He waits for me to elaborate. When I don’t, he prods further. “So, what’s it short for?”
My eyes roll in his direction, but he ignores the gesture.
It’s clear he’s not going to drop the subject. A sigh flows from me, and I steel myself for ensuing laughter. I breathe my hated name in a rush, ready for the humiliation. “Matilda.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t laugh. Growing up, kids at school loved to poke fun at the name. Why did my parents decide to name their second daughter Matilda? No idea, but I was thankful the nickname Tilly stuck. They branded Sissy with the real name of Cicily, and I’m not sure which name is worse.
“It’s”—he nods his head, that damn grin playing about his lips—“pretty.”
I blink several times, and a line forms between my eyes. The compliment’s irritating. He was supposed to laugh at my real name, or at the least, not commend it. But no, he had to act civil for once and throw me off my guard.
“What kind of name is Jareth?”
The smile slips from his lips. Mahogany brown eyes search my face. He reminds me of an animal who senses a trap but doesn’t know how to proceed.
Good, two can play this game. I’ve put him on his guard, and this causes happy butterflies to dance in my belly.
His eyebrows draw inward. “It’s the name I was born with. Why—what’s wrong with it?”
“A little pretentious. But then, I guess it comes with the package.”
White teeth nibble and suck at his bottom lip. “Now who’s being rude?”
Shame colors my face. He’s right. I’m turning into a jackass by stooping to his level.
I raise my hand in a shooing gesture. “It’s fine, I guess.” Peering at my legs, I pick at an imaginary piece of lint.
Nice, Tilly. You’ll be rude troll number two in no time if you keep this up.
My irritation, exhaustion, and pounding head are getting the best of me. Taking my frustrations out on him won’t do anything to help the situation get better. Trolling the guy—even if he’s an ass—after he stuck his neck out to help, should be beneath me.
I want to give him a chance, but he makes it impossible. How can I learn to trust again, especially with an attitude like his? The few people I can rely on are myself, Kodiak, and Sissy.
But what happens if I can’t find her—or worse—if she’s not alive? My brain slams the door on that thought, and my attention turns back to Jareth.
He continues to search my face for a couple of moments before he moves his gaze to the fire. Stoking the embers, he reaches out and grabs a nearby log to place on the hot coals. The wood crackles and smokes.
Walking to a table sitting near the wall, he fills a small, clear pitcher from the spigot of a blue, five-gallon water jug resting on the wooden table.
His movements are fluid and steady as if he’s done this a thousand times. Removing his jacket, he flings it on the mattress. The blue flannel shirt rides up, revealing the edge of a black and red tattoo on his right inner forearm.
Lifting the full pitcher, he pours half the water into the cooking pot above the growing inferno. Tongues of yellow-orange fire lick the bottom of the flame-scorched metal as he adjusts the tripod lower.
Unable to help myself, my eyes track every movement of his body. There’s a sense of controlled power in his trim frame, like a coiled spring or a stalking panther.
Satisfied with the height of the pot, he turns to the table, kneels, and digs in an old, red cooler. The way he carries out such mundane tasks transfixes me. I don’t know if it’s the sight of observing a confident man cook, or being able to watch someone else, period. Going without human interaction so long, I feel like I’ve been adrift at sea, and he’s the glimmer of land sparkling from a distance—or the quicksand.
When his coffee-colored eyes meet mine, I jump. Oh shit, I’m checking him out again. Damn it, what’s wrong with me?
Averting my gaze, I focus on smoothing my shirt and glance around anything else in the room that isn’t Jareth.
Nothing to see here, folks, just a girl who can’t keep her damn eyes in her head.
His voice purrs. “Caught you, again.” With a click of his tongue, the dimple pokes through whiskers. He turns with a smug smirk before I can sputter a response.
Heat floods my body. Idiot. If it weren’t the middle of the night, I’d flee this stupid cave and this arrogant, puzzling—fascinating—jerk.
With his back to me, I try not to stare. Honestly, I do, but an invisible string tugs my head in his direction.
The smooth ripple of wiry muscles flex across broad shoulders.
