“That’s a pretty dog,” he said. “Can I pet him? Some dogs don’t like strangers.”
“You go ahead, young man,” Mabel said. A small bit of warmth came into her expression. “Mister Rocket will let you know what he thinks of you right quick.”
Taking off one of the borrowed gloves, Nimble let the dog sniff him, and then, when that was done, he reached to gently stroke behind Mister Rocket’s ears and along his neck.
Mister Rocket leaned into the petting and huffed a sneeze, then struggled to get down. Mabel set him on his feet but kept him close with a hand on his collar.
“He wants to have you throw a ball for him, I expect,” she said. “But it’s way too cold.” She addressed herself to the dog.“It’s zero degrees, Mister Rocket, and too cold for those pretty paws of yours.”
She opened the front door and, with a sigh, motioned for Nimble to come in.
“Can you bring that into the kitchen without tracking in too much snow?” she asked. “I just swept and mopped.”
Nimble carefully stamped his feet on the doormat before taking the bag of dog food into her small but sparkling-clean kitchen, then trudged back through the snow for the birdseed and salt-and-grit mixture.
Each time he came in, Mister Rocket was waiting at the door and trotted close at his heels as he moved through the house, keeping an eye on him. Mabel fussed in her kitchen, opening the oven to check on something inside.
Nimble’s stomach growled at the smell.
“Want me to shovel your steps and the walk?” he asked. “I can.”
“I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble, young man.” Mabel wiped her hands on her white apron.
“Morgan is paying me,” he said. “Sent me on errands and asked me to look after you, especially.”
“He did?” she asked, her eyebrows rising. “I didn’t think he cared for me, all haughty and cold. And he doesn’t much like Mister Rocket, I can tell you that.”
“He’s all right,” Nimble said, smiling. Morgan didn’t like much about the town of Hysham, especially the people who lived there, but he was just being grumpy. Hysham was great, and so was the smell of whatever Mabel was baking. “I’ll go take care of your walk, okay?”
“Thank you, young man,” Mabel said. “That’ll make it look nice, and safer for Mister Rocket to do his business, too. But don’t put any grit down. It’s only going to snow again. Whenyou’re finished, you come back inside, and I’ll make you some hot chocolate, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nimble grinned as he pulled on Morgan’s gloves once more. “Yes,ma’am.”
CHAPTER 16
morgan
After watching Nimble drive slowly down the snowy street, fumes puffing from the truck’s exhaust, Morgan made his way to the office. While he didn’t have the energy to build a fire, he could turn up the heat and open the blinds and let the sunshine in. Dust motes floated in the air, and in the brightness he could see how much the place needed a good cleaning.
Maybe later. For now, he was going to update the records with the fact that Mabel had gotten her special order at long last.
He didn’t think he had any more outstanding orders, other than Gus Odell coming in for special feed he’d ordered for a horse he’d carefully explained was named Honey, on account of it looked as though her coat was made of it, and some leatherworking tools for a Mr. Bramwell.
Other than that, he only had to deal with the regular bills and clean up the accounting records. Or maybe he was forgetting something?
He’d remember eventually, and when he did, he should write it down. He pulled out a pad of paper and a pen and set them at the ready, then opened his laptop, cranked up the old PC, and got to work. Information scribbled on bits of paper and the backsof envelopes got entered into the online ledger, and receipts got recorded, money in and money out.
The feed and grain did a decent business, a steady low hum of orders and purchases, but nothing outstanding. Nothing that would make any real profit, though perhaps his aunt and uncle hadn’t cared about that. Had cared more about being a part of the small town than creating an empire. Or maybe they had wanted a feed and grain empire but had fallen short. There was no knowing, though maybe he’d come across another bit of paper that would unfold that little mystery.
He stood, meaning to go upstairs to make some coffee, thinking in the back of his mind that there was a coffee shop in town and they ground beans fresh, and maybe Nimble would like it if they got some, since he enjoyed coffee so much.
The long, slow howl of a train whistle echoed in the distance, and Morgan was glad that it wasn’t going to stop, because Nimble might wish he were on it. Morgan wouldn’t want Nimble to go. Because they had work to do, and not for any other reason.
He really needed to continue to think of Nimble as a temporary guest. That his staying was a short-term situation and nothing more.
He heard a car’s tires crunching over snow, and an engine approached and shut off. Another followed close behind, and it sounded like Aunt Oralee’s truck. Morgan peered out the window to see the sheriff’s SUV in the parking lot, with the truck right behind it, and Deputy Hartland, not Nimble, getting out of the truck. The sun bounced off the white snow and into Morgan’s eyes, making him blink.
He pulled his robe around him and made his way out of the office, feeling the cold draft as the sheriff and his deputy stepped into the store—with Nimble in tow.
