He turned off the light and made himself a pallet in front of the fire, the quilt half beneath him, half over him. A couch cushion for a pillow. One of the books from the shelf to look at.
Maybe he should check on Morgan again, but the weight of his body kept him in place. He must have dozed off, because he awoke when, from somewhere in the distance, across snow-rippled hills that sparkled in starlight, he heard the whistle of a train approaching the railroad crossing. Lonely in the cold, a ghostly sound of warning.
If he’d left that night, like he’d been planning, he’d be at that crossing, poised to grab hold of an ice-cold ladder, and in a matter of minutes, he’d be far away from Morgan.
Such a bad idea. He was a fool to have even thought it.
In the morning, maybe Morgan would still want him to leave. Make another offer about money for a bus ticket or driving him to Billings while the weather was good. But between now and then, Nimble would make the most of the time he had. Before he took another breath, closing his eyes to the glow of the fire, he was asleep again.
In the morning, the sky was blazing blue beyond the window, and he smelled coffee brewing and heard clanks coming from the kitchen.
Nimble pulled on his jeans and scraped his hair back from his face as he stumbled out of the parlor.
“How’s your head?” Morgan asked. “Mine feels like shit.” His purple cane was propped in the corner near the sink.
“Fine,” Nimble said. “I’m always fine.”
“I’m making oatmeal. Hope that’s okay.” Morgan turned around. “My knee feels like shit, too, but here’s some breakfast.”
The farm table was set with two of the Jadeite bowls, a stick of butter in a glass dish, and a white china plate laden with bacon. There was a quart of orange juice and a carton of milk. That pretty blue-and-white bowl of sugar for the coffee. Nimble’s mouth burst into joy at the smell and the sight of it.
“Sit, already,” Morgan grumbled, and Nimble smiled and did as he was told. “Eat. And then listen, because I have a proposition for you.”
“Oh?” Hope bounced up inside Nimble, but he slammed it back. No sense in setting himself up for disappointment.
“Eat now, and I’ll tell you.”
Nimble turned his attention to the steaming bowl of oatmeal Morgan served him, for which there was plenty of sugar and milk, and the slices of bacon, cooked just right.
He stuffed his mouth with a little of everything, and as he chewed, he looked at Morgan. Who looked rested in spite of his hangover. There was a sparkle in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and Nimble quite liked that.
“I need help, and you need money,” Morgan said. “I propose that you work for me for the next month or so. I’ll pay you a thousand bucks plus room and board.” He shrugged and made a gesture with his hand, as though he were erasing something. “Nothing formal, okay? For a month’s wages, the paperwork wouldn’t be worth it.”
“Don’t need money to get to the West Coast,” Nimble said around another mouthful of bacon.
“It’s for the hot dog,” Morgan said. “So when you get there by train or bus or whatever, you’ll have money to buy that hot dog and stick your toes in the sand while you eat it.”
“Oh.” Warmth suffused him, a blanket of care and thoughtfulness.
He liked the idea of sticking around for another month—not so much for the money, but for this. More mornings like this: good hot coffee, thick oatmeal, the sweetness of the sugar. And Morgan, who’d managed a shower and a shave, and who now, handsome and morning bright, was looking at Nimble like Nimble’d just offered to grant him his dearest wish.
“Sure.” Nimble nodded and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What will you want me to do?”
“Grocery shopping—I assume you have a driver’s license,” Morgan said, counting on his fingers, “so Ambrose and those guys don’t come back because they think I’m starving to death. Get more wood, too, while the sun is shining. Then clean up the store, but systematically, taking stock of what’s there. Make me a list, because of course there are no dependable records—not that I can find, anyway. And then the stockroom. The yard. What the hell is out there? I have no idea. I think the truck will start because I found a receipt for when Aunt Oralee had taken it in for tires and a tune-up about a month before she went into the hospital.”
All of Morgan’s fingers were splayed out now, representing tasks for Nimble to take care of, though he could imagine there was a longer list in Morgan’s mind. The man seemed nothing if not dutiful and hardworking.
“And then whatever comes up,” Morgan said. “As I’m sure it will.” He took a swallow of his coffee and flicked Nimble a gaze suffused with warmth.
“Maybe you can drive me to Billings to sign papers with my aunt’s lawyer. I have to go through all those papers in the officeand take care of the special and standing orders. And I like your cooking. I can do breakfast just fine, but I’m no chef.”
“Can do.”
Joy bubbled up inside Nimble. He could stay, at least for a while, and put off making any decisions about where he’d go next. He’d be warm and fed, living in civilization with hot and cold running water. Soap. Fruit-scented shampoo. Plus, he’d be helping Morgan, which, as Nimble had recently discovered, was something he liked doing.
“Anything you need, just say the word.”
“My phone’s been ringing, so I’ll check what that’s about. We’ll also need to see about getting you warmer clothes.”
