“She ordered a new one.” Morgan pointed at the buffet. “It’s under there.”
“Why haven’t you put it out?” Nimble asked before he could stop himself. “This one looks like it makes coffee that tastes like tar.”
“I’m sure it does, but there’s no way I’m setting up the new one,” Morgan said. “It’d only encourage them.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Nimble asked. “It’d be nice for you to have company.”
“I don’t want company.” Morgan made a slicing motion with his hand. “The last thing I want is company.”
“I’m company,” Nimble pointed out.
“That’s different.” Morgan shifted his weight on his cane as if exhausted with Nimble, the storm, and everything else in his world. “I’m giving you shelter because it’s the decent thing to do. Once the storm is over, you’ll be gone.” He paused, scrubbed his jaw, and sighed. “I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. I’m just overwhelmed, is all.”
“No worries.”
The apology was nice, but the rant that preceded it clarified what Morgan wanted: to be alone. To have Nimble gone. Which meant that Nimble could not let himself get used to the hot showers, good coffee, and shelter that kept the weather out. Sure, the single-paned windows—and there were a lot of them—let in some of the cold, but it was a damn sight better than what Nimble was used to.
Well, until the storm subsided, Nimble had a roof over his head and food to eat. For that kindness he would be the best company Morgan’d ever had. And once the weather cleared, he’d make his way to the coast. That would be the sensible thing to do.
CHAPTER 11
morgan
Morgan made himself keep working all day, even though there was nothing he’d have liked better than to curl up on the couch in the parlor upstairs and sleep away the afternoon. He was stiff from lack of movement, which he knew was not a good thing.
Nimble had brought him sandwiches for lunch. Morgan hunkered down and kept working while he ate, musing over the small, time-browned envelope that held a single thin brass key that looked like it might open a safe-deposit box. On the front of the envelope were written the wordsBoxandYellow.
With a sigh, he tucked the envelope into the desk’s middle drawer, making a mental note to take the key to the bank, then returned to his main task. The sooner the paperwork was straightened out, accounts balanced, receipts scanned and organized, the sooner he could again approach a real estate agent and put the store on the market.
No matter what Mabel and Gus and anyone else said about the glories of small-town life, he was under no obligation to stay, let alone fall in love with the place. There were no real estate agents in Hysham, so he’d have to go to Billings to find one. Which he would do in spite of everybody’s protests.
He groaned inwardly as he went over to the window to raise the blinds to let in the whirling white. Maybe he saw a patch of sky where the clouds were thinning, the darkness of coming night pushing through, like it had punched a hole in the storm.
Maybe the snow was coming down more like fluffy flakes rather than blades of ice. But maybe he was imagining it. Just like he was imagining the smell of potatoes boiling.
What was Nimble up to up there? After Morgan had snapped at him for messing around in the store in only his socks, he’d clonked around in his half-unlaced boots and then, humming, gone upstairs to clonk there instead.
There was nothing worth stealing, so Morgan wasn’t very worried. Plus, he sympathized with Nimble’s efforts to keep busy while the storm raged outside.
What was more worrisome was the ease with which Morgan had not only allowed Nimble to stay for the duration of the blizzard but also somehow failed to track Nimble’s movements throughout the day. Or if he had noticed where Nimble was, it had been with hardly any concern. As if he’d known Nimble for years and was grateful for his help.
What would the townspeople say when they learned that pole-up-his-ass Morgan Malone had allowed a stranger to spend the night? Perhaps they might understand Morgan’s small charity because of the blizzard. Or maybe they’d be astonished and concerned.
Well, none of that mattered because Nimble would be gone before anyone found out about him. On his way the second the storm let up.
Lowering the blinds again, Morgan shuffled back to the desk, took note of where he’d left off, then turned off his laptop and the old, old, old PC. It grumbled as it cranked down, and he shook his head.
His aunt and uncle had been living in bygone days, imagining that their system of keeping accounts on paper and taking orders on carbon copy notepads, then sticking receipts on a nail pounded into the wall over the desk, was in any way sustainable.
Even as he shook his head at them, though, he knew someday he’d be wallowing in his own times-gone-by memories about when actual coins were used to buy things, when he didn’t walk around with a chip in his head that served as ID, credit card, and library card, all rolled into one. The times, they were always a-changing.
He walked slowly around the store, checking windows and blinds and doors, noting Nimble’s footprints in the dust and then the scuff of boot marks in the same dust, before making his way up the stairs to the landing, being as quiet as possible. His knee twinged as he reached the top, then spread the pain a bit, just to be friendly with the rest of his body.
He was grimacing as he stepped into the cheery kitchen, which smelled amazing. Whatever was cooking on the stove was simmering low.
The smell of potatoes was stronger now, coming from one pot, and from the other came the scent of something else. Salt. Meat. Broth.
His stomach growled like a lone tiger in the jungle, waking Nimble, who’d been sitting at a chair pulled out from the farm table, arms across his chest and chin tucked low.
