Morgan was freaking him out. Nimble would have happily been on his way then and there if the snow weren’t coming down so hard; a white blanket was all that could be seen through the large windows.
“Couch is fine,” Nimble said. He didn’t move from where he was standing, waiting for Morgan to move so he could take a cue from that.
With a heavy sigh, Morgan looked him over, head to toe, and said, “After you bring up the last bag, could you put out the fire in the office?” He frowned. “I’d do it, but the stairs are steep, definitely not to code, though nobody in this town probably cares about building regulations or permits.”
“Sure,” Nimble said.
He made one more trip to put out the fire, which was something he knew how to do, at least. Then he went into the store, making sure the front door was latched and the door into the yard was shut, even if the handle had fallen off.
Now, on his own, he could take his time. Part of him felt like he was still in motion, still on the train, swaying to the clacks, jerking to the clicks of the trucks along the rails, even though he was inside, in a building with walls and a ceiling that, in spite of the growing storm, was quiet and on the edge of being warm.
He lowered the blinds on all the windows, then wandered the aisles, absorbing the fact that there were so many different kinds of things for sale. Everything from tools to towels. Then again, this was a small rural town, so the store was part feed and grain and part hardware and tack shop.
With one final look around, he grabbed the last bag, trotted up the stairs, and turned into the kitchen.
Morgan was sitting again and had put nothing away. The three amber bottles were on the table next to his elbow, all with their caps back on. The water glass was empty.
“Just here on the table is fine,” Morgan said. He pulled the cane to him as Nimble placed the last bag in the center of the old-fashioned wooden table.
Nimble shivered in his still-sopping-wet clothes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to get involved in a conversation.Just as Morgan didn’t want the people in town asking questions, Nimble didn’t want Morgan asking him any.
It was enough that he had shelter, even if only for one night. Maybe Morgan would let him take a shower and eat something, too.
“Nimble?” Morgan asked, irritated all over again for some reason. “What kind of name is that? Why do you call yourself that?”
“I’m on the move,” Nimble said, confused, because he’d already told Morgan this. “I don’t give out my real name.”
“Oh.” For some reason, that didn’t piss Morgan off as much as Nimble would have expected. Maybe Morgan liked it that Nimble was keeping himself to himself.
“I locked up.” Nimble jerked his thumb at the doorway behind him and the stairs beyond. “Put the fire out. Anything else?”
“No.” Morgan laughed, low, as if dismissing the idea. “Doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to break in during a blizzard.” He looked up at Nimble. “I’m not from here, and this is my first storm in Montana.”
“Where exactly in Montana are we?” Nimble asked.
He remembered Star saying something about the northern Wyoming border but hadn’t listened beyond that, because Star would go on and on, sometimes, when all Nimble needed to know was how long they’d be riding for and when the train would stop so they could get off for supplies. They usually took turns, and this time, Nimble had gotten the short straw.
“We’re in a town called Hysham.” Morgan quirked his brow, like he was puzzling over Nimble’s lack of awareness. “About an hour from Billings, if you know where that is. We could be a thousand miles away, for all it matters, though. There’s not even a movie theater in this Podunk town.”
Nimble didn’t know the last time he’d gone to a movie theater, but he just nodded, shivering.
“I’ve got spare clothes you can change into,” Morgan said without getting up. He was rubbing his left thigh, and it looked like he was trying to make his body relax, but it wasn’t working. “In my room. You can take a shower, and I’ll make us some soup or whatever.”
Morgan was beyond tired; he was exhausted, that much was obvious. Now, in the brightly lit kitchen, since Nimble didn't have to wonder where he was going to lay his head when it got fully dark, he could focus on the man in front of him.
Beneath the thin, loose sweatpants Morgan had on, he wore a brace of some kind around his left knee. The whole of him, from his strong face and broad shoulders to his sneaker-clad feet, looked as though someone had come at him with a battering ram. Those blue eyes watched Nimble looking him over.
“I was in a car accident,” Morgan said. “Hence all the pills and the knee brace and the cane.”
“It’s purple,” Nimble said.
“It’s an old-lady color,” Morgan said. “But it was the only one they had available.”
“Okay.”
“You can grab some clothes from my room and take a shower,” Morgan repeated. He gestured with his cane. “The bedroom is beyond the bathroom. I’ll get going on the soup if I can figure out which bag it’s in. I mean, I don’t know, but I’m sure they bought some, even if it’s canned.”
“Can’t you get—” Nimble cut himself off, but still said, “I don’t want to go through your things.”
