As she threw back the covers, Tricks jumped up as bright eyed as ever, ready for her first trip outside. She dashed to the door and stood there with her tail wagging, looking expectantly from Bo to the doorknob, as if trying to show her how to open the door.
Normally Bo didn’t bother getting dressed, but now she did. She hit the bathroom herself, stopped to drag a brush through her hair and drink a glass of water. By the time she was dressed, Tricks was going back and forth between her and the door, letting her know this delay was unacceptable. Bo forcibly shoved her annoyance away. This was the way things would be for a while, she’d agreed to it, so she’d damn well be an adult about the situation. She wouldn’t blame Morgan Yancy for being careless; instead she would do her level best to take care of him and actually earn the money Axel was paying her.
She thought of his gray, exhausted face, and her conscience twinged. She’d let her massive dislike for Axel color her interactions with a man who was barely hanging on.
With that in mind, she’d have clipped a leash to Tricks’s collar if she’d had it with her, but the leash was downstairs. All she could do was do her best to keep Tricks from bounding up in his lap and generally making a nuisance of herself. Bracing for whatever Tricks might do, she opened the bedroom door and said, “Let’s go outside.”
No matter what, watching Tricks greet the morning always made Bo smile. Tricks never just walked. She pranced, she danced, she all but skipped. She was overjoyed with the prospect of going outside, of having her breakfast, at life in general. Bo also suspected Tricks got up every morning plotting a world takeover, because she never stopped trying to arrange everything to her liking.
The broad, industrial-type stairs were open to the floor level, and she could see that Morgan was still stretched out on the sofa, though the blanket that had covered him was now on the floor. Poor guy, as tall as he was, the sofa couldn’t be all that comfortable. Until he could make it up the stairs under his own power, though, the options were limited.
Tricks immediately started for him, of course, and Bo said again, “Let’s go outside,” and grabbed the tennis ball from the floor. Immediately distracted, Tricks began bouncing in anticipation. Bo detoured through the kitchen to hit the magic button on the K-cup coffeemaker and slide a cup into place, grateful that the cup would be full when she returned. After disarming the alarm, she opened the door, and Tricks shot through the opening.
The ground was white but it hadn’t been a heavy snowfall, probably no more than an inch. That was good because the sun was trying to break through the low gray clouds and the snow should melt quickly. For now, the day was cold but not icy. All in all, not bad. The year before, they’d been hit with a big snow in the middle of April, and that had been such a downer because it had seemed as if winter would never let go.
She had to throw the tennis ball for Tricks a few times before the dog settled down to do her business. Then Tricks ran around sniffing things, as if checking whether or not any strange creatures had invaded her territory during the night. She found a stick and romped in the snow with it, twisting and jumping and prancing. Finally Bo called her in with “Ready for breakfast?” Tricks was always ready for breakfast, or any other meal; she immediately came trotting over, a look of canine glee sparkling in her eyes. Bo retrieved the tennis ball from the yard—who, exactly, was the retriever here, and who was boss? She didn’t care. She and Tricks had their routine, and they were both happy with it.
As they entered the door, she smelled the delicious scent of coffee at the same time she noticed Morgan was now awake and sitting up. He looked marginally better than he had yesterday, despite the growth of beard darkening his jaw. At least he didn’t look as if he were about to die.
His gaze was blank and guarded as he looked up at her. Considering how welcoming—not!—she’d been the day before, Bo didn’t blame him. She hung her jacket on the hook beside the door and asked, “Are you a coffee drinker, or would you like something else?”
Relief flashed across his face and was gone before she was certain she’d read him correctly. “Coffee,” he said immediately.
“Cream or sugar?”
“No, just black.”
She really, really wanted that first cup of coffee, but she thought he probably wanted it more. She did take the time to slide another K-cup into the machine and another mug under the dispenser, and press the button before taking the steaming hot coffee to him. His blue eyes focused on the cup as if she were bringing him ambrosia. “Thanks,” he said, reaching out with both hands. He had big, rough-looking hands, scarred in places, bruised from needles and thin from the ordeal he’d been through, but she knew for a fact how strong they still were because she’d felt one clamped around her throat.
She watched his eyes close briefly as he took that first sip—she knew how that felt—and asked, “Didn’t they let you have coffee in the hospital?”
“Once I could eat, yeah, but this is the first cup today. I was afraid I’d have to settle for skim milk.” His voice was still thin and kind of scratchy, his eyes swollen from sleep, but she got a sense of increased energy from him. Not a lot, but anything was an improvement.
“I’ll pick you up some he-man milk today. My pantry is empty even for me,” she admitted. “I haven’t had time to do much food shopping lately.” Between her chief-of-police duties and the technical-writing projects, she’d been hustling, which was good for her bottom line but hell on her schedule. Going back into the kitchen, she got her own coffee and took a few blissful sips before setting it aside to dip some dog food into Tricks’s bowl, and put out fresh water for her. Tricks rushed over; she never had to be enticed to eat first thing in the morning; that routine was only for dinner, when she wasn’t as hungry.