Lovin' a Good Ol' Boy Page 4

  Anne saw the motel lights in the distance, and her heart gave a little lurch. She wasn't ready for this night to end. Tomorrow they'd still be just a couple of Harriman employees, but with one major difference—he'd be labor and she'd be management. They'd be separated by a battle line that was chasm deep and as long . . . well, as long as it needed to be. And she just wasn't ready to start fighting with him. Not yet. Not after their past few hours together.

  In a way, she wished she hadn't gone out to dinner with him. Their upcoming dispute over the closing of the factory would be so much easier if she could have gone on thinking of him as a none-too-bright country yokel. Knowing him as a person, as someone real and very human, was going to make it a thousand times harder.

  "Annie?" he said, as he drove across the parking lot past the office toward her room at the rear of the building.

  "Hmm?" Annie, she thought. No one had ever called her that before.

  "About tomorrow night. . . . There's a union meetin' scheduled. We thought it might be better if we aired all our complaints out in the open, all at one time. Fewer rumors are passed around that way," he said, faltering as if he, too, were beginning to realize that the evening they'd shared was simply a lull before the storm and that everything between them would be different the next day. "I think I ought to warn you that the workers . . . well, folks are feelin' pretty desperate. They're likely to get nasty. All they really want, though, is for someone to listen to them."

  Already she could feel him crossing back over the invisible line that separated them as far as if they were standing on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon.

  "I’ll listen, Buck, but it won't make any difference," she told him honestly. "Harriman wants this factory closed down."

  "That's what we really need here, Annie. An open mind." He cast her a disapproving glance that told her he'd been hoping she'd have a better attitude. She didn't like disappointing him, but he knew the facts as well as she did.

  The truck came to a stop several feet in front of the door to her room. He took it out of gear but didn't turn the engine off.

  "I'm sorry, Buck. I really am. But I have a job to do, and I have every intention of doing it."

  He turned toward her on the seat, the overhead lamps that flooded the parking lot revealed his thoughtful expression. His eyes were dark and solemn. "Your job stinks, Annie."

  "I agree," she said. She found no joy in putting thousands of people out of work.

  Silently they acknowledged that their short-lived friendship had come to an end, that the truce was over. When next they met, they'd be enemies. "Look, Annie, I—"

  She held up her hand to stop whatever it was he was going to say. She felt that it was important to say what she had to say first. "Whatever happens in the next few days, Buck, I want you to know that I wish you well. I wish"

  "I know," he said. “Me, too.”

  Anne watched as he moved slowly toward her. She swallowed hard several times, trying to suck air into lungs that were tight and tense. Her heart fluttered in a panic of anxiety and anticipation.

  "Maybe . . . maybe we shouldn't do . . . this," she said, breathless and wanting him to kiss her more than anything.

  "Maybe we should," he said, his lips mere millimeters from hers, his breath warm against her face. "We might not get another chance."

  "Well, yes, but—"

  He silenced her by pressing his lips to hers. He drew back and scanned her face. He must have been able to see that the kiss hadn't been enough to satisfy her curiosity, that she wanted him to do it again, and that she needed him to really kiss her this time. Because suddenly he took her face in his hands and placed his mouth over hers.

  Urgently, his tongue swept across her lips requesting entrance. It teased the soft inner tissue of her lips, skipped across her teeth, then darted inside. With the skill of a great hunter, he drew her out into the open, by coaxing, enticing. He let her grow confident and bold within her surroundings, reveling in the pleasures and intoxicating sensations he offered her. Then, when her joy was peaking, he moved in for the kill, sapping her strength, drugging her senseless, drawing out her life's breath until she was too weak to beg for mercy.

  They parted, panting and tense. Needing more. The passion in his eyes overwhelmed her. She could lose herself inside this man, and the world would never see her again, she thought, struggling to squelch the emotions. "Buck. I—"

  "I know," he said, cutting her off. If curiosity killed cats, then kissing someone you shouldn't be kissing with the same fascination was just as deadly. "Come on. I'll walk you to the door."

  Reluctantly, she got out of the truck and walked through a hazy cloud of exhaust fumes to meet him at her door. She slipped the key into the lock but didn't open the door. "Thank you for the nice evening," she said. "And thank you for all you did this afternoon."

  "You're welcome."

  "And I'm sorry . . . about before."

  "Hush now." He reached out, gently cupping her face with his hands and turning his whisper into a light tender kiss that made her whole body tingle. They were slow to part and even after they had, he continued to stroke her cheek with the pad of his thumb, as if her face were the most incredible thing he'd ever seen.

  "I guess ... I’ll see you tomorrow night then," she said, placing the mill firmly between them again.

  Buck just nodded. She could tell by his expression that he wasn't looking forward to the workers' meeting any more than she was.

  "Well, good night then," she said, turning to the door. She felt his work-roughened hands, hands that had been so amazingly gentle moments before, slip away from her face.

  "Bye, Annie," she heard him say. She stepped inside her room and closed the door. She stood in the darkness, her heart heavy and pounding, her breath coming in short gasps, until she heard him drive away.

