Chapter 37
Saffron
“Shouldn’t you be meditating with the other Jacks?” Roarke asked. “It’s supposed to be good for you.
“Kicking ass on the training field would be good for me,” she said accusingly. “But I can’t because no one wants to punch a Green Jill.”
Roarke grinned his crooked grin. “I kind of do.”
“Tease.”
The moment stretched, suddenly composed of sunlight and silence and a simmering awareness that took her by surprise. Dandelion flowers brushed her brows.
“Come with me,” Roarke said finally, shoving his hands in his pockets with the kind of force that suggested he was stopping himself from doing something else with them.
She eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Just come on. Is everything a fight with you?”
“Yes.” But she followed him because, as always, curiosity was stronger than common sense.
He cut behind the cabins to a garden of herbs. “Vegetable gardens are safe but the raid took out this section. We need the herbs for tinctures and medicines, more than the deer and the rabbits need them.” Mint and parsley and rosemary grew in fragrant bushes behind a damaged fence. The smell of smoke lingered, even under the herbs responding to her presence. The basil flowered as she watched it. “Fence needs rebuilding,” Roarke said casually. “Interested?”
“Thank God,” Saffron replied immediately. “Pass me the hammer.”
He handed it to her. “Know how to use it?”
“Not a clue,” she said cheerfully. “I assume I just bash at the nails.”
“Close enough. We need to move the posts first.”
She tucked the hammer into her belt and helped him drag heavy cedar posts through the dirt. By the time they’d finished, her arms ached and she had half a dozen splinters. She felt instantly better. She might not bite anyone today after all.
They dragged the charred and split corner post away, maneuvering a new one in place. “You don’t actually need that hammer,” Roarke said. “And wire works better but all we have is rope. Hold that there.” He pulled tight on the thick rope, winding it into place. The muscles in his arms and chest strained against his shirt. There were scars on his forearms.
“How long have you been a Greencoat?” she asked.
“Most of my life. Caradoc’s my uncle.”
“He is? I didn’t think he was that old.”
“He’s not.” He didn’t elaborate.
“Has he always been a Greencoat too?”
“No.”
“When did he---.”
“That’s his story to tell, not mine.”
“Then tell me yours.”
He wiped sweat off his face with the side of his arm. “You know, when I suggested this, it’s because you didn’t strike me as the chatty type.”
She thought of Killian and the way he looked at her when she was pushing for details. She had the sudden urge to draw him, in case she forgot the tilt of his nose, the ironic slash of his eyebrows. She missed him enough to tighten her hold on the rope until it scratched her fingers, drawing blood. The pain helped.
Roarke didn’t look at her, just kept working on the fence. “My mother tried to wear the leaf mask when I was young.” He shrugged one shoulder but didn’t say anything else.
She handed him the next part of the rope, using her entire body to prop up the next post. Sweat trickled down the small of her back. “But you’ve never worn the mask? Never wanted to?”
“I prefer fighting.”
She shot him a look. “So do I.”
He half-laughed. “Most Jacks like the chance not to have to fight for everything.”
“I’m not like most Jacks.”
“Believe me, I know.”
The cedars and pines towered over them, dappling the sunlight as it touched the rosemary. “I like the trees and the quiet,” she admitted. “Anything’s better than the City.” She stepped away from the finished corner fence, splinters and rope burns on her fingertips. “Roarke?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
She walked away before she could give in to the temptation to touch him. Not here, not like this. Not when it might mean something.