No telling what would happen if he got involved with her now.
He glanced down at the clothes he’d bought at Wal-Mart. Even though they were clean, he reeked of foul prison odors. Dirt, sweat and the stench of urine permeated his soul.
His resolve clicked back in, obliterating any sympathy he had for Ivy. He didn’t give a damn why she’d returned, or that his body craved a woman right now, that it had reacted to her. It was time she told the truth about that night.
And before he left this hellhole of a town, he’d make sure she did—no matter what it cost either one of them.
HE STOOD BY THE STREAM in back of Cliff’s Cabins, his all-weather coat tucked around him, rain dripping from the brim of his hat, gushing down as hard and fast as the icy water rushing over the rocks. Kudzu climbed along the embankment, killing wildflowers, crawling toward the pines like snakes. The rain would only make the plant grow faster. Faster and faster until it claimed everything in sight.
This damn rain brought all the problems again—the violence, the worry, the memories….
It had all started the night of the Stanton slayings.
And now little Ivy Stanton was back.
He should have killed her fifteen years ago. Had been furious at his slip in judgment in letting her go. Had waited each day with his heart in his throat, afraid she’d remember.
Had slept only the nights he’d talked to Nellie and learned she hadn’t.
But now she’d returned. And so had that Mahoney boy.
Holy Mother of God. He’d done everything in his power to see that he stayed in jail. And Nellie and he had done everything possible to make sure Ivy’s mind remained a blank. That she never contacted Mahoney.
But what would happen if she saw the ex-con in town?
Or him?
He scratched his chin and glanced back at Ivy’s cabin. He could almost see the bluish-green tint surrounding the kudzu that the locals claimed were spirits. Almost hear the voices of the ghosts crying out in the night.
But the Appalachian folktales didn’t worry him. The dead were already gone. Lost forever. Let them walk the grounds and haunt the town.
The live ones still posed the problem.
He flicked his lighter, lit the cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame so the wind didn’t blow it out until he’d inhaled a few drags. Smoke curled toward the sky, a halo of hazy white against the night.
Damn shame to have to kill a pretty girl like Ivy.
But he’d do anything to protect his secrets. If he didn’t, things would spiral out of control again. He was sure of it.
What would Ivy think when she saw the message he’d left inside her cabin?
A deep laugh rumbled in his chest as he pictured her horrified face. Her childhood image had taunted him for years. Had threatened to ruin his life.
But little Ivy Stanton wasn’t a child anymore. That meant he could kill her this time. He wouldn’t freeze up and let guilt rule his actions.
And Matt Mahoney would be the perfect person to pin the crime on. After all, the ex-con had a rap sheet. A motive. And no one in Kudzu Hollow would be surprised that the joint had only made him meaner.
Yes, they’d be glad to rid themselves of Mahoney.
Then Kudzu Hollow could go back to normal.
As normal as it could get.
After all, he couldn’t control the rain. And when it came, fate played its own nasty game and filled the town with evil.
CHAPTER THREE
IVY SLAMMED THE DOOR to the cabin, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end as she slid the curtain aside and peered
out the corner of the rain-lashed window. A tree branch scraped the glass, wind rattled the pane and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She hadn’t seen the driver or the make of the vehicle that had sideswiped her, but she had stopped, and the man who owned the gas station had rushed to check on her. Unfortunately, he hadn’t seen anything helpful, either. Still, for insurance purposes, she’d driven to the sheriff’s department, met the deputy and filed a report. He’d muttered something about the weather making teenagers do crazy things. But she wasn’t at all sure teenagers had been driving the car.
And now someone had been sitting in that SUV outside her cabin. Someone who’d been watching her.
Someone who meant her harm.
She’d sensed an aura of anger when she’d met his eyes through the window. Was he the same man who’d intentionally sideswiped her earlier? The person who’d been following her in Chattanooga for the last few weeks? And if so, what did he want? Why would someone wish to hurt her?
Fog coated the windows, the darkness cloaking the room adding to her nervousness. The scents of pine floors, dust and cleaning solution wafted around her, and a spider spun an intricate web in the corner to trap its prey.
Why did Ivy feel that someone might be spinning a web to trap her?
Her chest tightened. She’d varied the routines. Broken the patterns. Ventured to a new place.
And now the ominous threat of danger ate at her nerves.
Hoping the man had gone, she glanced again at the SUV, but it remained. She tried to remember if she’d seen it earlier, maybe in town. It looked black, although with her color blindness she never could be quite sure. The windows were tinted. Nothing else distinguishable.
Shivering, she grabbed the afghan off the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders, trying to warm herself and stop the trembling. What if the man came after her tonight?
A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and she startled, her breath catching. The familiar stirring of another panic attack teetered on the surface, and she forced herself to take steady, deep breaths as she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Just because Miss Nellie had filled her head with superstitious stories didn’t mean they were real. And just because a man was parked near her cabin didn’t mean he intended to harm her.
Suddenly, the door of the SUV swung open, and a giant emerged, silhouetted in shadows, rain drenching his face and body. He had to be at least six-four, with the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen, dark shaggy hair and stark features that gave him a wolfish look. Another bolt of lightning highlighted his profile, and she gasped at the jagged scar on his left cheek. Matt Mahoney.
She recognized him from the television newscast.
He stalked slowly across the muddy ground, and she gripped the window ledge for support. But a few feet from her cabin, he veered off toward the neighboring one. Her breath gushed out in relief, and she raked her trembling hand through her hair in frantic movements.
He must be staying in the cabin beside her. Dear Lord, did he know she was here? Had he been waiting for her to return, to go inside?
Forcing herself away from the window, she flipped on the lamp, then let out a bloodcurdling scream. Jagged bold letters were scrawled on the wall: Leave Town Or Die.
Although the words looked brown to her, a dark, thick substance smeared the knotty pine walls.
Another shudder rippled through her as the 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 la
nguage 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?”
