“Really?” The bandage I had pulled out was too big, and I rummaged for something smaller. Spotting a Handi Wipe, I gave it to him to clean his fingers with.

“Too much rain and not enough sun,” he said as he set his rag aside and opened the package as if it held gossamer. Carefully, he unfolded the cloth. “The garden was bad. I could either fend for myself or take the food out of my sibling’s mouth. So I left. Hitched a ride on a produce truck and ended in Cincinnati’s farmers’ market. I got beat up the first time I trespassed in the streets. I didn’t know crap.”

“Sorry,” I said, deciding that Jenks might take offense at the Barbie Band-Aid and shuffled through until I found a He-Man one. Just who were they giving first aid to? Kindergarteners?

“It was just plain luck Matalina found me sleeping under that bluebell plant and not one of her brothers. Luckily she found me, woke me, and tried to kill me in that order. I was even luckier when she let me stay the night, breaking her family’s first rule.”

I looked up, my tension easing at the love in his eyes. It was shocking to see it there, honest and raw in so young a face.

He gave me a weak smile. “I left before sunup, but when I heard a new housing development was going in near Eden Park, I went to look over the plans. They were putting in lots of landscaping. I asked Matalina to help me, and when the trucks came, we were there. One person can’t hold anything, but two can have the world, Rache.”

I had a feeling he was trying to tell me more than his words were saying, but I didn’t want to listen. “Hold still,” I said, pushing his hair out of the way and putting the bandage on. I leaned back, and his bloodied hair fell to hide it. Turning to the table, I gathered my mess into a pile, not knowing what to do with it.

“Thank you,” Jenks said softly, and I flicked a glance at him.

“No prob. Matalina stitched me up right nice, so I’m glad to return the favor.”

There was a scuffing at the open archway and we turned. A small man in slacks and a red polo shirt had come in, his pace quick and confident—busy, was the impression I got. Two men in fatigues were right behind him. They had pistols in leg holsters, and I stood. Jenks was quick to follow, tossing his stained curls out of his way.

The man’s hair was cut close to his head, military style, with a whiteness that stood out in sharp contrast to his deep tan and wind-roughened features. There was no beard or mustache, which didn’t surprise me. Presence flowed from him like cologne as he stepped down into the living room, but it wasn’t Trent Kalamack’s confidence based on manipulation. No, it was a confidence born from knowing he could pin you to the floor and hurt you. He was in his early fifties, I guessed, and I’d dare call him squat and compact. None of it was flab.