For one horrible second, feeling like he’d been flayed from the inside, Morgan couldn’t imagine what Nimble had gottenup to to get himself arrested. And wasn’t sure whether he was surprised or not that it had come to this. Taking a stranger in, storm or no storm, had been foolish, and if Nimble had committed some horrible crime?
With another blink, he realized that while Deputy Hartland had Nimble by the arm, Nimble wasn’t in handcuffs. That was good—nothing too dire, then. Young Tommy took off his plastic-covered brown sheriff’s hat and propped it beneath his arm.
That’s when Morgan saw Nimble’s face. It was white, whiter than the snow outside, making his hair look even darker where it fell across his forehead. His eyes were enormous green circles, his mouth a tight line.
He was looking at Morgan as if he wanted to explain but didn’t know how. Or maybe he thought if he did start talking, Deputy Hartland was going to give him a good shake and then put on those cuffs—or send him home to the dad who didn’t want him.
A tremendous anger welled up inside Morgan. Nimble had been good to him, and seemed to be a good person, so what the hell was going on? He wanted to explode and demand answers and yank Nimble out of the deputy’s grasp.
He drew in a breath, preparing to let that anger out, and then he stopped. The sheriff and the deputy were also decent people. Somewhere a line had been crossed, one he didn’t understand, but it had to do with Nimble and the look on his face right now.
Morgan needed to fix this and fix it fast, so they could go back to the way things had been these past couple of days, with him grousing about all the paperwork he had to do, complaining about his knee, and pretending to be irritated when Nimble would come down with coffee and gingersnaps, interrupting him, insisting he take a break.
Mostly, though, he needed to take care of Nimble.
“Can I ask what’s going on?” Morgan said, keeping his voice level. “And why you’ve detained my friend?”
“He’s your friend?” Young Tommy asked. “We caught him driving around in Oralee’s truck, looking mighty suspicious. He looks like he took his clothes out of a dumpster, and he didn’t have any ID on him.”
Morgan blinked and thought fast, then addressed himself to Nimble as if all of this was just a misunderstanding and not a knife’s edge of trouble.
“You must have taken your wallet out of the pocket of your jeans when you did laundry.” Morgan didn’t let himself swallow. “Where did you leave it? Is it next to the washer, or did you put it somewhere else?”
Nimble took a quick breath. His eyes widened a fraction. “Bathroom. By the washer.”
He was scared out of his mind, and all Morgan wanted to do was throw a cloak of protection over him. There wasn’t anything wrong that couldn’t be fixed, he didn’t think, but leftover anxiety still pulsed through his veins as he turned to Deputy Hartland.
“Can you let him go now?” Morgan asked. “As I said, he’s my friend. He came into town the day of the blizzard, and he’s been helping me around the place. I’ve been running him ragged, which is why he forgot his wallet.”
Deputy Hartland released Nimble’s arm and looked at Young Tommy, then back at Morgan. “He’s the guy we saw hanging out by the Bean There a few days back,” she said, then addressed Nimble. “You were skulking around like you were up to no good. That or you didn’t have any idea where you were going.”
“He hitched a ride into town on an 18-wheeler,” Morgan said, the words crisp. “And the directions I gave him to the feed and grain were bad, because I’m bad at directions. Now, would someone like to go upstairs and get his wallet so we can straighten this all out and get back to work?”
“I’ll go,” Deputy Hartland said, and off she went as if she knew her way through the place, which she probably did.
“We saw him coming out of Mabel’s house,” Young Tommy said.
“Yes,” Morgan said, the word coming out hard. “I sent him over there to deliver her special orders. How’s that dog of hers?” he asked Nimble, lending extra irritation to the question so they could show Young Tommy how it was. That they were good friends, even old friends, and Nimble was giving Morgan so much help by going to Mabel’s so Morgan wouldn’t have to deal with her dog.
It was a tall tale, but it would work if Nimble could pick up the thread and run with it.
Nimble looked at him for a long second, one hand where the deputy had been clasping his arm. “Mister Rocket is fine. He’s really sweet if you just give him a chance.”
“I don’t like the way he looks at me, as if he’s thinking about giving my leg a good chomp.”
“He doesn’t bite,” Nimble said, adding irritation of his own, as if this were a long-standing disagreement between them. “And that kitchen was as clean as a whistle, not a dog hair in sight. Whatever she was baking smelled heavenly, too.”
Before Morgan needed to continue the banter, the deputy came thudding down the wooden stairs, worn leather wallet in hand. She offered it to the sheriff, who opened it and squinted at the ID in the main fold.
“Is this you? Jack Foxley of Lawndale, PA?” Young Tommy asked. “You’re a long way from home, I’d say, just to help a friend.”
Young Tommy clearly considered being a long way from home a problem, so Morgan answered quickly, ignoring the ripple of excitement at having learned Nimble’s real name.
“He actually worked in my building,” he said. “In Denver. But not for very long. Not long enough to update his license.”
“In the coffee shop,” Nimble—Jack—said. “On the first floor.”
“He makes really good coffee,” Morgan said. “Better than the other clerks, and he was nice to me when I found out my aunt died, and I knew he wasn’t happy with the job, so I offered him one with me.”
