Chapter 22 #2
“Never you mind, young man,” she chided, though there was laughter in her eyes.
“You’re lucky he likes you, on account of it means you’ll warm up all the faster.
Now, let me call Young Tommy to give you a ride home, and I’ll wrap up this pan to take with you.
” She stroked Jack’s hair and carded it away from his face.
“You finish that tea first. No sense wasting good tea.”
Obediently Jack drank his tea and held Mister Rocket, ignoring the bite of small, well-manicured claws in his thighs, then announced he was okay to walk home.
Though Mabel looked like she wanted to forbid him leaving, he put Mister Rocket on the floor, slipped on Morgan’s thick coat, and stepped back out into the cold, which smacked him in the face before he got off Mabel’s porch.
Stoutly, he made it all of a block before his hands were frozen to the metal pan.
“Get in, buddy,” Young Tommy had called through the passenger-side window when the sheriff’s SUV pulled up beside him a few minutes later. “Miss Mabel is none too pleased that you’re out here like this.”
Along the street, at least two front doors opened, heads popping out. There might have been more people than that looking at who Young Tommy was picking up, but Jack didn’t have it in him to check or to refuse Young Tommy’s offer.
It wasn’t an offer, anyway. It was a command, directed by Mabel herself. Besides, Jack was freezing. He was the only one out walking, like some kind of ninny, as the afternoon grew late and the blue-white air turned even colder.
“Yes, sir,” he’d said, and Young Tommy drove him—not home; it wasn’t his home. But it was where Morgan was.
When they’d arrived, Morgan had been angry, his eyes sparking with it. But as Young Tommy had ushered Jack into the store, something changed in Morgan’s expression.
Morgan’s mouth had opened, words ready to pin Jack to the wall. For a silent, still second, it looked like Morgan was about to do just that. Then he’d looked Jack up and down and loaded all the blame onto himself.
I should have planned better, Morgan had said, followed by some excuse about wanting Mabel’s peach cobbler so much that he’d gone on and on about it. Which was why Jack had set out on his foolish errand.
That made three times, now, that Morgan had protected Jack from the sheriff. Which was nice, but Jack still didn’t know what to make of it. Except maybe that Morgan cared for him. Cared about him.
Which meant that, as they sat there, finishing their peach cobblers, scraping ice cream from their bowls, Jack getting up to pour them both a little more coffee, the typical domestic way they shared their meals had changed into something very sweet.
“Could you check the pot pies, Jack?” Morgan asked. “Or, no, I can.”
As if to prove he was, in fact, capable, he got up without his cane and headed for the stove. Halfway there, he stumbled, or his knee might have protested the quick movement, and he began to fall forward.
Shoving his bowl to the side, his spoon clattering, Jack was up in an instant. Moving between Morgan and the stove, he caught him and held him upright.
Morgan was bigger than him, and off-balance. His arms came around Jack, and Jack stood fast to steady him. Their bodies’ combined warmth felt good. The contact shot through Jack, satisfying and bright.
Jack took a step back into the oven door, which was warm but wouldn’t burn him. With Morgan in his arms, even for a short moment, he wouldn’t have cared how hot it was.
“Damn it,” Morgan said, closing his eyes tightly, as though to ward off a mortal wound. Then those eyes opened, bright blue and so close. All of him was close. Jack soaked it in.
“You’re all right,” Jack said gently. He shifted, waiting until Morgan was steady on his feet, and then he made himself let go.
“I’m not getting better,” Morgan said. He let go as well, but slowly, the leftover warmth from his fingers making Jack shiver. “My strength comes and goes, but overall, I am not getting better.”
Jack had all kinds of ideas about what Morgan should do to improve his strength, but Morgan was his own man and certainly wouldn’t want advice from some transient he was letting sleep under his roof and who had caused all kinds of trouble.
“I’m going to start those exercises,” Morgan said, and he did not take a step back.
“And take those pills regularly and make a note of when and how much.” He looked down at Jack as though he was trying to convince Jack as well as himself.
“It’s just leg lifts and such. Gentle stretches.
Walking. I can walk up and down the hallway.
Take a few laps around the store. For fuck’s sake, why have I not been doing that? ”
“Maybe you weren’t ready.”
Jack’s throat felt dry for some reason, but he couldn’t back up. Morgan wasn’t moving away, so what could Jack do about the fact that their thighs were just about touching, their hips, and that Morgan was so close, Jack could see the beads of sweat around Morgan’s temples?
He wasn’t going to throw himself at Morgan, no matter how tempted he might be, and he was gearing himself up to say something about it when he realized that Morgan was in pain. And perhaps needed care rather than Jack panting after him.
“Hey,” Jack said. “Why don’t you sit down.” He imagined how Mabel would manage the situation. “You got a notebook to write stuff down in?” When Morgan nodded, Jack said, “Good. Where is it? And where’s the PT info? By the time I get that, I bet those pies’ll be done.”
“There’s a notebook in the desk in the office. Top drawer, I think.” Morgan let Jack guide him back to his chair at the table, from which he looked up at Jack. “And the PT stuff is still in my suitcase.” He sighed, shoulders slumping.
Though reluctant to move away from Morgan, Jack made himself back off. He checked the pies, then went to the chilly office, flicking on the light to find a pen and a small notebook in the left top drawer.
Back upstairs, the kitchen was so much warmer, it was like a blessing. He laid the pen and notebook on the table, cleared the spoons and bowls to the sink, and raced off to the bedroom, also cold and dark, where he rummaged around in Morgan’s suitcase like he had every right to.
He found the exercises, several sheets of paper folded up in a side pocket. He brought them in and put them on the table in front of Morgan. What he did to them or with them was up to him. Jack could only do what he could do.
Checking the pies, he announced, “These look pretty good. We can eat and then watch something in the parlor?”
“Why not both at once?” Morgan asked as he flipped through the notebook to find a blank page. He paused and looked up at Jack. “I didn’t mean for you to turn into my nursemaid,” he said. “Maybe I should have stayed in Denver. Let this place rot rather than come up here and get stuck in the snow.”
Morgan seemed unable to express what he couldn’t keep track of. And he was hurting.
Jack didn’t want to add to that. Didn’t want to make it worse than it already was, but in the meantime, he wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing.
“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Write down the pills you just took, and the time. I’ll get some ice for your knee and move everything into the parlor.” He smiled. “Including you.”
“Yes, thank you.” Morgan took a breath and rolled his shoulders back. He reached for the fold of papers. “These them?”
“Yep,” Jack said. He pushed them closer to Morgan. “Just go slow. Start slow, anyway?”
“I’ll do that,” Morgan said.
Jack could tell the pain meds were kicking in, which was a good thing. Morgan seemed like the kind of guy who, when he said he was making a change, would follow through. Jack would make sure he got a good start and didn’t overdo.
Morgan would get better. Jack would earn his money, and then he’d head west to sun and sand, leaving Montana, and Morgan, far behind him.