If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.
“What do you want?” she yelled, startling the hens away from him. The light from the house spilled around her onto the gravel. Her shadow shifted across the drive, almost brushing Wolf’s feet.
The madness from the fight was gone, and the bruises on his face were nearly invisible. He seemed calm and unconcerned with the gun, though he didn’t move toward her.
After a long silence, he raised both hands to either side of his head, open palmed. “I’m sorry. I’ve frightened you again.” As if to make amends, he backed away. Two, three steps.
“You have a gift,” she deadpanned. “Keep your hands up.”
His fingers twitched in acknowledgment.
Scarlet paced out from the door, but she stopped when the gravel bit into her bare feet. Her senses prickled, waiting for Wolf to make any sudden movement, but he was as still as the stone house behind her.
“I’ve already commed the police,” she lied, her thoughts stretching back to the portscreen left on the kitchen counter.
His eyes caught the light, and Scarlet suddenly remembered her dad sleeping upstairs. Was it too much to hope that her raised voice could dislodge him from his stupor?
“How did you get here?”
“Walked. Well, ran, mostly,” he said, hands still raised. The wind was making messy patterns in his hair. “Would you like me to leave?”
The question took her off guard. “I want you to tell me what you’re doing here. If you think I’m afraid of you—”
“I’m not trying to scare you.”
With a glare, she peered down the barrel to make sure she still had him in line.
“I wanted to talk about what you said at the fight. About the tattoo … and what happened to your grandmother. And your father.”
Scarlet clenched her jaw. “How did you find out where I live?”
His brow furrowed, as if in confusion. “Your ship has the name of your farm on it, so I looked it up. I don’t mean you any harm. It just seemed like you needed help.”
“Help?” Heat flared in her cheeks. “From the psychopath who tortured my dad? Who kidnapped my grandmother?”
“It wasn’t me,” he said, his tone unwavering. “There are other tattoos like mine. It was someone else.”
“Oh, really? Like you’re part of some cult or something?” The feathered body of one of the chickens pressed against her leg and she started, barely managing to keep the gun level.
“Or something,” he said with a flinching shrug. One foot crunched against the gravel.
“Don’t come any closer!” Scarlet yelled. The chicken clucked and dawdled away. “I will shoot, you know.”
“I know.” A flicker of kindness passed over him and he pointed at his temple. “You’ll want to aim for the head. That usually makes for a fatal shot. Or, if you’re feeling shaky, the torso. It’s a larger target.”
“Your head looks pretty big from here.”
He laughed—the expression changing everything about him. His stance relaxed, his face warmed.
A disgusted growl vibrated in Scarlet’s throat. This man had no right to be laughing, not when her grandmother was still out there.
Wolf dropped his arms and folded them over his chest. Before Scarlet could order them up again, he was speaking. “I’d been hoping to impress you last night, but it seemed to backfire on me.”
“I’m not usually impressed by men with anger management issues who kidnap my grandmother and follow me around and—”
“I didn’t kidnap your grandmother.” For the first time, his words were sharp, stealing the tirade out of Scarlet’s mouth. His attention fell down to the gaggle of chickens as they tramped around the door. “But if it really was someone with a tattoo like mine, I may be able to help figure out who did.”
“Why should I believe you?”