Chapter 33
jack
Waking up in Morgan’s arms had been sublime, and for the first time in a long while, Jack felt entirely at ease. As though the world was good and he had a place in it. At Morgan’s side.
Yes, Morgan got up off the futon as though his body was a weight too heavy for him to carry. Jack let him get as far as he could on his own, which was good for him, before helping Morgan into a seat at the kitchen table and handing him the cane.
Instead of sending him on his way, Morgan tugged at Jack’s T-shirt and pulled him closer, looking up at Jack as though Jack was his whole world. Which made Jack feel ten feet tall and covered with hair.
“Can I have a kiss?” Morgan asked, like he couldn’t have just taken it. As though Jack wouldn’t have let him.
“Sure,” Jack said, and the quick, soft kiss they shared was as sweet as anything.
Jack straightened and was about to begin making breakfast when they heard a pounding at the door downstairs.
Morgan stood up, fingers clenched on the handle of his cane. With a good hot breakfast inside him, he’d be a great deal steadier on his feet, Jack knew. Right now, he wasn’t ready for stairs.
“I’ll go,” Jack said.
When he reached the ground floor, he could see someone standing on the other side of the double doors. The sun was bright, streaming from the side at an angle, gold light slicing through blue sky.
Gingerly, Jack unlocked the door. “Help you?” He could hear the thump of Morgan’s cane as he came down the stairs, slow on each step. “Look, we’re closed.”
“I’ve come to pick up my special order.”
The man was tall and broad-shouldered in his fake-fur-trimmed hooded parka, much like the one Morgan had bought for Jack.
This man’s parka was a deep, dark, bottom-of-the-ocean blue, and as he pushed the hood away from his face, Jack took a step back.
If Morgan was grumpy, this man had a glower to freeze fire.
He seemed nobody that Jack wanted to mess with.
“Special order?” Jack asked. “Don’t know anything about that.”
“Can we help you?” came Morgan’s voice from the landing. He stepped out, wearing his bathrobe and sneakers, clenching his cane but walking steadily toward them. “I heard something about a special order?”
“Yes, thank you.” In the relative warmth of the shop, the man unzipped his parka and stomped the snow from his boots. “I ordered two months ago from Oralee—sorry to hear about her passing—and I need those tools.”
“Thank you.” Morgan came closer, then stopped, resting both hands on his cane. “I apologize for the delay. I’ve only now sorted through most of her papers and back orders, and I had intended to contact—Never mind, sir. What’s your name, and what was your order?”
“Bramwell,” he said. “Wolfe Bramwell. I ordered leatherworking supplies. A new lace cutter. A packet of needles, sack and triangle and so on. Some punch tools. Thick cotton thread. Figured I’d take advantage of a few hours of good weather and come by to pick it up.”
Morgan nodded. “I believe we have that for you, Mr. Bramwell. Jack, could you go and get it from the storeroom? It’s a medium-sized box, but it’s heavy.”
“Sure.”
Jack raced off and poked around in the storeroom until he found the box with Wolfe Bramwell on the label, sitting on the floor near the back. He grunted as he lifted it and brought it out to where the two men were waiting. He placed the box on the counter and clapped the dust from his hands.
Mr. Bramwell took a pocketknife from his back pocket and sliced the tape on the box. He checked to make sure of the contents, then nodded.
“Looks like it’s all there,” he said. “Where should I sign?”
Morgan gestured to the office, then paused. “It’s my knee,” he said, as if to excuse his weakness. “Jack, could you get the clipboard that’s on the desk?”
Again, Jack hurried to help, returning with a clipboard that held a small stack of bills of lading. Morgan flipped through the papers, brought one to the top, and handed the clipboard to Mr. Bramwell, who signed it and handed it back.
It was the most business the store had seen since Jack’s arrival.
“Everything will be online soon, I hope.” Morgan gently slapped the clipboard against his thigh. “I’m planning to get an ePad and set up automatic delivery notices and reminders. Aunt Oralee was just a bit—”
“Old-fashioned,” Mr. Bramwell said with a small smile. “Speaking of which, how are Neville, Ambrose, and Maurice doing without their usual coffee klatch?”
Morgan shook his head, looking like he wanted to go off on a tirade about it, so Jack jumped in.
“Oh, we’ve got a new machine, freshly ground coffee from the Bean There, and donuts from the market.” He gestured, like he was presenting Mr. Bramwell with the finest the small town of Hysham had to offer. “They all came by and enjoyed themselves the other day, before the storm.”
“We’ll probably keep doing it.” Morgan shot Jack a look. “Though maybe not as often as my aunt did.”
“She’d like that.” Mr. Bramwell’s tone was warm. “Those old boys gave her someone to cluck over since Toby’s passing two years back. She almost faded away without him, and those three, well, they gave her something to think about other than this place falling down around her ears.”
“I didn’t know that,” Morgan said in a strange, tight voice, blinking hard as he glanced around the store. It was still dusty, looking like one of those broken-down old buildings Jack had seen so many of from the top of a coal car.
He swallowed hard at the thought of Morgan’s aunt struggling all on her own for two years.
“The town expects the feed and grain to keep going,” Morgan said.
“We certainly hope it will,” Mr. Bramwell said.
“There used to be a Grange hall along these tracks,” he added.
“Next to the silos. Not on county land. Your land. But it burned down, and there went the dances and meetings. Potlucks after the annual turkey trot. Cake-baking contests and pie suppers, just because. All up in smoke.”
“My lawyer never told me about that,” Morgan said.
“Happened before Toby died,” Mr. Bramwell said. “I was away at the time,” he added. “But I hear the flames from that old building reached the heavens.”
“Oh,” Morgan said. He sounded lost in thought, and Jack decided to step in.
“Is that your snowmobile?” he asked, looking through the glass of the door.
“Sure is,” Mr. Bramwell said. “And I need to get going.”
“Do you need help loading up?” Morgan asked. He thumped his cane as he stopped closer to the door, peering out.
“No, thanks,” Mr. Bramwell said, bending to pick up the box. “I’ve got it.”
Jack opened the door and stood to the side for Mr. Bramwell to go through, the cold air sweeping around him and into the store.
He watched as Mr. Bramwell steadily made his way to the two-seater snowmobile, a giant, sleek beast, and placed the box on the back seat before strapping it down with bungee cords.
Then he straddled the machine, gunned it gently to life, and slid out of the parking lot, headed west along Elliot Street.
Snow glittered in his wake, billowing up in the still air.
And now Jack was alone with Morgan once more, on this cold, bright Montana morning, and there was nowhere else he’d rather be.