Chapter 15 #2
“That was Mabel,” he said with a sigh. “She reminded me, once again, about her special orders. Of course, now that the sun is out and the roads mostly plowed, she wants her birdseed, her special dog food, and salt and grit for her sidewalk.” He grunted as he ran his hand through his hair.
“She probably wants someone to shovel her walk for her, too.”
“I’ll go,” Nimble said. He drew his hands out of the sudsy water and wiped them on his jeans. “Not a problem.”
Morgan sighed again. “She’s not going to stop calling, and if I ignore her, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Honestly, I’ll go.” Nimble had heard so much about Mabel, it would be fun to see her in real life. “What’s her dog’s name?”
“Mister Rocket,” Morgan said, enunciating each word. “You finish the dishes while I get dressed. Then I can show you where Mabel’s order is, and we’ll unearth the truck and see if it will start.”
Smiling the whole while, Nimble did the dishes, and when Morgan came back, they went downstairs.
“Take my coat, at least,” Morgan said. “And my gloves and scarf. Here are the keys. There must be a scraper in the truck, but you’ll need to clear some of the snow with your hands.”
Nimble laced up his boots and inhaled traces of cologne as he put on Morgan’s gloves and scarf, though he left Morgan’s coat where it was. He took the keys from the hook by the front door and marched through the store to the yard and into the crystal-clear day.
He pawed away as much snow as he could, getting it up his sleeves despite his best efforts. Then he cleaned off the windshield using the scraper he found under the bench seat before getting into the ice-cold cabin and trying the engine.
With a crank of the old-fashioned key and a few pumps on the gas pedal, it started, grumbling slightly, so he let it sit and warm up and waved at Morgan, who was looking out one of the windows. After a few minutes, he drove around to the front, where Morgan was waiting just outside the doors.
Leaving the truck running, Nimble elbowed Morgan out of the way before he hurt himself carrying anything.
He brought out the four ten-pound bags of special mix birdseed, the twenty-pound bag of special kibble for smaller dogs, and the two ten-pound buckets of salt-and-grit mix, and loaded them into the truck bed, tucking them in amidst the snow.
Morgan waved him back, and Nimble trotted over to where Morgan was letting all the warm air out of the store.
“This is where she lives.” Morgan held up his phone, where the map app displayed an address and a little red dot in the middle of a street grid. “You go down Buford Street. Turn right on Fourth and left at Wagner. Do you want to take the phone with you?”
“I’m good. Need anything while I’m out?” Nimble asked, buoyed up by the idea of driving. He puffed out smoke rings in the open doorway while Morgan dug into his wallet and handed him a wad of twenties.
“Make the deliveries to Mabel, then fill up the tank all the way.” He smiled as he put his wallet back into his pocket. “And maybe get some ice cream at the market? Milk? Bread? I checked, and we’re due for another blast come nightfall.”
“Can do.”
Giving Morgan a thumbs-up with a hand that felt overly warm in the glove, Nimble headed back to the truck and hopped into the cab, which was a little bit warmer now. Then he pulled out of the lot and onto the cleared strip in the center of the roadway.
As he maneuvered through town, a few other trucks and Jeeps were out, but he was mostly on his own as he drove down the two-lane highway.
He turned right on Fourth and left on Wagner, per the directions.
It was a small town, so it didn’t take him long before he was pulling up in front of a little gray house.
Standing on the front step, bundled up in a thick coat, scarf, and boots as though for a trek across the Arctic, was an older woman, white hair poofing around the edges of her knit cap.
She held a Jack Russell terrier in her arms, and the dog looked at Nimble with dark eyes as he parked on the street and came around the side of the truck to survey the snow-covered yard and walkway.
The top cement step was cleared, but nothing else was.
“Are you Nimble, young man?” the woman—Mabel—asked, looking him up and down. “Such a strange name. Aren’t you freezing?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Mr. Malone just called and said you were on your way,” she said, snappy and quick. “Can you bring in my orders? Mister Rocket likes his special kibble, and I don’t want to run out. He’s a good dog and deserves the best.”
Nimble turned and reached into the back of the truck for the twenty-pound bag and hauled it onto his shoulder, pretending he did this all the time.
He made his way across the snowy yard, having no idea where the walk was.
When he got to the bottom of the steps, he looked up and saw the concern in Mabel’s eyes.
That was understandable. He was a strong young man and a stranger to her.
A well of protectiveness rose inside him. He mounted the steps slowly and set the bag at her feet.
“I could bring it in,” he said. “Or leave it here. Whatever you prefer.”
He waited, trying not to loom over her, and she looked at him. All the while, Mister Rocket assessed him with those dark, glittery eyes. The dog’s coat was glossy and clean, the collar new, fitting easily around his neck. The dog was well-cared for. Loved.
“That’s a pretty dog,” he said. “Can I pet him? Some dogs don’t like strangers.”
“You go ahead, young man,” Mabel said. A small bit of warmth came into her expression. “Mister Rocket will let you know what he thinks of you right quick.”
Taking off one of the borrowed gloves, Nimble let the dog sniff him, and then, when that was done, he reached to gently stroke behind Mister Rocket’s ears and along his neck.
Mister Rocket leaned into the petting and huffed a sneeze, then struggled to get down. Mabel set him on his feet but kept him close with a hand on his collar.
“He wants to have you throw a ball for him, I expect,” she said. “But it’s way too cold.” She addressed herself to the dog. “It’s zero degrees, Mister Rocket, and too cold for those pretty paws of yours.”
She opened the front door and, with a sigh, motioned for Nimble to come in.
“Can you bring that into the kitchen without tracking in too much snow?” she asked. “I just swept and mopped.”
Nimble carefully stamped his feet on the doormat before taking the bag of dog food into her small but sparkling-clean kitchen, then trudged back through the snow for the birdseed and salt-and-grit mixture.
Each time he came in, Mister Rocket was waiting at the door and trotted close at his heels as he moved through the house, keeping an eye on him. Mabel fussed in her kitchen, opening the oven to check on something inside.
Nimble’s stomach growled at the smell.
“Want me to shovel your steps and the walk?” he asked. “I can.”
“I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble, young man.” Mabel wiped her hands on her white apron.
“Morgan is paying me,” he said. “Sent me on errands and asked me to look after you, especially.”
“He did?” she asked, her eyebrows rising. “I didn’t think he cared for me, all haughty and cold. And he doesn’t much like Mister Rocket, I can tell you that.”
“He’s all right,” Nimble said, smiling. Morgan didn’t like much about the town of Hysham, especially the people who lived there, but he was just being grumpy. Hysham was great, and so was the smell of whatever Mabel was baking. “I’ll go take care of your walk, okay?”
“Thank you, young man,” Mabel said. “That’ll make it look nice, and safer for Mister Rocket to do his business, too. But don’t put any grit down. It’s only going to snow again. When you’re finished, you come back inside, and I’ll make you some hot chocolate, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nimble grinned as he pulled on Morgan’s gloves once more. “Yes, ma’am.”