“Found it.” Satisfied with his catch from the cooler, his hands drop a brown, paper-wrapped package near one of the rocks, and he walks to the fire and sits cross-legged. Pulling a small pocketknife from the front of his jeans, he cuts the tied hemp strings that secure the package.
I rub my temples and wipe my itchy, watery eyes.
His deft hands work to remove each tuber.
At last, the pain in my head recedes to a dull throb, which does wonders for my sour mood.
“You eat veggies, right?” He holds an earthen-colored blob of dirt in his hand.
“As long as they’re not artichokes.” My head nods without prompting. “Is that a potato?”
“Yep. One of a handful.” He pours a little water on the vegetables and rubs the dirt away. Once several are clean, he cuts them into smaller chunks, careful to set aside a few pieces with eyes. These, he slips into the wrapping paper—something I had witnessed my mom do back in the day.
The water in the cooking pot boils. Dropping the potatoes in the water one by one, they fall with a satisfying plop. Steam rises and creates a shimmer in the air between us.
My mouth salivates.
Where did he find potatoes? It’s not like anyone can waltz into a grocery store any longer and pick up a bag. Any veggies left after the attacks have either dried or rotted away. Well, the ones wild animals didn’t get to first.
He stands and stretches his lean frame, taking more time than necessary to work out the kinks in his arms. When he reaches his hands toward the high ceiling, his shirt lifts, and I catch a glimpse of skin and the promise of more tattoos. Placing his fingers at the small of his back, he thrusts his chest forward, and then raises his shoulders.
Seeing his head about to turn in my direction, I jerk my gaze away. That’s all I need, for him to catch my ravenous stare roving over his chiseled body. Dreadful troll. I’m not sure if that thought is for me, him, or both of us.
The solid sound of his steps drum near the cooler.
A quick peek shows another brown package in his hands. This time, he unwraps crispy, orange carrots.
Back to the middle of the room, he covers ground with a quick pace. Going through the familiar cleaning routine, he trims off the green, leafy tops and slices the veggies into circles. Their orange goodness plops into the pot.
The growl of my stomach is loud in the small area, and I try to mask it with my growing curiosity. “Where in the world did you find fresh vegetables?”
Firelight reflects in his eyes, and his face softens. “Well, I didn’t find them, I grew them.” There’s a note of pride in the simple statement.
Not knowing what to say, I stare.
His dark, arched eyebrows pull together a little and he focuses his attention to the pot.
“I assumed this cave was a temporary stopover.”
“Then you thought wrong.” His movements, methodical and fluid, keep him close to the pot. “You know what they say about assumptions?”
“Yeah.” Unable to resist the urge, my eyes roll to the back of my head, more than once. “Makes an ass out of you.”
With new insight, I realize it’s more than a shelter. It’s set up to sustain a way of life. How long has he been living here? Growing a garden is arduous work and doesn’t happen overnight. It takes weeks, months, even.
His survival skills are impressive. Only a little, th
ough. I mean, come on, anyone can grow potatoes or carrots. Root them in some water, stick them in the ground, and give them a drink on a regular basis. It’s not rocket science. Still, it makes me wonder what other skillsets he might be hiding.
Kodiak and I’ve been living on whatever we find, and our luck has been downright crappy. The few gardens I’d stumbled across grew weeds in abundance.
One time last week, though, we did find some wild tomatoes growing in a container, leftover from an earlier year’s seeds. They were getting to the point of being overripe and had wormy holes, but I didn’t care. Ecstatic with the opportunity of eating fresh produce, I dug out the bad spots and ate like a pig. The sweet taste of those tomatoes bursting in my mouth nearly made me cry with pleasure.
Thinking back on what Jareth has accomplished—by growing vegetables—makes me wish I’d saved some of those tomato seeds. Sissy and I could have used them to plant a garden.
My stomach grumbles, but I try to ignore its protests and lean into the limestone wall. Closing my eyes, I follow Jareth through my eyelashes.
A wooden spoon slides into the soup. Those dark, endless eyes glance in my direction and move to my feet, then back to my face. There’s no trace of amusement or smile now. A thoughtful appearance smooths the set of his face. His mouth opens, as if he’s about to say something, but closes. A finger taps his lips, but then he shakes his head and goes back to stirring.
