Chapter 12
nimble
The blizzard began to wind down two days later, midmorning on Monday. The churning white air turned still, and the snowfall lessened to a thin white veil, almost an afterthought. The silence after days of howling wind was echoey and made Nimble want to pop his ears.
During the blizzard, as the wind raced and screamed and pushed snowbanks up to the front double doors of the store and windowsills in the office, he had gone about each day, amusing himself with an idle browse through the bookshelves in the parlor or poking around the store.
He’d kept quiet so he wouldn’t annoy Morgan, who was hard at work as though his life depended on it.
And he’d taken naps in front of the cast-iron stove. Many naps.
Now Nimble stood at the sink in the bright kitchen, gazing out the window at the gentle, almost apologetic flutter and flurry, white flakes drifting down slowly. He drank a glass of ice water, enjoying the pure, cool taste. The absolutely clean glass.
He thought of all those times he’d scooped his hand beneath a rusty faucet poking out of the ground on abandoned farmland, the farmhouse having collapsed long since into a pile of gray and green sticks.
Drinking water from his palm. Or the times he’d stolen bottles of water from a convenience store close to the tracks and had to run to avoid getting arrested.
Today, though, he could get more ice. Refill the glass. Drink all he wanted without tasting dirt. It was blissful. Also blissful was the lack of grime crawling all over him. The hot water supply. The fresh food in the fridge. Being inside with the storm outside.
He also thought about Morgan. Handsome, industrious, sad-eyed Morgan.
Morgan needed tending, which made Nimble feel useful. He needed his pills and a glass of water to wash them down with on the regular. And he needed his lunch and an afternoon snack brought to him, or at least Nimble had decided he did.
Each time Nimble came down with a tray of coffee and a bread product—today it had been toast with butter and jam, since the gingersnaps and the frozen donuts were all gone—Morgan acted as surprised as he had the first time. Amazed that someone would be nice to him, bring him food, check on him.
That part was easy because Morgan’s smile in that strong face, looking healthier now and not so pale, was like sunrise on a clear day.
Even better, Nimble enjoyed how, when he carried a few split logs, all pine-scented and sap-laced, into the office, Morgan would stop what he was doing.
He would whirl in his wooden office chair and reach for his cane like he meant to get up and stretch his legs. Only instead of stepping out of the office, he’d come over and just watch.
Nimble, crouched down, could feel Morgan standing behind him, feel those blue eyes focusing on the fire and how Nimble was building it. As if in preparation for when Nimble wasn’t there and he needed to feed the stove all on his own. Or maybe he watched Nimble because he enjoyed it.
Nimble thought maybe he did, so when he went down in the afternoon to tend the stove, he made a show of it, hunkered down, one knee bent, jeans pulled tight across his legs. Back curved, his T-shirt pulling up, maybe just a little bit.
Fire built, he shifted back on his heels to look up at Morgan, who stood there, both hands on his purple cane.
When Morgan saw Nimble watching him, he hastily jerked his gaze in a different direction, as if Nimble’s appearance were nothing to him. Or maybe that was all in Nimble’s own imagination, and Morgan truly was thinking about the stove.
“Could teach you,” Nimble said, standing up, close enough so Morgan had to take a step back. “Kindling and matches and all that.”
“No, I’m—” Morgan scratched behind his ear. “I think I’ve got it figured out.”
“Might be low on wood,” Nimble said, bending to make sure the little door to the pot-bellied stove was secure.
Of course it was; he’d already checked, but in checking again, he could stay by the warmth of the fire, and by Morgan’s side, just a little longer.
“I could take that truck out back and go get more.”
“We’re fine, I think,” Morgan said. “But thanks for offering.”
Drat. Whether Morgan didn’t think the truck would start, or he didn’t trust Nimble behind the wheel—or he simply thought they had enough wood—was anyone’s guess.
“The storm is dying down, anyway, so we won’t need so much wood,” Morgan said. “Look.”
He shifted his weight, went to the window, and opened the blinds. There, beyond the glass, the sky was covered with thin whiteness, as though they were inside an eggshell. There were patches of blue along the edges.
“We’ll be able to dig ourselves out,” he said. “Maybe even today.”
Nimble sighed inwardly. He didn’t actually want to be dug out. He wanted to stay inside the nice, warm cave of a feed and grain. Maybe forever.
