If there was a blizzard bearing down on the town—and he had no reason to imagine Morgan and the cops were lying—then Nimble needed shelter, or he’d be dead.
CHAPTER 4
morgan
“You can come out now,” Morgan said as he looked around the store, taking stock.
The back door, which led to the yard where the tractor and beat-up pickup were outlined beneath the snow, was open, moving in small swings back and forth, letting the snow and cold drift through. And was, presumably, how the young man had gotten in.
At the far end of the store was a back room, a storage area where dust and disarray waited for him, along with mousetraps that he’d set out earlier that morning. What a life. Not one he’d chosen for himself, but here he was.
He turned his attention back to the young man, who stood up slowly. Melting snow dripped from his hair, and his cheeks were slick with it. The ragged plaid flannel shirt that fell below the hem of his grimy black leather jacket was soaked.
Still standing behind the counter, he held himself tight, as if prepared to bolt.
“The store’s not open,” Morgan said, adjusting his grip on his cane.
The young man pointed to the back door, still letting in gusts of cold wind and bitter, sharp flakes of snow.
“Did you break that?” Morgan asked.
“Naw,” the young man said in a breezy way, though his wide smile didn’t reach his green eyes. He tossed his head back and pushed a thick shock of wet, dark hair away from his face. “Wasn’t locked when I tried the handle, which sort of fell out of the hole.”
Great. Another task for Morgan to add to his never-ending list of things that he didn’t want to do but that needed attention if he was ever going to sell the place.
“Where did you come from?” Morgan asked. “You’re not from around here, that’s for sure.”
“Neither are you, Morgan,” the young man said in a saucy way as he emphasized Morgan’s name.
Now, with the little jab, the smile did reach those eyes, which glittered like stars. Melting snow dripped from his dark hair onto his neck, bare of any scarf or even a neck fleece. He had no gloves, no hat.
His black leather jacket was well worn, and Morgan could see frayed edges and grease stains. His blue jeans weren’t any better, and the young man shivered under Morgan’s stern, irritated scrutiny.
The young man’s jaw tightened, like he was trying to hold the shiver back, and Morgan realized that the intruder was probably freezing cold, having just come in from the growing storm to stalk about in a chilly, half-empty feed and grain store.
More snowmelt fell from the young man’s dark hair onto his cheek, and he brushed it away with the back of his hand. Another shiver moved through his whole body.
“Were you planning on stealing from the register?” Morgan asked, fighting against a flare of sympathy.
“Maybe,” the young man said, his expression turning wry, as if asking Morgan to join him in his amusement at the idea.
“There’s nothing in it,” Morgan said. “I mean, maybe a roll of quarters. I’ve not gotten to clearing it out yet.”
“This not your place?” The young man looked around with a focused expression, as if measuring Morgan’s thus far half-hearted efforts and deciding that he’d come up short.
“My aunt died,” Morgan replied without realizing he was saying it, relieved that this person, at least, unlike everyone else in Hysham, didn’t already know the whole history of the place. “I inherited the town’s only feed and grain, and there’s just a lot to do.” He lifted the cane and gestured at the vast, echoey space of the store.
“Be hard to get around, I guess.” The young man looked at Morgan’s cane.
“Never mind that,” Morgan said, shaking off the young man’s concern. “You haven’t answered my question. You’re not a local, so how did you get here? The bus isn’t running, and I don’t see a car, yet you’re walking around like it’s a summer day.”
“Hardly summer,” the young man said, forcing a little laugh as he gazed out the bank of windows at the swirl of white and gray and more white.
Now that he was looking away, and not at Morgan, his expression was solemn, those hard cheekbones dusted with freckles. The curve of his chin as he bit his lip, as if thinking of going out into that storm, was soft, and something inside Morgan shifted.
A drop of melted snow glinted on an eyelash as the young man turned to Morgan once more.
“Seriously,” Morgan said, shaking himself. “How did you get here? Did someone drop you off?”
