“Good.”
Inside, the house smelled of wood smoke and beef stew, worn leather and old paper. Military photographs lined the entry wall—a younger Frank in fatigues, a group shot, something official in a black frame that she’d look closer at later. A bookshelf stuffed with volumes on military history, government surveillance, assorted almanacs, and survivalist guides. Beneath their feet, a braided rug worn through at the center from decades of thesame traffic on the same patch of floor. A coat rack mounted on one side of the door held quilted flannels and jackets of various weights and thicknesses. A gun rack, fully stocked, on the other.
“Hungry?” Frank asked, moving toward the kitchen.
“A little.” The coffee she’d had, delicious as it was, was eating a hole in her empty stomach. Eating seemed like a nice ice breaker.
“Donna left soup.”
“Donna?”
“Comes a few days a week. Cooks, does some cleaning,” he said evenly.
Morgan considered this. “She sounds useful.”
“She is.” Frank ladled stew from the big cast-iron pot into three bowls, one of which she gladly accepted.
He set one bowl on the floor for the dog, then took a seat at the table, indicating that she should do the same. Lifting a spoon to his mouth, he looked at her in that direct way he had. Not warm, not cold. Just… Frank.
“You look tired,” he said.
“I'm fine.”
“I know you're fine.” He set down his spoon and picked up a piece of bread, dipping it into the soup. “You also look tired.”
“It was a long drive.” Morgan wrapped both hands around the ceramic bowl and waited for him to ask what prompted the sudden urge to visit.
“I'm not going to ask,” Frank said simply, as if reading her mind.
Her eyes snapped up.
“You’re my granddaughter,” he continued. Another dunk, another bite. “You are always welcome here. I figure you'll tell me what I need to know when I need to know it.”
Morgan felt something unclench and slowly exhaled.
“Okay,” she said.
The spare roomwas small and clean, with a window looking out over the back of the property and the tree line beyond it. There was a handmade quilt on the bed, a reading lamp on the nightstand, and one framed photograph of a lake with mountains in the background.
Morgan set her bag on the chair and stood at the window.
The trees were full and awash with color. Ash, oak, maple, with the occasional white birch scattered here and there. They stood close together and then opened into a clearing about forty yards back, where the golden autumn light made everything look like a photograph.
Her phone buzzed. She looked at the screen and saw that it was her mother.
She let it go to voicemail, turned the phone off, and looked back out at the clearing. A sudden image of black hair and dancing blue eyes made her blink and shake her head.
She wasnotgoing to think about the man at the coffee shop. There was nothing to think about. It had been a chance encounter, nothing more.
She was definitelynotthinking about the way he'd looked at her, or the way his smile had been slightly crooked, lifting higher on one side than the other.
Outside, the tree line held its shape against the fading light. Belly full, mind whirring, Morgan lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed without unpacking and looked at the ceiling. Whatever else was true, she was tired, physically and mentally.
Everything else could wait until morning.
2
WEARING SOMEONE’S COFFEE