Had an animal gotten in? The handle on the door to the yard out back was a bit wonky, so it was possible. He went from the office to the small landing from which steep stairs led up to the apartment. Beyond the landing was the door to the main store.
He walked as steadily as he could, not letting the cane thump, not letting his left foot drag or do anything but be straight and sturdy as he stepped into the store.
As always, the store was still, the air thick with the smells of corn and leather oil. The banks of windows on either side let in tons of light, which, this afternoon, was a glowing whirl of white.
The curtains in the office were drawn; otherwise, Morgan would have realized how bad the weather had gotten in a very short space of time. Already the large room was growing colder.
And there, standing behind the long sales counter, his hands on either side of the cash register as if he’d been about to break it open—not that there was money inside—was a young man. He was younger than Morgan, at least.
The young man lifted his smudge-stained hands, then cupped them to blow on them, to warm them—casually, as though he were just passing through and had not been aboutto open the cash register at all. With glittering green eyes, he looked at Morgan through a shock of ink-dark hair.
From the top of his dark head to the toes of his black, snow-crusted boots, it was plain to see that he was a stranger in town. Like Morgan was, come to think of it. Grubby but bright-eyed, he shone on Morgan’s mental map, out of place against the dull patina of Morgan’s life. The young man, so vivid in the low gloom of the store, took Morgan aback, and he could only blink.
“What are you doing?” Morgan asked, gathering himself. “The feed and grain is closed.”
That part wasn’t obvious, because the last person to shut the door behind the paramedics and Aunt Oralee’s stretcher had not flipped the Open sign around. It hadn’t occurred to anyone else—including Morgan—to do it either.
“I’m looking for—” the young man said in an East Coast voice. “Seed.”
He wasn’t looking for any such thing, Morgan was certain. It wasn’t too early to order seed, but the young man didn’t look like anyone Morgan had met in town or at his aunt’s funeral, and he was far filthier than even the work-worn farmer Morgan had ever met.
“Seed?” Morgan asked, though that was the least of his questions.
Wherever had the young man come from? And where were his hat and gloves? The leather jacket he was wearing and the flap of flannel shirt hem layered beneath it could hardly be enough to keep him warm. His grease-stained jeans were more hole than denim.
It was freezing in Montana this time of year, blizzard or no blizzard. But that wasn’t Morgan’s concern.
“It doesn’t matter. We’re closed for the storm. Haven’t you heard? There’s a blizzard that’s going to shutter the whole town for days.” Morgan paused, taking a breath, knowing he soundedexactly like the asshole with a stick up his ass that he imagined the town thought he was. “You need to leave.”
The young man glanced over Morgan’s shoulder, and Morgan turned to see the sheriff’s patrol car pulling into the snow-covered parking lot, complete with the sheriff and his deputy returning for unknown reasons.
The pair had been at the feed and grain once already that morning to warn Morgan about the blizzard and tell him about a train derailment up the line. The first bit of information he already knew, and the second part wasn’t important, so he couldn’t imagine why they were back.
He was distracted from his irritation by a thump, and when he looked, the young man had disappeared down behind the counter. Only a bit of his snow-flecked black jacket showed, along with the glint of one green eye.
Whoever the young man was, he was leery of the law, cold and dirty, and perhaps lost.
Though Morgan was irritated by the least kind of trouble these days, he wasn’t cruel. Not to mention, helping the young man could be his rebellion against this small town that wanted him to take up the reins his Aunt Oralee had died holding and make the feed and grain the cornerstone of the town once more. To be someone he wasn’t.
With a hard sound below his breath, he pretended the young man wasn’t there and turned to face the new arrivals.
Young Tommy and Deputy Hartland, a petite woman named Melissa who was evidently learning everything Young Tommy could teach her, looked at him, concern on their faces.
“What can I help you with?” he asked, thumping his cane to show his irritation.
“Just a neighborly visit, sir,” Young Tommy said. His plastic-covered hat was tucked under his arm, revealing his graying buzz cut, and his forehead gleamed. Melting snow dripped fromhis broad shoulders. “We saw Maurice and his pals getting some coffee at the Bean There, and they said they were worried about you.”
“They wanted us to make sure that you were all set up, Mr. Malone,” Deputy Hartland said. “You being a tenderfoot from the South and all.”
Deputy Hartland was as trim and tidy and prepared as he’d ever seen a deputy be, but her statement and the old geezers’ concern, as well as this second visit from the local law, irritated Morgan beyond measure. He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake, and Denver, Colorado, was hardly a place anyone would consider south.
He also had five bags of groceries, many bundles of wood, and a furnace that, while not new, seemed to be heating everything okay. He’d experienced storms before, and while he wasn’t at his most nimble, he would get by.
He wanted them gone so he could get rid of the young man, return to his fire, and stare into the middle distance for a good chunk of the day.
“I’ll manage,” he said, teeth gritted, the snarl in his voice obvious even to his own ears. “I’ve got supplies; I’ll be fine. And call me Morgan, okay?”
Young Tommy looked at the bags on the counter, bags that probably hid the young man from his view.
