the forest that surrounded the property and the shadows cast by the full moon.
Full moons and werewolves?
Do not go there, she admonished herself, her teeth chattering as she stifled a nervous giggle. The real world was scary enough without having to bring in the paranormal.
Which she didn’t believe in, anyway…mostly.
Bailey’s whimpering broke off that avenue of thought, and she held the tiny dog more tightly as he buried his face in her armpit. No, not much of a watchdog at all, she mused again ruefully. Poor baby.
Her ears strained to listen for more noises. And they were there—more branches crackling, another growl or grunt, a longer moaning—definitely chilling, but moving farther and farther away.
And then there was silence. Seconds stretched into minutes of absolutely no sound, save for the soft rustling of leaves and a far-off hooting owl.
Kayla’s adrenaline rush of fear receded with the sense of danger. It might return, of course, but for now she felt her body relaxing. Sighing, she reflected that nothing in her life ever went simply, without complications. Even the escape to her late husband’s family cabin, and the hoped-for solitude and peace it offered.
She’d been here for two days, since Friday, and mostly she’d sat on the broad, wood-slatted porch that ran the entire width of the house and stared out at the view: the Catskill Mountains glowing with autumn colors and shifting light. A small valley, with tiny villages nestled among the hillsides. More glorious reds and yellows and oranges. Acres of piercing blue sky above the ridge.
And Kayla hadn’t been happy, not yet. But she’d felt the beginning of healing, at least. Now, if she could just get a good night’s sleep…
Her wish would not be granted on this night, for sure, not with her nocturnal intruder. She was, after all, the only one up here; there was no more Walter to offer shelter and strength. Which brought to mind one fact she had always known: When push came to shove, she was, once again, and always, alone.
Knock, knock, knock. “Miz Thorne?”
Kayla jerked awake with a start, not quite sure where she was. Disoriented, she glanced around at her surroundings. It seemed to be daylight. “What?” she mumbled.
Knock, knock, knock. The repetition caused her to turn her head in the direction of the noise. There were two faces, both male, peering at her through the living room window. She started; her sudden movement woke Bailey up and he began barking again.
“Hush, Bailey,” Kayla said, but the little dog kept it up, so she was forced to resort to “Go fetch Arnold,” the signal for him to hunt for his small rag doll and bring it to her. And to quieten.
As the animal took off, Kayla waved weakly at the newcomers, one of whom she knew, and pointed back where there was a side entrance to the house. Rubbing at her face, she hurried through the living room, into the kitchen, then opened the door.
“Mr. Boland,” she said, nodding, trying to sound awake even though her mouth felt as if someone had injected sour milk into it during the night. Apparently she’d fallen asleep on the stairs, sitting up; her mind felt woozy and her back ached.
“Hank,” the middle-aged, potbellied and balding man corrected her with a smile, one that revealed two gold-capped upper incisors. “None of that ‘mister’ stuff needed.”
“Hank,” Kayla repeated, then added with an answering smile, “Please come in.”
As he walked past her, she shifted her attention to the other man, the one she didn’t know, and who remained outside, a little distance away. The instant she got a good look at him, however, the smile disappeared from her face, and she hissed in an involuntary breath.
Good heavens, he was huge! Fearsome, too. An Incredible Hulk, only better-looking. And not green.
The stranger was several inches over six feet. His dark hair was clipped very short, as if it was growing out after having been shaved off. Olive-colored skin covered a slightly hooked nose, chiseled cheekbones and chin line. His mouth was thin and stern. He reminded her of those early photographs of smileless Native American warriors. His new-looking jeans, scuffed work boots and faded denim jacket over a black T-shirt did nothing to disguise the broad, powerful body beneath. Bodybuilder powerful, a look she’d never cared for.
But it was the expression, or lack of it, in his pale eyes under heavy black brows that made her swallow again. Hard and bleak, not a flicker of warmth, or even life, in them. A shiver of trepidation bordering on fear skittered along her spine.
Hank made a come-on-in gesture to the man. “This here’s Paul Fitzgerald. He’s real good with his hands.”
Automatically, Kayla looked at the newcomer’s hands. Large, broad, callused. Capable of inflicting severe pain, she was sure. “Is he,” she murmured.
“Paul’s one of my new guys.”
New guys? she wondered briefly, but then she remembered what Walter had told her about Hank Boland. The hardware store owner-plumber-electrician-handyman in Cragsmont’s tiny town center, three miles down the road, was an ex-con, and he believed in giving a second chance to those who’d served their time at the nearby penitentiary.
Which meant the stranger standing at her back door had recently been incarcerated.
Terrific. Just terrific. The perfect way to start the day.
“I see,” she said, swallowing before adding automatically, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
Lame, she told herself, truly lame, as the stranger nodded curtly. She was so not pleased to meet him. An ex-con and a truly scary-looking one, at that.
Something in her attitude must have transmitted itself to the newcomer because he didn’t come any closer and he didn’t offer to shake hands, for which she was grateful; if he took one of hers in his, she might never see her poor fingers again.
“Yeah, Paul here can fix anything,” Hank said cheerfully. “Used to do some remodeling. He’s real good.”
“I see.”
“I was coming up to check on that leak in the church floor you mentioned on Friday afternoon. And I figured I’d bring someone to take care of that list of chores you need done,” Hank continued, smiling again as he produced a piece of paper with notes scribbled on it. “Paul’s just the man for you.”
Wrong, she wanted to say. Most definitely. No one who appeared that cold, who radiated suppressed violence from every pore, was the man for her. Good heavens, he was the walking incarnation of her worst nightmare.
What had he been in for? she wondered. Terrifying innocent victims into early graves?
Her hand flew to her chest as she realized that, for the second time in several hours, she was scared to death. First her night intruder, now this behemoth who could have been cast as the Really Bad Dude in a biker movie. If she stayed in his presence any longer she was in danger of having a panic attack.
“Can’t you do it?” she asked Hank, aware that her voice held more than a tinge of desperation.
“Sorry. I’m real busy with the Gillespie place. Whole roof is rotted from last year’s ice storms. Got to finish that job before winter comes again.”
“Come on, Hank,” the other man growled, his voice low pitched and irritated as he turned away. “I’m making the lady uncomfortable.”
“No, wait.” Hank scurried out the door again and grabbed the large man’s arm to keep him from leaving. Then he turned to Kayla. “Miz Thorne,” he pleaded. “Give him a chance. He got a real raw deal. He wasn’t even guilty.”
“Isn’t that what they all say?” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and she was rewarded with a look of cold contempt from Fitzgerald.
“No,” Hank replied, pushing at the larger, extremely