Exactly the opposite was true, and he had been planning how he’d tease Morgan about it after he went to the market to buy Morgan the ice cream he’d mentioned more than once, when he’d gotten pulled over. Not for speeding, it turned out, but for being a stranger in town.
That had been one of their worst fears. All of them, Blue, Star, and himself, had talked about it, how they’d never thought of it before hopping on their first train. That coming into a small town where nobody knew you put you instantly on a radar calleddanger, with you in the bull’s-eye.
Even if they’d not meant any harm and only took what nobody would miss—a bottle of clean water here, a few candy bars there—it didn’t make any difference. The bulls in the rail yards, the cops roaming up and down the streets, the looks from the townspeople, all of it screamed: Not wanted here.
He’d been pretty sure the sheriff was going to arrest him and try to send him home. He’d reached for his wallet to prove he was of age and could go anywhere he liked, only to discover he didn’t have it on him. They looked like they wanted to search him for weapons when he got out of the truck to stand in the snowy street, breathing in ice-cold air way too fast, his lungs aching, face on fire.
“This truck belongs to Oralee Malone; were you aware, sir?”
“It’s not stolen,” Jack said. “Morgan loaned it to me so I could do errands, since there’s a break in the storm.”
“Morgan Malone?” the deputy asked skeptically.
“We saw you coming away from Mabel’s place,” the sheriff said, growing, if possible, even more stern. “If you’ve harmed one hair on her head, I swear to God and all that’s holy, you will be taken into custody and not see daylight for the rest of your life.”
Jack’s eyebrows had risen in alarm at the threat, and he couldn’t figure out what to say fast enough. His missing ID made things worse.
“Let’s take him to the feed and grain, sir, and check with Mr. Malone,” the young deputy said, a woman who looked fierce enough to handle herself. “I’ll drive Oralee’s truck back and follow you.”
“Yes, let’s do that,” the sheriff said, though his voice was so level, Jack couldn't read how he felt about it. The sheriff opened the rear door of the SUV and gave Jack a meaningful look. Jack knew arguing would only make things worse, so he got in and let the man shut the door on him.
The drive was short, silence filling the SUV as the sheriff drove through town.
Why they’d not arrested or ticketed him outright was a mystery. Perhaps it had to do with the smallness of the town andthe fact that, as the sheriff had told Morgan when Jack had been hiding behind the counter, they looked after their own.
Jack was not one of their own, but Morgan was, and perhaps Morgan would put in a good word for Jack, at least enough to keep him from being hauled in for vagrancy. Even if after that Morgan might not want any more to do with Jack.
What happened upon their arrival at the feed and grain surprised him to his depths. Morgan had told a story, a play with one act where he and Jack were old friends, squabbling about where Jack had forgotten his wallet.Did you leave it near the washer? How’s that dog of hers? He’s my friend.
Morgan had been a natural, like he’d been practicing for years to smooth over just such an encounter.
Jack had jumped in as best he could.He’s a really sweet dog if you just give him a chance. Andher kitchen is as clean as a whistle.
What had really struck him was Morgan’s angry protectiveness in the face of Jack’s near arrest. His insistence that Jack was his friend, the offer to escort him around town so everyone in Hysham would be aware of that fact. That and his bit of surprise at finding out Jack’s real name. And his quietI’d like to, because he didn’t know anything about Jack but wanted to.
Jack wanted what Morgan wanted, only probably not in the way Morgan did. A guy like Morgan would not want a guy like Jack, no matter how protective he might be when Jack was in trouble.
The wind was howling, the sky darkening by the time they went upstairs to put away the groceries, the windowpanes rattling a bit and Morgan grumbling about the cost of replacing them, when there came a knock at the door.
“There’s someone downstairs,” Jack said as Morgan set out the fixings for spaghetti. Links of mild Italian sausage, a packageof noodles, a jar of sauce, extra garlic, a dark green bottle of good olive oil.
“Oh, sure,” Morgan said. “I was hoping my order would arrive. Could you?—?”
“Sure,” Jack said, hurrying down the stairs, because if someone was still making deliveries with the storm rising the way it was, they’d want to get going. And indeed, a young man in brown stood outside, bundled up as he briskly hauled an enormous rolled-up parcel out of his truck and placed it on the cement next to the front doors.
“Do you need help with this?” the young man asked as Jack signed the electric pad.
“No, thanks.” Jack eyed the wind whistling the snow across the empty parking lot. The way the trees were bending. He reached into his pocket for one of the twenties Morgan had given him, hoping Morgan wouldn't mind. “Here you go. I hope this is your last delivery today.”
“Thanks! It is,” the young man said, taking the twenty with a smile. “We’re out of Billings, but when I called my boss, he said to just take the truck and go home. My mom’s waiting for me.”
With another smile and a wave, the young man jumped in his truck and gunned the engine out of the parking lot.
Which left Jack alone with the mysterious package, which was soft but heavy. With exaggerated grunts and lots of pauses, Jack managed to haul it up to the landing between the kitchen and the parlor.
“Where do you want this, and what the fuck is this thing?” Jack demanded.
Morgan came to the door, a wooden spoon in his hand. “It’s a futon,” he said, in a voice that implied anyone who couldn’t tell that was a fool.
