“The storm is so loud sometimes,” Nimble said out of the blue.
“The windows are only single-pane.”
This was a conversation he’d had with the geezers and Mabel, but now it felt more personal. More worthy of his attention. Something he could control, rather than just another fact being flung at him.
“After my Uncle Toby died,” Morgan said, “my Aunt Oralee was on her own, and I think she didn’t have enough energy or money to worry about them.”
“She must have been lonely.” Nimble eyed the bacon before his gaze returned to Morgan.
“She was, I think.” Morgan pushed the plate toward Nimble and didn’t regret it, watching Nimble’s pleasure as he chomped through the strip. “For that last couple of years, at least. I didn’t come to visit. Maybe once or twice when I was a kid. I never knew her very well. She was an aunt by marriage.”
“Then why are you here?” Nimble asked. “I mean, you don’t look like a feed and grain guy. Not with those hands of yours.”
Morgan considered this, looking down at his hands, fingers spread, not letting himself be irritated that Nimble had noticed anything about him. He knew a bit about Nimble, so perhaps now it was time to share in return.
“She left the place to me,” he said. “I plan to sell in the spring. I have to fix it up first and take care of the books, which are a mess.”
“The books?”
“All the accounting,” Morgan said. “There’s a box of papers, an old file cabinet full of information. Half of the accounts are still in written ledgers. The other half are a mess on the computer. Theoldcomputer.” He added the emphasis, not expecting the low chuckle he received from Nimble, lovely and soft and so different from Mabel’s rant about how his aunt had done things the old-fashioned way and that was just fine with the people of Hysham.
The conversation felt easy, as if he’d known Nimble a while and could share idle thoughts with him without coming under a barrage of questions, the answers to which would lock him in like a hundred-year contract, the fine print too small to read.You said you’d get those cages, those humane cages. You said you’d clean this place up. And from the geezers:Oralee always had free donuts and coffee for us, every day like clockwork.
It was almost as though with Nimble he didn’t need to have any emotional filters in place. No shielding bubble.
Nimble got up, and Morgan thought he was leaving the table, but he came back with the three amber pill bottles and a glass of water, all of which he placed in front of Morgan, on the other side of his now-empty plate but within reach.
“Looks like you need them.” Nimble sat back down to drink his coffee, a fluid motion that caught Morgan’s attention as much as the pills did.
“I was pretending that I didn’t.” Morgan’s morning aches all sprang to life, and he took the pills, grateful for the hot breakfast so he wasn’t taking them on an empty stomach.
He was also pretending that he didn’t need his cane when he got up from the table, but he did. When he wobbled and Nimble shot out an arm to steady him, he realized that Nimble, dressed in his own clothes, up close still smelled like diesel fuel.
“You could wash your clothes, you know,” Morgan said, leaning against the counter, where he placed the pill bottles.
“I did last night.” With a flick of a glance, chin ducked, Nimble added, “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, of course,” Morgan said.
The pills were kicking in, and while it felt nice to be pain-free, he needed to stay active and focus on what he could get done: finish going through the store’s accounts and mail off those forms and invoices that couldn’t be emailed, all while drinking more coffee than was probably good for him. And he needed to keep his mind off the memory of Nimble, standing there in overly large, borrowed sweatpants, the slide of skin, the soft?—
“I’ll get the dishes,” Morgan said quickly.
“I can do them,” Nimble said, offering as if he felt he needed to earn his keep and then some.
In the face of that energy, Morgan sat back down and turned his attention to the remains of his coffee and the list in his head. He did his best to ignore Nimble at the sink, humming under hisbreath, happy as a clam, up to his elbows in suds and hot water. And looked out at the snow coming down hard.
The sheriff and Mabel had both said it’d be a three-, maybe four-day blizzard. Today was day two. Which meant he had one or two more days to stay indoors with a guest in his house who probably wouldn’t steal from him but who couldn’t be entirely trusted.
Still, it was oddly nice to have company.
Morgan had finished his coffee by the time Nimble was done with the dishes. Foam flecked the thighs of his worn blue jeans as he turned and leaned against the sink, looking at Morgan as though for more orders.
“I’m headed down to the office to get some paperwork done.” Morgan stood up slowly, gripping his cane. “My aunt left piles of it.” It might be better to focus on that, rather than linger in the kitchen where Nimble was such a pleasant eyeful.
“I’ll make another pot of coffee later,” Nimble said. “I saw a package of cookies in the groceries I put away, too. Want me to bring you some?”
Morgan paused, flexing his fingers around the handle of his cane. Everybody in town had been friendly, but in a busybody kind of way: poking their noses into his business, wanting to share memories of an aunt and uncle he’d barely known. Welcoming him to a town that he had no desire to be in.
