“They won’t be,” Jack said with utter confidence. “They’re baking for the storm. Besides, you said we’re on our way to pick up most of Mabel’s rhubarb crumble, and I bet they’d enjoy that instead of donuts in a pinch.”
Of course Jack would care that the old guys would be happy. Morgan reminded himself to go along with it and pushed the cart while Jack piled it high with food Morgan was sure they wouldn’t need.
The bakery did indeed have a robust selection of donuts, so they got a dozen cake and a dozen glazed. When Jack eyed the raspberry bismarks, they got half a dozen of those as well. After Morgan paid and everything was bagged, he let Jack bring the truck around so Jack could load it up and they could make their way to Mabel’s, even as clouds were piling high on the western horizon.
“Another storm,” Morgan said, glad to be sitting in the truck, sitting still, even though he’d have to endure a stop at Mabel’s.
He’d been so rude to her before, and now he’d accepted an invitation to sit in her kitchen and take her food and be nice to her dog. It was just about too much, but the happy smile on Jack’s face as they pulled up to the snowy curb in front of Mabel’s little gray house almost made it worthwhile.
Mabel met them at the door, the steps freshly scraped, presumably courtesy of Jack. She held her dog in her arms. Mister Rocket was pert and alert and staring at Morgan like he might be the enemy.
“Come on in,” she said brightly, as if it had been ages since she’d seen another human being and they were her favorites in all the world.
It was how she’d treated him before, he had to admit, other than scolding him about the state of his store and the need for humane traps. Like she liked him. Maybe even cared about him. And all he’d done was snap at her.
“I know you want to get home before the storm comes, so I’m all ready to make hot chocolate, and I’ve got the rhubarb crumble wrapped up so you can eat some right away and freeze the rest.”
Morgan didn’t know the last time he’d had hot chocolate. Or the last time he’d been so grateful to step out of the frosty brightness of late afternoon and into the warmth of a small house.
Which, as Jack had reported, was cozy and clean—and not overly fussy, as Morgan had imagined it would be. The walls were pale yellow in the kitchen and a faded lilac seemingly everywhere else. And the couch, rather than being covered in plastic, was draped in old quilts.
“Come into the kitchen,” Mabel said, putting Mister Rocket down. “And make yourselves at home.”
With Mister Rocket scurrying ahead of them, nails scrabbling on the linoleum, Morgan and Jack sat at the wooden farm table that looked like it had been cut down to fit the room. Morgan watched Mabel bustle about her incredibly clean kitchen and was astonished when Jack leaned down from his chair to pet Mister Rocket and then pulled the dog into his lap.
The dog panted happily as Jack petted him and scratched under his collar, fondling his ears.
Mabel made atsk tsksound. “He’s not supposed to be up at the table like that, Jack,” she said, scolding them both. “He’s allowed on the bed and the couch and such, but not at the table. It isn’t sanitary.”
“I’ll hold him,” Jack said, looking perfectly content to be getting dog hairs on his grease-stained jeans. “He’s fine. We’re fine.”
Mabel handed him his mug of hot chocolate along with a warning that chocolate was bad for dogs and he shouldn’t be tempted to share it with Mister Rocket.
The smile on Jack’s face was so filled with light and joy that Morgan could barely look away to drink his own hot chocolate. Which, from the very first sip, was excellent.
“Did you make this from scratch, Mabel?” he asked, looking at her counter, where the cocoa powder and carton of whole milk, vanilla, and sugar sat all in a row on that freshly wiped counter. Behind her were the sink, and a window framed by soft white curtains, through which the sunlight streamed gold and blue.
“Young man,” she said, just about looking down her nose at him. “I makeeverythingfrom scratch.”
But of course she did. If the hot chocolate was this delicious, then the rhubarb crumble would be something to look forward to. And watching Jack inhale it would be something to look forward to as well.
When they finally left Mabel’s, the rhubarb crumble held safely on Morgan’s lap, Jack drove back to the feed and grain slowly. Smiling at nothing, at the world, at Morgan, he said, “You see? Hysham is a nice place.”
Morgan had to agree. He didn’t want to, and only a week earlier he would have vehemently argued the point, but Jack was right. As he tended to be.
CHAPTER 18
jack
They were barely back at the feed and grain, with Jack scrambling to carry all the groceries upstairs before Morgan could try to, when the three old guys pulled up in a single truck, skidding a little as they slammed on the brakes. In the back of the truck was a load of wood. Lots of wood.
Jack couldn’t imagine where they’d put it all, but maybe there was a shed or something. He handed the task of supervising that over to Morgan, who stood at the door with a grouchy scowl and pointed his cane.
When it looked like he meant not to let the men cart at least half the wood upstairs to the apartment, Jack pulled him aside and said, “Just let them. It’ll be fine.”
While that was going on, Jack went to the far corner of the store, opened the new coffee machine, and set it up. Then he wiped the table and benches, separating them so the seats could be accessed more easily. All the while he hummed to himself, even as he kept glancing at the windows, where the sky was growing darker, clouds an ominous roll above the bare trees and the silos along the train tracks.
He made a pot of coffee using the newly ground beans, a dark roast that smelled amazing. While that was brewing, he set outa dozen assorted donuts and made sure the coffee stirrers were free of dust and the sugar and stevia packets were at the ready.
