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his heart started that fierce pounding that made him feel out of control. He had to concentrate hard to make it slow. That was the thing about prison; there wasn't much a man could regulate outside his own emotions. Getting real good at that kind of control had been Clint's only escape.

    But he was home now and with that came baggage he couldn't hope to dismiss with the usual techniques. Adjustments would need to be made to ensure no one got too close. He couldn't afford to let that happen.

    His gaze settled on the place he'd called home before his life had gone to hell. The aged, peeling paint left the small frame house a ghostly shade of silvery white. The yard was freshly mown, probably Ray's doing. Even the perennial plants Clint's mother had cultivated year after year were in bloom. He felt his chest expand with air. He hadn't realized until then that he'd stopped breathing.

    He was back.

    "Power's on," Ray said. "Well's working fine. The ladies from church came over and did a little cleaning. I stocked the kitchen so you wouldn't have to worry about that for a few days." He propped his elbow in the open window of the driver's side door. "You'll need to go into town to meet with, Lee Brady, your parole officer. Be best if you did that today. Other than that, you might want to take some time before running into any unnecessary... situations." He shrugged. "I know it'll be tough for a while."

    Situations . Ray meant before showing his face around town any more than necessary. Before coming into contact with the folks who'd stolen a major portion of his life for a crime he hadn't committed.

    Clint shifted his attention from the house to the man sitting behind the wheel. Anger whipped through Clint before he could stop it. "I don't need your pity or your advice, Ray." He knew he should have simply said, Thanks , but he didn't.

    Ray let go another of those heavy, exasperated sighs. "That attitude won't help," he offered in response to Clint's edict. "Most folks don't want you back here. But, with time and patience, it'll all blow over."

    Clint stared at the house he hadn't set foot inside in over ten years. "I don't give a damn what they think."

    "That may be," Ray countered, "but your anger won't keep you from feeling the shame. You might think it will, but it won't."

    Clint didn't remember the last time he'd laughed at something anyone else said, but the words prompted the strained sound from his throat. "That's where you're wrong, Ray. There isn't a damned thing these people can do that will make me feel anything at all."

    Clint opened the truck's door and Ray put a hand on his arm, making him hesitate before getting out and sending a new surge of tension through him. He didn't like being touched, but he let it go this once.

    "You have every right to be bitter, Clint. But what the hell good is your freedom if all you're going to do is wrestle with a past you can't change?"

    Clint didn't answer. He got out of the truck, didn't look back or say good-bye as he strode forward. Ray's well-meaning counsel was something he didn't need. He didn't need anything or anyone. He wasn't wasting the effort pretending. He had his own agenda, and nothing or no one was going to get in his way.

    He walked up the steps and across the front porch to the door; his hand shook as he unlocked it. Gravel crunched as Ray drove away. The silence settled around Clint and still he hesitated before going in, waited for permission the way he'd been trained—like a dog—to do. That automatic reaction renewed the anger simmering deep inside him. He didn't need anyone's permission to enter his own goddamned house.

    He crossed the threshold, elbowed the door closed behind him, and trembled as a flood of memories washed over him. The house still smelled like her. Felt like her. His chest ached. Same old worn-out furnishings. Same framed photos scattered about, glimpses of his history. Such as it was. He'd graduated from high school by the skin