Kodiak saws logs next to me, legs twitching.
Makes me wonder what blissful doggie dreams occupy his thoughts. Then again, he can sleep through anything, or so it seems.
The steady sound of water boiling is calming, and I let my mind wander. Did Sissy and her boyfriend ride out the attacks? This thought leads me to another: did her boyfriend, Mark, survive? Or did she have to watch him die like I watched our parents? Is she, at this moment, trying to make her way back home? I hope not, because the roads are dangerous.
And what about this guy? Did he come from a Farmer Brown survival community? He’s not homey enough for that kind of life; more like a heartthrob in the GQ magazine. He carries a trace of an accent, but I can’t place its exact location.
Chapter Five
The rattle of steel on steel booms, echoing in the chamber.
A line of wetness coats my chin. Dear God, did I drift off and drool everywhere?
Looking down, I see a gleaming wet string of saliva graces the front of my white t-shirt.
Please tell me he didn’t see that.
Under the pretense of pulling my jacket closed, the movement hides a quick swipe of my fingers.
Sleep. I hadn’t thought that far. Will he take my stuff, my backpack or worse, my shotgun?
A warning alarm races through my mind then courses through the length of my body.
Feeling the pistol at my waist, I glance at the backpack. A sigh of relief rushes out because the shotgun, sitting on top of my bag, lies undisturbed.
The rattling of silverware and dishes pulls my attention to where Jareth stands.
Though his back is to me, I can still see his hands ladling soup into plastic, mismatched bowls.
A yawn creeps out of my mouth, and I work the knots from my legs. Thanks to the pain relievers, the headache is a thing of the past. The air is redolent with the smell of cooked carrots and potatoes.
Kodiak shifts his position, stretching his front and hind legs. “Smells good, doesn’t it, boy?”
“Here ya go.” He offers a bowl of the steaming liquid. “I’d offer you something to drink, but you’re already well-hydrated judging by the amount of drool that left your mouth while you slumbered in la-la land.”
I want to rip the smirk from his face. He doesn’t miss a beat.
Instead of replying, though, I reach out for the dish, trying not to appear too eager. I’ll have to suffer through his snark if it means a real, honest-to-goodness meal and a place to crash.
Eyes twinkling, he lowers the hot dish to my palms. Carrots and potatoes float in the brown mixture. Jabbing a spoon into the soupy goodness, I scoop it into my mouth even though it scalds.
Leaning my head back, I blow out heat and chew.
The earthy taste of the potatoes, mixed with the sweetness of carrots and a strange combination of spices, makes me want to whimper with pleasure.
Pigging out like a complete fiend, I remember table manners and force myself to slow.
Steam flies from my mouth between bites. “Thank you.” I direct this comment at his back, while he stands at the fire. This time, I mean it. I can already feel renewed strength and energy pouring into every cell in my body.
When he finishes ladling his bowl, he turns and sits beside me. He digs into the dish.
After he spoons a bite into his mouth and swallows, he winks—the movement somehow carnal and seductive. “You’re welcome.”
The gesture sends a hot flash of heat through my veins. I fan the collar of my jacket to push some air into my face. It’s getting hot in here.
He’s still a jackass, but not a complete creep.
Kodiak wanders over to sniff my meal.
“You hungry, boy? Want some veggie soup?”
I push the dish toward him. “Don’t stick your damn tongue in it, though. I’ll get you your own bowl.”
He pulls away from the food and turns his head to the alien. A small yawn leaves before his muzzle swings back to me.
“Okay.” I shrug. “Guess that leaves more for me. You’d like it better if it had squirrel meat mixed in with the veggies, huh?”
Jareth’s lips pull back in a grimace. “I don’t eat squirrel.”
I grin. “Well, Mr. Fancy Pants, guess you don’t know what you’re missing. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.” I’ve never eaten squirrel, either, but the disgust on his face is like a burst of sunshine to my soul.
Why do I enjoy antagonizing him? Because he’s an ass, remember?
