Chapter 19
jack
He’d just left Mabel’s, feeling pleased about helping her and meeting her sweet dog, thinking back on how Morgan had described her with such ire and irritation that he’d imagined she’d be some kind of witchy woman cursing at Jack and making hex signs to ward him off the second she saw him.
And that her dog would growl and be horrible.
Exactly the opposite was true, and he had been planning how he’d tease Morgan about it after he went to the market to buy Morgan the ice cream he’d mentioned more than once, when he’d gotten pulled over. Not for speeding, it turned out, but for being a stranger in town.
That had been one of their worst fears. All of them, Blue, Star, and himself, had talked about it, how they’d never thought of it before hopping on their first train. That coming into a small town where nobody knew you put you instantly on a radar called danger, with you in the bull’s-eye.
Even if they’d not meant any harm and only took what nobody would miss—a bottle of clean water here, a few candy bars there—it didn’t make any difference. The bulls in the rail yards, the cops roaming up and down the streets, the looks from the townspeople, all of it screamed: Not wanted here.
He’d been pretty sure the sheriff was going to arrest him and try to send him home.
He’d reached for his wallet to prove he was of age and could go anywhere he liked, only to discover he didn’t have it on him.
They looked like they wanted to search him for weapons when he got out of the truck to stand in the snowy street, breathing in ice-cold air way too fast, his lungs aching, face on fire.
“This truck belongs to Oralee Malone; were you aware, sir?”
“It’s not stolen,” Jack said. “Morgan loaned it to me so I could do errands, since there’s a break in the storm.”
“Morgan Malone?” the deputy asked skeptically.
“We saw you coming away from Mabel’s place,” the sheriff said, growing, if possible, even more stern. “If you’ve harmed one hair on her head, I swear to God and all that’s holy, you will be taken into custody and not see daylight for the rest of your life.”
Jack’s eyebrows had risen in alarm at the threat, and he couldn’t figure out what to say fast enough. His missing ID made things worse.
“Let’s take him to the feed and grain, sir, and check with Mr. Malone,” the young deputy said, a woman who looked fierce enough to handle herself. “I’ll drive Oralee’s truck back and follow you.”
“Yes, let’s do that,” the sheriff said, though his voice was so level, Jack couldn't read how he felt about it. The sheriff opened the rear door of the SUV and gave Jack a meaningful look. Jack knew arguing would only make things worse, so he got in and let the man shut the door on him.
The drive was short, silence filling the SUV as the sheriff drove through town.
Why they’d not arrested or ticketed him outright was a mystery. Perhaps it had to do with the smallness of the town and the fact that, as the sheriff had told Morgan when Jack had been hiding behind the counter, they looked after their own.
Jack was not one of their own, but Morgan was, and perhaps Morgan would put in a good word for Jack, at least enough to keep him from being hauled in for vagrancy. Even if after that Morgan might not want any more to do with Jack.
What happened upon their arrival at the feed and grain surprised him to his depths. Morgan had told a story, a play with one act where he and Jack were old friends, squabbling about where Jack had forgotten his wallet. Did you leave it near the washer? How’s that dog of hers? He’s my friend.
Morgan had been a natural, like he’d been practicing for years to smooth over just such an encounter.
Jack had jumped in as best he could. He’s a really sweet dog if you just give him a chance. And her kitchen is as clean as a whistle.
What had really struck him was Morgan’s angry protectiveness in the face of Jack’s near arrest. His insistence that Jack was his friend, the offer to escort him around town so everyone in Hysham would be aware of that fact.
That and his bit of surprise at finding out Jack’s real name.
And his quiet I’d like to, because he didn’t know anything about Jack but wanted to.
Jack wanted what Morgan wanted, only probably not in the way Morgan did. A guy like Morgan would not want a guy like Jack, no matter how protective he might be when Jack was in trouble.
The wind was howling, the sky darkening by the time they went upstairs to put away the groceries, the windowpanes rattling a bit and Morgan grumbling about the cost of replacing them, when there came a knock at the door.
“There’s someone downstairs,” Jack said as Morgan set out the fixings for spaghetti. Links of mild Italian sausage, a package of noodles, a jar of sauce, extra garlic, a dark green bottle of good olive oil.
“Oh, sure,” Morgan said. “I was hoping my order would arrive. Could you—?”
“Sure,” Jack said, hurrying down the stairs, because if someone was still making deliveries with the storm rising the way it was, they’d want to get going.
And indeed, a young man in brown stood outside, bundled up as he briskly hauled an enormous rolled-up parcel out of his truck and placed it on the cement next to the front doors.