  Three

  Over a thousand pairs of eyes watched as Anne arrived at Webster Textiles the next morning. Everyone seemed to know who she was and why she was there.

  She shouldn't have looked at the faces of the workers as she drove through the huge parking lot on her way to the main office. They were angry and resentful. The few remarks she heard when she got out of her car were bitter and snide. If the people were trying to make her feel like the villain in this drama, they were succeeding.

  She climbed the metal stairs to the office door and looked out over the lot below. Even though most of the vehicles were pickup trucks, she picked out Buck's with an uncanny certainty. The man himself, of course, was who she was looking for, but he was nowhere to be seen. She would have liked to have seen a friendly face that morning. At least she was hoping it would still be friendly.

  Anne introduced herself to Drake Edwards, the mill superintendent, who in turn introduced her to his secretary. Edwards was of medium height with a large abdomen and a friendly smile. He looked to be very near retirement age, which explained how he could afford to be nicer to her than the people she'd encountered in the parking lot. She spent part of the morning familiarizing herself with the office and financial records. Drake Edwards's secretary, Lily, an older woman who was quite obviously an asset to management, was of great assistance. She explained the billing and crediting of materials, salaries, and a thousand other details that had kept the mill running smoothly for almost a hundred years.

  There were pictures on the wall of the original mill when the looms had been wooden and far more complicated to operate than the huge mechanical looms that had replaced them. There were several pictures of new ones, too, the day they had arrived all bright and shiny. It made Anne a little sick to think that very soon the safety awards and the company picnic pictures would fade on the walls, meaning nothing to anyone once the mill closed.

  Then Drake Edwards escorted her over to the mill where an unexpected tour of the factory had been arranged for her. She wasn't exactly treated like a welcome dignitary. There were no cheers or smiling faces or friendly waves. On the contrary, the workers either ignored
her and went on with their work, or they scowled at her and muttered things that were covered by the din of the machinery.

  It wasn't long before Drake introduced her to a man by the name of Buck LaSalle, a mill supervisor who shook her hand as if they'd never met before, and then winked and smiled at her.

  She was glad that he wasn't going to shun her, too. She knew they couldn't be friends, not like they had been the previous night, but at least he was going to be cordial. Anne's smile must have shown all the relief she was feeling.

  "Ooo. Kinda chilly in here since you walked in," he said with a droll expression as they walked away from Edwards, who had turned her over to Buck for the tour. "You noticed that, did you? And here it was such a fine day, I didn't think I'd be needing my coat."

  "They been givin' you a rough time of it?" He sounded concerned, and it touched Anne.

  "Not unexpectedly. I'd probably feel the same way if I were in their shoes."

  Buck looked down at her with the strangest expression on his face. It was both gentle and calculating. His smile showed his pleasure at her words, and his eyes searched her face with something that looked very much like a mixture of hope and pride.

  He started the tour in a very businesslike fashion. Thankfully, he made no sexual remarks or innuendoes on the sly. He did, however, seem to be going to a lot of trouble to make sure she saw everything and that she understood how things operated. He reminded her of a real estate agent trying to sell a fixer-upper, even going so far as to point out what small and large improvements could be made with little effort.

  She only half-listened to his speech. In her mind, she wasn't being discourteous. As a matter of fact, it was damned big of her to listen at all. He was pitching pipe dreams at her, and she was letting him. The truth was, there were to be no more improvements or repairs made on the factory. There was no point in discussing the mill's future, because it didn't have one.

  The only reason Anne didn't stop him and tell him this flat out was purely personal. She liked listening to the soft drawl of his voice, and since the mill was a very noisy place, it had the added benefit, of forcing a physical closeness between them, so he could be heard.

  The way he looked down into her face when he spoke, his eyes bright and his face animated, was very titillating. The marginal space between them grew heavy with the smell of her wintergreen breath mints, whatever kind of soap he'd used in his shower, and a muskiness that was a mingling of their unique male and female scents.

  She had flashes of his strong, calloused hands entwined with her soft, pale fingers. She was acutely aware that his chest and shoulders were wide, hard, and powerful, while hers were smaller, softer, and basically functional. She even considered the fact that his legs were longer and stronger than her own. But if they were supine . . . well, then it wouldn't make any difference, would it?

  "Did you have a question?" he asked, a note of interest lowering his voice, disturbing the other notions about the innate differences between men and women that were bouncing about in Anne's head. "You're lookin' a little lost."

  "No. No. You're painting a very clear picture for me. Please go on." Anne smirked as he stepped in front of her to lead her through a narrow passage between two industrial looms, and her gaze dropped to his trim waist and his really, really nice tush. She shook her head. Half the rear ends in New York were male, and she estimated that she'd probably seen just about every variation possible. But to her, Buck's was a winner; it left all others in the dust.

  The mill was set up in four huge warehouselike structures, open and connected at the sides. The first was filled with gigantic looms that wove huge spools of nylon or cotton-blend threads into fabric. This was not Anne's first visit to a textile mill. She knew about the warp and filling, or weft, and stood to watch the interlacing for several minutes. It never failed to amaze her.

