As Morgan had indicated, his suitcases were open, both of them, in front of the sliding doors of the closet. They spilled over with Morgan’s belongings and, along with one half of the bed, were the only things in the room that weren’t coated with dust. Even the paint, a pale blue, looked faded, as if it had wasted away since its owner had died.
Feeling as though the sheriff was about to bust in on him any minute, Nimble searched gingerly through the first suitcase, which contained a black suit, shiny shoes, and a rumpled dark blue tie, among other things.
In the second suitcase he found a pile of gray sweatpants, white T-shirts, practical briefs, and an unopened package of white socks. It was as if Morgan, coming to deal with his aunt’s estate, couldn’t put his heart into it, so he’d left his belongings on the floor like a half-done project.
Shaking off that image, Nimble grabbed a pair of sweatpants and pulled a T-shirt from the already-opened packet. He debated grabbing briefs and socks but decided against it. Too much. Too intimate. After his shower, he could put his clothes in the washer and dryer. Until then, he was going commando.
Now the shower. He turned the chrome knob and experimented a bit until he got a hot, powerful flow going. Then he stripped off his grubby, train-scented clothes and, with a sigh, stepped beneath the spray.
Water pounded his head, and steam roiled in front of his eyes. He was hot and wet all over, such a good feeling that hecould have stayed there for the rest of his life. He took his time and fully enjoyed the fruit-scented shampoo and the clean, soft washcloth he used to apply the Castile soap all over. He deserved to be clean and warm and, maybe, just a little bit safer than he’d felt in a long time.
By the time he used the matching conditioner in his hair, he was almost purring.
Still, he didn’t know how long Morgan would be out, so he hustled through rinsing off and pulled on his borrowed clothes before he was properly dry. His hair dripped onto his T-shirt, beads of water snaking their way down his back as he stuffed his own clothes into the washer, then raced quietly to get his flannel shirt to add to the crumpled mess.
Feeling very domestic, he measured out powdered detergent, deciphered the old-fashioned dials on the simple machine, and stepped back as it hummed to life. Now he smelled like fruit, and his clothes would smell like Tide. He was all set.
He would put away the groceries, check back on the progress of his clothes at some point, and find that aftershave. Then he’d be ready to make dinner. On a stove. Using real pots and wooden spoons. And eat at a real dining table. All of which would be a real treat.
Smiling, Nimble hustled toward the yellow-and-white kitchen.
CHAPTER 7
morgan
If Morgan had to have one more conversation with another human being, explaining his tiredness and explaining the purple cane and pretending his knee wasn’t killing him, he didn’t know what he’d do. Throw himself in front of the next train that rattled by the feed and grain, probably.
During the two days he’d been living above the feed and grain, Mabel had come by several times with her dog, Mister Rocket, a frighteningly awake Jack Russell terrier who had alerted Morgan, and everyone, to the presence of mice and maybe a raccoon in the storeroom.
The dog’s sharp barks and laser-focused eyes had been followed by Mabel’s pointed questions and remarks.Why haven’t you set traps? You need humane traps, are you aware, and how are you going to re-home the raccoon?
It had been an interrogation as much as anything else, and he’d had no answers for her. Then and there, he doubled down on his decision to sell up and move back to Denver as soon as he could. That was his goal, as it would be any sensible person’s.
Gus Odell had also come over uninvited, with his stories about days gone by and about his beloved wife, now sadly passed, and how the feed and grain had been a cornerstone ofHysham for ever so long, and how the trains used to run multiple times a day, a living heartbeat to a small, sweet town on the high plains of Montana.
You’ll get used to it here,son, Gus had said in a friendly way, but also a way that informed Morgan that Gus thought it was his job togetused to it, otherwise, well, everyone would think—everyone wouldknow—that Morgan was a failure.
He’d not been a failure at his job back in Denver. He’d been a good boyfriend to Bradley. At least he’d thought so. At least until the accident.
At the hospital after the accident, Morgan had grown a shell around himself, a place where people weren’t invited. The doctors, sure, he had to let them in. And the nurses, when they would come to take his temperature or distribute meds or adjust the saline bag.
Those were necessary staff interactions, including a quick meeting with a physical therapist consultant, who told him he needed PT or his knee would freeze up as it healed. He needed to stay mobile and flexible. He needed to take his meds and then wean himself off them.
Morgan had been doing his PT, being a lifelong obeyer of rules, but once out of the hospital, he’d been hit with the double whammy of learning his Aunt Oralee had passed away and Bradley leaving him.
To Hysham he’d gone, thinking to sign some papers and be on his way. Only to find himself stuck. No, not just stuck, mired and exhausted, fighting off the townspeople’s kindness.
He realized he was awake and staring at the ceiling, thinking dark thoughts that went round and round in a series of brain-scraping whirlwinds.
Beneath him, the couch was wide and long and comfortable, as he already knew. He’d spent one of his two nights here already, putting his head down with his knee propped up onpillows for a quick afternoon rest, only to wake up with the glow of sunrise easing into the room.
Now, in the semidarkness, with the snow scratching at the windows and the low moans of the blizzard creeping up the walls, Morgan’s head pounded, and his mouth was cotton-dry.
He could hear the dryer running, and he could hear the echoes of himself promising to make soup or whatever.
Back in Denver, he’d never have entertained the idea of lollygagging while a guest was working. And he never would have let someone he hardly knew have the run of the place. Yet here he was, doing both of those things.
He needed to get up, but where were his shoes? Ah, there they were, tucked together at the end of the couch.