“Do you need help with this?” the young man asked as Jack signed the electric pad.
“No, thanks.” Jack eyed the wind whistling the snow across the empty parking lot. The way the trees were bending. He reached into his pocket for one of the twenties Morgan had given him, hoping Morgan wouldn't mind. “Here you go. I hope this is your last delivery today.”
“Thanks! It is,” the young man said, taking the twenty with a smile. “We’re out of Billings, but when I called my boss, he said to just take the truck and go home. My mom’s waiting for me.”
With another smile and a wave, the young man jumped in his truck and gunned the engine out of the parking lot.
Which left Jack alone with the mysterious package, which was soft but heavy. With exaggerated grunts and lots of pauses, Jack managed to haul it up to the landing between the kitchen and the parlor.
“Where do you want this, and what the fuck is this thing?” Jack demanded.
Morgan came to the door, a wooden spoon in his hand. “It’s a futon,” he said, in a voice that implied anyone who couldn’t tell that was a fool.
“A futon?” Jack asked. “You already have a bed.”
“It’s for you.” Morgan turned away, a flush across the back of his neck as if Jack had just discovered him doing something he shouldn’t.
Jack followed him into the kitchen and cornered him by the stove. “I’m fine on the floor,” he said, looking at the package in the hall and then back at Morgan.
“I don’t like you sleeping on the floor,” Morgan said sternly as he chopped garlic and stirred the sausages sizzling in a deep pan on the stove.
“I mean to take you into Billings at some point to get you some clothes for winter and boots without holes in them, too, but so far, the weather isn’t cooperating. ”
“What would I do with all that in California?” Jack asked, though of course he could just leave everything behind when he went. If he went. “Besides, I’m not your charity case.”
He meant for that to come out full of indignation. But it didn’t. It came out more softly than he had intended.
“I know.” Morgan’s face was flushed as he concentrated on the sausages, adding a little olive oil and stirring them around like it was the most urgent thing he’d done all day.
“But you work for me now. You’re living under my roof, so you’re my responsibility.
Besides—” He paused and swallowed, his gaze flicking in Jack’s direction before he focused on the food once more.
“I don’t want folks in town thinking I’m an asshole, letting you walk around looking like yesterday’s orphan. ”
Jack wanted to laugh at that, but the softness running through his heart stopped him.
“You’re not an asshole,” he said clearly. “Pretending you hate everyone and everything isn’t working anymore. Not after today. Not after you rescued me—again—from the sheriff.”
Morgan grunted and reached past Jack for the salt shaker, a flush on his cheeks as he studiously ignored Jack, who was standing right there.
Jack didn’t move out of the way, so Morgan’s arm brushed across his belly, once and then again as Morgan drew back.
They both watched the stove as Morgan turned the sausages, nicely browned now, and put in the garlic, stirring it around before adding a bit of salt.
“They say to wait before salting,” he said. “But maybe that’s only mushrooms. Bradley was the one who cooked.”
“He did, huh.”
Bradley always came across as the one in the partnership who was an asshole, not Morgan. Then Jack was once again distracted by the fact that Morgan liked men. Jack was a man. Jack liked men. So—
Morgan turned down the burner and looked at Jack askance, as if Jack had been pestering him for ages.
“This is the one real dinner I know how to make,” he said. “So why don’t you go set up your futon and let me make it?”
“Yes, boss,” Jack teased as he went to drag the futon into the parlor.
He unrolled it and spread the quilt on top of it, along with one of the throw pillows from the couch, then stood back, well satisfied.
That is, until Morgan came to the doorway wearing an old white apron, that olive oil–coated wooden spoon in his hand.
“You need sheets,” he said, “along with a real pillow. They’re in the linen cabinet.”
Jack didn’t need sheets, but Morgan would keep insisting until he got his way.
And Jack didn’t mind, anyhow, so while the good smells kept growing like a wreath of garlic and oregano, Jack got a set of sheets and a pillow from the narrow cupboard in the bathroom and made up the futon, shoving it as close to the bookshelves as he could, to give Morgan room to walk to the couch if he wanted to.
The stacks of wood below the sill of the northern window and the futon made the room cozy, which was especially nice as the wind howled outside and the cold began to creep in even more than normal.
He debated asking Morgan if he should make up the fire now rather than later, and then he went ahead and built a small one to take the edge off and did his best to stay out of Morgan’s way while he made the one meal he knew how to cook—all while trying to pretend that none of it mattered.
But it was hard, so very hard.