“Huh?” It wasn’t very articulate, but it was all Jack could manage.
“I’ve been treating you—” Morgan stopped to scrub at his mouth with the palm of his hand. “I’ve had you running and fetching and carrying, acting like you’re my personal nursemaid. And you wanted that peach cobbler. Youwantedit. But instead of saying we could scrape out the truck and go get it?—”
“We couldn’t have,” Jack said. “The sheriff said to stay off the roads.”
“True,” Morgan said. “But we could have discussed that together, instead of me dismissing what you wanted because my only goal was to make you earn that thousand bucks and see you on your way.”
“If you want to pay me,” Jack said carefully, hearing the iciness in his voice, “we can go to the bank right now. Though I’m not sure why you didn’t pick up the money when we were just there.”
“I’m not sure, either.” Morgan’s voice was flat.
Jack got up, his fists balled at his sides, his mouth opening to defend himself. He didn’t deserve the way Morgan kept blowing hot and cold, but Jack wasn’t standing on any ground that belonged to him. The town was Morgan’s, and the feed and grain was, too.
Jack had no place here, so he had to go soon. He knew that. But if Morgan kept on with that sad face and those I-can’t-make-up-my-mind statements, Jack was going to lose his shit and stomp off and hitch a ride or hop a train that very minute, regardless of the weather or the train’s schedule.
Morgan stood up. “Another day,” he said. “I can’t deal with her today.”
And with that, he was back to business.
Jack could only blink at him. Morgan appeared to be completely unaware of how Jack felt. But then he always had been.
It was only about Morgan. About what was going on with him. About getting the feed and grain ready to sell so that he could move on from all of this. From Jack. From his memories of Jack.
They got a pound of fragrant, freshly roasted coffee to go. Morgan carried the bag and led the way outside, then let Jack catch up and help him over the low drifts.
“She was so pissed,” Morgan said, almost as an aside. Like he was talking to himself.
“Not at me,” Jack said, waiting until Morgan was in the truck before closing the door behind him. Then he went to the driver’s side and got in. After starting the engine, he blew on his hands and inhaled the scent of ground coffee, floating in the air like a promise.
“No, she wasn’t mad at you.” Morgan spoke almost too quietly to be heard as Jack pulled out into the street, his hands steady on the wheel when the tires sank into frozen ruts. “She was pissed atme. Never even gave me a chance to explain.”
That was how Morgan was going to remember him: A problem to be solved. A reason Mabel had yelled at him. Well, that was Morgan’s choice. Jack would soon be gone, continuing his journey how it had begun. Jumping on a freight train headed to parts unknown, to find a place where he could stay.
It was getting near dinnertime.It was easier to focus on getting out another round of chicken pot pies and not the factthat Morgan wasn’t talking to him. He’d been busy in the office since they got back, ruffling papers. Tapping keys.
Jack had brewed some coffee using the fresh bag but retreated back to the kitchen after placing a mug on the desk in front of Morgan.
He could just walk. His knife and his jacket and his boots were all in the parlor.
Sure, he could wait by the tracks for the train to come, but it’d be hours before that happened. He didn’t want to take the coat or the boots or anything Morgan had bought him, anyway. It would remind him of Hysham. Of Mabel and Mister Rocket. Of Morgan.
He would leave without any of that stuff, wear his old boots, walk out into the cold twilight, and freeze to death before he got very far. Or maybe some kind person would pick him up and give him a lift to Billings, where he could steal a thicker coat, and then he’d make his way to the coast from there.
But he wanted to wait. Not for the money Morgan had promised him, but so he could talk to Morgan.
He’d walked out on his old life, left his family behind, without an explanation. His fury and his hurt had driven him, or maybe guided him, to the train tracks, the old station up those concrete stairs. That seemed so long ago. He felt different now, and making a silent exit wasn’t right.
He would say goodbye to Morgan before going. He wouldn’t accept the money, because it was bullshit. The things he’d done for Morgan, he’d done with his heart.
Maybe at the beginning, the offer of a thousand dollars had seemed fair—generous, even, especially when a place to sleep and three meals a day had been thrown into the bargain.
That was then.
That was before he’d gotten to know Morgan. Before they’d worked together on plans to clean up the feed and grain so itcould be sold. Before Mister Rocket and Mabel. Before that trip to Billings, when they’d been rescued just in time, saved by a little white-haired lady and a snowplow and a taciturn sheriff.
The town of Hysham had sunk its hooks into him, and the only time they hurt was now.
He needed to clarify with Morgan what he was going to do, and then he needed to tuck his heart away and head out. If Morgan insisted on giving him a ride to Billings in the morning, fine. But Jack wouldn’t take the money. Or the coat, or even the boots.