“Cheeseburgers okay for dinner?” Nimble asked.
“Did I buy hamburger buns?” Morgan returned to his desk and sat down, brushing past Nimble, their shoulders touching like he’d meant to do that, only it wasn’t anything Nimble could count on.
“Oh, you practically bought out the whole store,” Nimble said, breezy and easy. He waved and went up the steep steps to bury himself in dinner preparations, even as he laughed at himself.
Who would have thought that cooking and doing laundry and the dishes, basically all the chores his mom had complained about, was anything he would have signed up for?
Certainly he wouldn't have been so domestic back home. His mom was in charge of the kitchen, and his dad was in charge of the store. And he couldn’t have while hopping the rails, either.
There was no regularly available hot water.
No fridge full of food. Only day-old burritos stolen from the dumpster behind an old taco joint.
Unappetizing. It had been fuel and nothing more.
Now, cooking was a pleasant task. He could make simple things, and he enjoyed it. It gave him something to do, and it was nice that Morgan depended on him, even if he was grumpy with his thanks. He was handsome, even when he frowned, which he did a lot.
Foolish, foolish Nimble, wanting what he could not have—that the cozy closeness they had built between them would linger beyond the storm. Morgan was close at hand and very handsome, so it was natural to ogle him. Anyone would do the same.
Dinner would be early, on account of he was already hungry.
He made the hamburger patties and got out some cheddar cheese, and then stood over the sink and looked out the window again.
The world was no longer only white. The wind had formed tracks across the glistening, sharply outlined dunes of snow, edged by blue skies, a stark contrast that made him blink.
That wind wasn’t as energetic as it had been before. Maybe it was playing itself out. He’d be on his way soon, then. Whenever Morgan gave the word. Nimble wouldn’t remind him, though. Nope, he’d keep his mouth shut, so he’d get to stay as long as he could.
Oddly, in a quirk of Montana weather he knew very little about, by the time the sun was going down and Nimble had shouted down to Morgan that dinner was ready, the world outside had grown still and the clouds had cleared.
A coldness was coming down along with the darkness, settling on top of the snow as the stars came out to glitter on the ice. Nimble thought he could hear the rumble of a large truck.
“They’re already plowing,” Morgan said as he thumped into the kitchen. “I heard something and looked out the front door. One giant snowplow just went past. There was a sign on the side that said Plowy McPlowface.” He laughed as he sat down. “I guess that’s its name.”
Nimble smiled as he served the plate of french fries, crisp from the oven, and the platter of cheeseburgers, four of them, buns toasted in the pan, cheese sliding off the patties. He pulled out mayo and mustard and ketchup and pickles and placed them on the table within Morgan’s easy reach.
“That’s a funny name.” Nimble shoved a fry, piping hot, into his mouth and smiled at Morgan as he chewed. Exaggerated, just to be amusing.
He watched the polite way Morgan ate, always using his napkin, never gulping loudly or chewing with his mouth open. A proper gentleman. A good guy.
Nimble would give a lot to see Morgan undone, in relaxation or pleasure. To cut his strings so he might slump and look at Nimble with soft eyes.
What was he thinking? Nimble shook himself and straightened up, focusing on his own meal and not on the very pleasant eyeful sitting kitty-corner from him.
“I could do with some ice cream,” Morgan said, setting half of his second cheeseburger back on his plate.
“You said something about that before,” Nimble said, grabbing the last little fry that had fallen off the platter and chomping his way through the perfect balance of salt and crisp.
“But there wasn’t any. Not in the bags or the freezer.
Sorry. I could go get you some in the morning.
They’ll have cleared the roads, after all. ”
“Well, I guess I can do without.” Morgan patted his belly, only to look up as he noticed Nimble watching him.
Nimble had been staring too hard, focused on Morgan’s hands, so he wasn’t prepared when Morgan said, “You know, you’ve not talked about your family much, but I know they must be missing you.”
They were not missing him. Nimble couldn’t imagine that they were, but his body went a little cold. “They’re not,” he said.
“Oh, they’re sure to be,” Morgan said. He wiped his mouth and crumpled his napkin, leaning forward like he wanted to throw himself into the conversation.
“Who—” He paused, rubbing his lips with his thumb, like he was thinking over the most delicate way to ask what he wanted to know.
“Tell me about your family. At home, I mean. And where is home?”
“Where is home?” Nimble echoed.