“So far,” Morgan said. “We could do it again if this works out. Why did Mabel have to stay overnight?”
“Sleep apnea test,” Jack said. “She said she’d been putting it off long enough.”
“We could take her if she needs to go back,” Morgan said. “You’d like to drive her, right?”
“Well,” Jack said with a laugh as he reached out to open the door to the feed and grain so Mister Rocket could race inside, and just about pull Morgan behind him. “I asked her if she wanted me to take her, but she doesn’t like Aunt Oralee’s truck. Says it’s not very comfortable, and that she prefers Young Tommy to take her in his SUV.”
“I see,” Morgan said.
Once they were inside and the door closed behind them, Jack busied himself with Mister Rocket’s leash, and Morgan hung up their outdoor things. Which gave them a good five minutes for kisses shared in the chilly landing, while Mister Rocket looked on, primly seated at their feet, looking up at them with dark, expectant eyes.
“He says it’s time for lunch,” Jack translated, his arms around Morgan’s waist.
“So you speak dog now,” Morgan scoffed as he leaned close to press soft kisses to Jack’s mouth. His cheeks. And lastly, his cold nose.
“Near enough,” Jack said, laughing out loud. “Look at him! He’s just about wasting away.”
“Just as long as you don’t,” Morgan said, his voice soft and low and close, circling around Jack like a warm blanket. “So we can stay like this forever.”
“Yes, boss,” Jack said, smiling into the kiss Morgan gave him.
There were a thousand and one things that needed doing, orders that needed to be made, accounting that needed to be done, two more cracked windows that needed plywood nailed over them, in addition to the three that Jack had already worked on.
They needed groceries, and to make an appointment with a doctor in Billings to check on how Morgan’s knee was healing. Mister Rocket needed food, and he was acting like promises had been made to him about ball throwing and fetching.
A world of responsibility swirled around them, but inside of it, on that landing, there was just the two of them, their arms around each other's waists, warmth growing between them. Kisses to be shared, and soft whispers of love and devotion.
“C’mon,” Jack said, with a swift kiss and a pull of his arms around Morgan’s waist. “Can't let you stand around getting cold in this landing. I’ll make you a fire. Make you something to eat. Sound good?”
“Yeah.” Morgan rubbed his cheek against Jack’s.
“What’ll you have?” Jack asked, leaning into the touch, the warmth of Morgan’s breath against his skin.
“Anything you make is good,” Morgan said. “Anything, anything, anything.”
“You got it.” Jack smiled and pulled back a bit and saw his joy reflected in Morgan’s eyes. “Fried egg sandwiches it is. Now, get up those stairs. Mister Rocket needs his paws wiped free of snow, or we’ll be hearing about it from Mabel.”
“And fried potatoes,” Morgan said as he grabbed the railing. He looked back at Jack. “Please?”
“Yes, certainly.”
Jack whistled to Mister Rocket and followed Morgan up the stairs, step by step. Morgan didn’t need his cane for this anymore, which was such an improvement, Jack felt rather proud of Morgan. And of Mister Rocket who, instead of racing ahead, took the stairs at Morgan’s slow pace, as though he realized exactly how fast Morgan could and could not go.
Putting his hand on the rail as he walked right behind Morgan, Jack looked at the way his ring glittered in the low light and smiled because this was good, a good life. All of it was good. Maybe being left behind by accident had turned out to be the best luck of his life.
epilogue - morgan
The following morning, after Mabel had come to pick up Mister Rocket and all,allof his things, the paper scanner, at last, arrived. As had, oddly, several crates of nails and screws and bolts in dozens of little plastic packets packed in half-crumpled, grease-stained cardboard boxes.
Which meant that while Morgan started scanning the stacks and stacks of elderly but might-be-useful-and-or-important-one-day papers, Jack could currently be heard in the store ripping open boxes and packets, and hand-sorting the nails and screws and bolts into their appropriate yellow bins.
Just another day at the feed and grain, with both of them doing their best to keep up with the ragged-edged and just about nonexistent paper trail that Aunt Oralee had left behind, because no matter how hard Morgan searched and organized, no matter how many folders he flipped through, he could find no record of that particular order.
Screws, bolts, and nails? Yes, sure. Useful. Ordered without leaving behind so much as a note? Okay. Par for the course. But why so many?
She must have had a reason. She must have kept spreadsheets in her head to keep track of it all and, whileMorgan could admire that skill, it was better to write everything down in an orderly fashion so other people, like himself, could make sense of it.
Also, the algorithm on his phone had seen that he’d been researching industrial windows, so when he glanced at it, his text message window was full of ads for windows.
