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 …”