Kodiak sits on my feet.
I put my spoon back into action, content to enjoy this simple, delicious meal. Warmth continues to spread through my bones, and I sigh. Realizing the bowl’s empty, I scrape the sides of the dish. The noise is loud in the airy chamber.
Should I ask for another helping? Even though I could eat ten more, I’m already in his debt.
My hand sets the bowl on the stone floor of the cave. A small pang of regret eats at me. A hot meal will happen again—or never. Who am I kidding?
Images of potatoes, carrots, and dancing spices do a farewell gig in my head. What if he drugged the soup? The warmth in my stomach swirls into an icy funnel of sludge.
Stop being so paranoid. If he wanted to steal your stuff or worse, he had the perfect opportunity while you were taking a dirt nap on the pavement. But guess what? He didn’t, so stop acting like a moron.
Next to Kodiak’s newspaper bed, a small, empty can of chunky dog food rests a few inches out of his reach. Jareth must’ve fed him while I slept.
That explains the lack of interest in a hot meal tonight. Kodiak, a reliable foodie, liked it because he licked it clean in the same way I want to tongue my bowl. Damn dog. You’ll take food from anyone.
“First, you let this guy pet you,” I whisper then lean close to his twitching ear. “And now, you’re eating his food.” Well, to be fair, I’m wolfing down his tasty soup without complaint, too.
My annoyance factor with Jareth rises, but I try to squash it. Be nice, you’re not going to be here long. Plus, he fed your dog, which is more than you’ve been able to do for the past two days.
The curls on his head frame the side of his face, kissing the smooth, tanned skin. He empties his bowl then washes it along with a paring knife and a few utensils in a plastic, baby blue tub. A corner of his mouth dips into a frown. His chin tips to the side, and his eyes lock onto mine.
I think he senses my mood because, wonder of all wonders, he keeps his comments to himself. In silence, he takes my dish, washes it, and then stacks it with the others.
Kodiak stand
s and begins to pace. His padded feet press soft tracks into the thin layer of dirt that covers the stone underneath.
“What’s the matter, boy?” I cock my head.
He shakes his tail. “Woof.”
“Oh, you need to go pee?”
He jumps on his hind legs and lifts a paw into the air. Dropping to all fours, he pushes his pointy snout under my hand. “Woof, woof.”
“Urgent call of nature, huh? All right, I’ll let you out, but don’t go too far.”
Before I can even get to my feet, he runs to the grotesque door. Once there, he uses his nose and pushes against the wood.
The paltry barrier falls outward with a rattle and clang. Puffs of dust rise into the air.
Not giving the door a second glance, his long legs trample over the thing and he heads into the darkness.
My shock at his destruction wars with humor at the broken, piece of shit door on the ground.
Jareth’s mouth hangs open. A deep, scarlet flush climbs his neck to settle in his cheeks. “What—” His hands spread out in a ‘what the hell just happened’ gesture.
Laughter bursts from my chest and rings throughout the cave, and I can’t stop. My entire upper body shakes from the force.
The architect of the conglomeration rises. His tall frame is stiff when he marches forward and kneels in front of the rickety pile of sticks “Okay, that’s the first time it’s ever fallen.”
His movement and quick defense of the precious door makes me laugh with even more gusto. Tears stream down my face. I use the back of a hand to wipe wet cheeks and try to speak.
“Oh . . .” My merriment at the situation causes the muscles of my stomach and face to ache. “I guess your door has met its match.” A hiccup causes my words to jump. “M-maybe you should’ve used that ingenious leather lock to hold it steady.”
A few low mumbles float in my direction when he pushes loose branches back into place.
Several vines dangle from the mess. He grabs the ends and threads them through unbound pieces of wood to secure the intersections.
He stands with the tacky screen and props it against the edge of the cave entrance. With his other hand, he swings the door and attempts to level the bottom flush with the ground. The lower part of the frame—which is a misshapen tree limb—pokes the rough floor. The scrape of the branch when it catches on the stony surface squeals like nails running down a chalkboard.
The Descendant: Baltin Trilogy (Book 1) Page 9
