That might depend on whatever grandiose notions he and Brianna had conceived during their conversation the night before. I seemed to recall wild remarks about concrete and indoor plumbing, which I rather hoped wouldn’t take root, at least not until we had a roof over our heads and a floor under our feet. On the other hand …
The sound of voices on the path below indicated that my expected company had arrived, and I smiled. On the other hand, we’d have two more pairs of experienced and competent hands to help with the building.
Jem’s disheveled red head popped into view, and he broke into a huge grin at sight of me.
“Grannie!” he shouted, and brandished a slightly mangled corn dodger. “We brought you breakfast!”
THEY HAD BROUGHT me breakfast, lavish by my present standards: two fresh corn dodgers, griddled sausage patties wrapped in layers between burdock leaves, a boiled egg, still hot, and a quarter inch of Amy’s last year’s huckleberry jam, in the bottom of its jar.
“Mrs. Higgins says to send back the empty jar,” Jemmy informed me, handing it over. Only one eye was on the jar; the other was on the Big Log, which had been hidden by darkness the night before. “Wow! What kind of tree is that?”
“Poplar,” I said, closing my eyes in ecstasy at the first bite of sausage. The Big Log was roughly sixty feet long. It had been a good bit longer before Jamie had scavenged wood from the top for building and fires. “Your grandfather says it was likely more than a hundred feet tall before it fell.”
Mandy was trying to get up onto the log; Jem gave her a casual boost then leaned over to look down the length of the trunk, mostly smooth and pale but scabbed here and there with remnants of bark and odd little forests of toadstools and moss.
“Did it blow down in a storm?”
“Yes,” I said. “The top had been struck by lightning, but I don’t know whether that was the same storm that knocked it down. It might have died because of the lightning and then the next big storm blew it over. We found it like this when we came back to the Ridge. Mandy, be careful there!”
She’d scrambled to her feet and was walking along the trunk, arms stretched out like a gymnast, one foot in front of the other. The trunk was a good five feet in diameter at that point; there was plenty of room atop it, but it would be a hard bump if she fell off.
“Here, sweetheart.” Roger, who had been looking at the house site with interest, came over and plucked her off the log. “Why don’t you and Jem go gather wood for Grannie? D’ye remember what good firewood looks like?”
“Aye, of course.” Jem looked lofty. “I’ll show her how.”
“I knows how!” Mandy said, glowering at him.
“You have to look out for snakes,” he informed her.
She perked up at once, pique forgotten. “Wanna see a snake!”
“Jem—” Roger began, but Jemmy rolled his eyes.
“I know, Dad,” he said. “If I find a little one, I’ll let her touch it, but not if it’s got rattles or a cotton mouth.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Roger muttered, watching them go off hand in hand.
I swallowed the last of the corn dodgers, licked sugary jam from the corner of my mouth, and gave him a sympathetic look.
“Nobody died the last time you lived here,” I reminded him. He opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again, and I remembered. Mandy nearly had died last time. Which meant that whatever had made them come back now …
“It’s all right,” he said firmly, in answer to what must have been a very apprehensive look on my face. He smiled a little and took me by the elbow, drawing me into the shade of my surgery.
“It’s okay,” he said, and cleared his throat. “We’re okay,” he said, more loudly. “We’re all here and sound. Nothing else matters right now.”
“All right,” I said, only slightly reassured. “I won’t ask.”
He laughed at that, and the dappled light made his worn face young again. “We’ll tell you,” he assured me. “But most of it’s really Bree’s story; you should hear it from her. I wonder what they’re hunting, she and Jamie?”
“Probably each other,” I said, smiling. “Sit down.” I touched his arm, turning him toward the high stool.
“Each other?” He adjusted himself comfortably on the stool, feet tucked back under him.
“Sometimes it’s hard to know what to say, how to talk to each other, when you haven’t seen a person in a long time—especially when it’s a person who’s important to you. It takes a bit of time to feel comfortable again; easier if there’s a job at hand. Let me look at your throat, will you?”
“You don’t feel comfortable talking to me yet?” he asked lightly.
“Oh, yes,” I assured him. “Doctors never have trouble in talking to people. You start by telling them to take off their clothes, and that breaks the ice. By the time you’ve done poking them and peering into their orifices, the conversation is usually fairly animated, if not necessarily relaxed.”
He laughed, but his hand had unconsciously grasped the neckband of his shirt, pulling the fabric together.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, trying to look serious, “we only came for the free babysitting. We haven’t been more than six feet away from the kids in the last four months.” He laughed, then choked a little, and it ended in a small coughing fit.
I laid my hand on his and smiled. He smiled back—though with less certainty than before, and, pulling his hand back, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt and spread the cloth away from his neck. He cleared his throat, hard.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You sound much better than you did last time I saw you.”
Actually, he did, and that rather surprised me. His voice was still broken, rasping, and hoarse—but he spoke with much less effort, and no longer looked as though that effort caused him constant pain.
Roger raised his chin and I reached up carefully, fitting my fingers about his neck, just under his jaw. He’d recently shaved; his skin was cool and slightly damp and I caught a whiff of the shaving soap I made for Jamie, scented with juniper berries; Jamie must have brought it for him early this morning. I was moved by the sense of ceremony in that small gesture—and moved much more by the hope in Roger’s eyes. Hope he tried to hide.
“I met a doctor,” he said gruffly. “In Scotland. Hector McEwan was his name. He was … one of us.”
My fingers stilled and so did my heart.
“A traveler, you mean?”
He nodded. “I need to tell you about him. About what he did. But that can wait a bit.”
“What he did,” I repeated. “To you, you mean?”
“Aye. Though it was what he did to Buck, first …”
I was about to ask what had happened to Buck when he looked suddenly into my eyes, intent.
“Have you ever seen blue light?” he asked. “When you touch somebody in a medical way, I mean? To heal them.”
Gooseflesh rippled up my arms and neck, and I had to take my fingers off his neck, because they were trembling.
“I haven’t done it myself,” I said carefully. “But I saw it. Once.”