Truth was, he could have eaten a second one . But Nimble’s wistful expression was enough to make him give up the treat just so Nimble could have it. So he could watch Nimble enjoy it.
“Really.” He pointed at the donut with his chin. “They’ll make more.”
Whotheywere, he didn’t know, but watching Nimble polish off a third donut was its own kind of pleasure, complete with Nimble’s sounds of dismay at the amount of glaze that crumbled to the carpet and the smear of raspberry that he swiped from his lip and then licked from the heel of his hand, gazing at Morgan all the while.
“Man, that was good,” Nimble said, groaning as he flopped back on the couch, moving closer as though he had no idea of personal space at all, like a puppy in a pile. “Haven’t been this full in a while,” he murmured.
And there he sprawled, legs out, hands on his belly, which was softly round beneath his once-white T-shirt. Licorice-darkhair glinting in the firelight. Casual and comfortable, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Compared to riding trains without a ticket in all kinds of weather, maybe he didn’t. He was living in the moment, happy for now, though in a few days he’d be on his way.
Morgan would make sure to send him on his way, because he couldn’t go on having his life disturbed at every turn like this. Interrupted by a lithe and happy stranger who seemed to enjoy having Morgan watch him eat. Who seemed to like being with him, though why Morgan hadn’t any idea.
It would be lonely when Nimble left, though.
CHAPTER 12
nimble
The blizzard began to wind down two days later, midmorning on Monday. The churning white air turned still, and the snowfall lessened to a thin white veil, almost an afterthought. The silence after days of howling wind was echoey and made Nimble want to pop his ears.
During the blizzard, as the wind raced and screamed and pushed snowbanks up to the front double doors of the store and windowsills in the office, he had gone about each day, amusing himself with an idle browse through the bookshelves in the parlor or poking around the store. He’d kept quiet so he wouldn’t annoy Morgan, who was hard at work as though his life depended on it. And he’d taken naps in front of the cast-iron stove. Many naps.
Now Nimble stood at the sink in the bright kitchen, gazing out the window at the gentle, almost apologetic flutter and flurry, white flakes drifting down slowly. He drank a glass of ice water, enjoying the pure, cool taste. The absolutely clean glass.
He thought of all those times he’d scooped his hand beneath a rusty faucet poking out of the ground on abandoned farmland, the farmhouse having collapsed long since into a pile of gray and green sticks. Drinking water from his palm. Or the timeshe’d stolen bottles of water from a convenience store close to the tracks and had to run to avoid getting arrested.
Today, though, he could get more ice. Refill the glass. Drink all he wanted without tasting dirt. It was blissful. Also blissful was the lack of grime crawling all over him. The hot water supply. The fresh food in the fridge. Being inside with the storm outside.
He also thought about Morgan. Handsome, industrious, sad-eyed Morgan.
Morgan needed tending, which made Nimble feel useful. He needed his pills and a glass of water to wash them down with on the regular. And he needed his lunch and an afternoon snack brought to him, or at least Nimble had decided he did.
Each time Nimble came down with a tray of coffee and a bread product—today it had been toast with butter and jam, since the gingersnaps and the frozen donuts were all gone—Morgan acted as surprised as he had the first time. Amazed that someone would be nice to him, bring him food, check on him.
That part was easy because Morgan’s smile in that strong face, looking healthier now and not so pale, was like sunrise on a clear day.
Even better, Nimble enjoyed how, when he carried a few split logs, all pine-scented and sap-laced, into the office, Morgan would stop what he was doing.
He would whirl in his wooden office chair and reach for his cane like he meant to get up and stretch his legs. Only instead of stepping out of the office, he’d come over and just watch.
Nimble, crouched down, could feel Morgan standing behind him, feel those blue eyes focusing on the fire and how Nimble was building it. As if in preparation for when Nimble wasn’t there and he needed to feed the stove all on his own. Or maybe he watched Nimble because he enjoyed it.
Nimble thought maybe he did, so when he went down in the afternoon to tend the stove, he made a show of it, hunkered down, one knee bent, jeans pulled tight across his legs. Back curved, his T-shirt pulling up, maybe just a little bit.
Fire built, he shifted back on his heels to look up at Morgan, who stood there, both hands on his purple cane.
When Morgan saw Nimble watching him, he hastily jerked his gaze in a different direction, as if Nimble’s appearance were nothing to him. Or maybe that was all in Nimble’s own imagination, and Morgan truly was thinking about the stove.
“Could teach you,” Nimble said, standing up, close enough so Morgan had to take a step back. “Kindling and matches and all that.”
“No, I’m—” Morgan scratched behind his ear. “I think I’ve got it figured out.”
“Might be low on wood,” Nimble said, bending to make sure the little door to the pot-bellied stove was secure.
Of course it was; he’d already checked, but in checking again, he could stay by the warmth of the fire, and by Morgan’s side, just a little longer.
“I could take that truck out back and go get more.”