  Buck lead her through the next stage, which was a series of huge vats that contained several thousand gallons of aniline dye and mordant to color and fix the cloth. This was also where the Webster mill specialty took place. This particular factory produced a variety of synthetic materials that were flame retardant. Some were still in the experimental stages and, hopefully, would someday be used in draperies, upholstery, and other materials to replace those now in homes and businesses that easily burst into flame when exposed to the heat of a fire.

  The printshop was Anne's favorite. She didn't think she'd ever tire of watching the big rollers put prints on a solid-color cloth. But then again she didn't have to stand there and watch it all the time, did she? As frustrating as her own job was, she was sure she wouldn't want to trade it for the tedium of factory work.

  The pressing, folding, and bolting of the fabric took place in the last chamber. And it was there that Anne was approached by a woman who felt compelled to overcome her anger and resentment to speak her fears.

  The woman was thin and blond and younger than she, but Anne knew intuitively that she was older than she looked. Anne could see the pain and hardships the woman had endured in her life in the depths of her eyes and by the calluses on her hands.

  As the young woman approached her, Anne could almost feel the terror, courage, and strength it took for her to do so.

  "I can't come to the meetin' tonight cuz I ain't got no one to watch over my kids if I did," she said, when Buck suggested she save her complaint till then, so that everyone could benefit from the answer. "And I need to know what will happen to my middle boy if the mill closes down. He's hard sick and needs medicine. Will the company still pay?"

  Anne stepped out from under Buck's protective shadow and addressed the woman as straightforwardly as she could. "What's the matter with your little boy, Ms.—" "My name is Mrs. Dillard Evans. I'm Liddy," she said. "My Teddy has diabetes. If he don't go to his doctor and take his medicine . . . " She choked on her words as her eyes welled with tears. "I come close to losin' him twice already, ma'am."

  "Can the state help?"

  "Yes, ma'am. But they don't pay as much, and there's a waitin' period once the insurance stops. And I do have two other boys to feed, ma'am."

  "Have you and your husband tried to find other jobs? The company has opened as many positions as possible in some of the other mills."

  "It's just me, ma'am. And I don't see how I can afford to move. We live pretty thin as it is," the woman broke in, not offensively, but simply to stop the whole relocation pitch which she'd probably heard before.

  Anne was silent for a moment as a germ of an idea began to form in her mind. "The insurance will pay your son's medical expenses for two or three months after the mill closes, Mrs. Evans. After that, you'll have to make other arrangements. But . . . well, try not to worry about that right now. I'd like to look into something else that might help. Right now, I think your best bet is to concentrate on finding a new job."

  She promised the woman she'd get back to her before the end of the week if her idea panned out, and she and Buck walked away.

  There wasn't much of the facility left to see. Anne wasn't in the mood to look anyway. She was finding it very hard to convince herself that the town of Webster wasn't her responsibility.

  "Thanks for the tour, Buck," she said rather absently as he led her down off the loading dock and back into the May sunshine. "You'll be at the meeting tonight, I suppose."

  He nodded, his expression grave.

  A long uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. Nothing was going to change for them. The mill was too important to them both, for different reasons.

  "I’ll see you there, then."

  Again Buck nodded. Anne started to walk back to the office.

  "Annie?" She turned to look at him. His expression hadn't altered; if anything, it was even more serious. He reached out and, taking her by the shoulders, drew her closer to him. She felt his fingers gently brush against her cheek as he played with a strand of her dark hair, the look in his eyes softening. He placed a tender, heart-twisting kiss on her lips before murmuring, "
Look after yourself, Annie." And he left her.

  If she didn't look after herself, who would, she wanted to know, as the earth vibrated under her feet from the kiss she'd just received. The only reason she'd come to Webster was to close the mill, and whatever happened after that wasn't any of her concern, right? Walking between cars on her way through the parking lot, she wasn't so sure. If it was her job to close the mill, then didn't that make at least part of what happened to the jobless people of Webster her responsibility?"

  If she were one of the guys from her office, would she still feel rotten about putting all those people out of work? In all fairness, she had to admit that she probably would feel just as awful. That left her wondering what it took to do the job.

  Maybe Calvin was right. Maybe this was tearing her apart simply because she was a woman. Maybe there was something to that androgen theory. Maybe men felt just as badly but had that little something extra that they relied on to get the job done.

  She growled and shuddered trying to dispel every lamenting feeling and weak thought she was having. Buck LaSalle was getting to her. Come to think of it, that's probably why she'd gotten the unrequested grand tour. He knew she wasn't made of stone, and he was playing on her sympathies. He was exposing her to the people whose lives she was destroying by shutting down the mill. He was making her look into their faces and see their anguish.

  He wasn't playing fair, and the more she thought about it, the angrier she got—but not at Buck. Pages of her memory flipped back to a time when she had felt that the odds were so stacked against her that she, too, had found it necessary to bend the rules of fair play to get what she wanted.

  ~*~

  "Anne. Honey. Why are you doing this to yourself?" she heard her father say years ago. "Do you know what time it is?"

  "No," she said, weeping silently as she bent over the engine of her very first car, her pride and joy, her tears rolling off the grease that covered the distributor. Looking back, she realized she'd spent most of her sixteenth year either in tears or in ecstasy about something or other.