Lovin' a Good Ol' Boy Read online

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I got Buck's permission, ma'am. He said I was ta knock ya out if you put up a fuss." Then Bryce added a heartfelt plea, "Please don't."

  Anne just stood and stared at him with her mouth open before the full impact of his words hit her.

  "Well, of all the. . . " she sputtered, frustrated, angry, and indignant. How dare he? If she were a man, she'd punch Bryce's lights out, march right back into the hall, and then punch out Buck's. As it was, she let her would-be protector drag her across the parking lot and put her into her car. "I’ll follow ya back to the motel," he said, and then assuming that she would comply with Buck's wishes just as he had, he left her to find his own vehicle.

  It did enter her mind to disobey. However, the idea of being knocked out notwithstanding, she didn't relish the thought of facing that angry mob again either. What if things did get out of control? What if the police were called and didn't get there in time to help her? What if they wouldn't come at all? What if the incident got into the newspapers?

  Prudently she waited for Bryce's headlights to appear in her rearview mirror, and then she drove back to her motel room.

  "Are you going back to help Buck now?" she asked through the open window of Bryce's small pickup truck. The night was warmer than the night before, almost balmy. Spring didn't seem to be able to make up its mind, she thought absently, recalling the coat she'd left behind at the union hall.

  "No, ma'am. I'm to stay here with you."

  "But what if something happens? What if someone tries to hurt him? I don't want him fighting my fights for me. And I certainly don't want him getting hurt on my account."

  "He won't get hurt, ma'am."

  "Don't call me ma'am. We're practically the same age," she said testily, hating the idea that Buck was doing the job she'd been sent there to do. She'd botched the meeting somehow, and now he was cleaning up her mess.

  "Yes, ma— Okay," he said, following her into her room.

  Four

  Bryce sat in a chair opposite the television set and flicked the channels back and forth until he found a rerun of Three's Company. He half-watched the program and half-watched Anne as she anxiously paced back and forth between the bed and the window.

  Her first assumption about Bryce had been correct. He had even less to say than his older brother and had a much less commanding personality. Anne felt instantly at ease with him and didn't feel obligated to make small talk while they waited to hear from Buck.

  It was this sense of easy uneasiness that was disturbed when Bryce startled her by saying, "Jimmy's gonna charge ya extra if ya wear out his rug there." She looked at him, and he smiled his understanding. "You don't need to worry about him. Buck can take care of himself," he added. Quiet though he was, he didn't lack intelligence or a sharp sense of perception.

  "I can't help it. What if something's happened? It would be all my fault. It was my responsibility."

  "Well, ya didn't give us much of a chance to tell ya about our plan," he admitted, agreeing that it was her fault that the meeting had gone askew. "Buck thinks we can do it." "Buck's wrong. There's a lot more to it than just buying the mill. You need sales reps and marketing people, all sorts of professionals to get the fabric to market, not to mention setting up a network of thread suppliers, coal distributors—and Lord only knows what else to stay alive in this business. Who in Webster is trained to do those things?"

  He shrugged carelessly. "Buck’ll think of some way to work all that out."

  Bryce's faith in Buck was carrying brotherly devotion a bit too far in Anne's estimation. There had been times in her life when she had turned to her own brother Charles for answers to complicated questions. But he was a priest after all and was expected to have a few more of the answers than everyone else. And heaven knew, Buck was no priest.

  "Well, for your sake, I hope so." There's still Harriman to convince, she thought as she watched out the window for Buck. She couldn't help the little smirk of humor that came to her lips as she envisioned the man of few words, Buck LaSalle, trying to talk fast enough to get Harriman to sell the mill. Turning back to Bryce, she said, "You seem to think Buck can manage just about anything."

  Again he shrugged. "He always has. Can't see somethin' like that changin' now."

  "How long have you been at the mill, Bryce?"

  "Eight years."

  His eight to Buck's seventeen meant that he'd started at an older age than his brother. Anne was curious. "You got to finish school then."

  "Had to. Buck wouldn't let me work, 'cept for odd jobs, till after I finished high school."

  "Even though he started when he was fifteen."

  "He worked the swing shift back then. Went to school durin' the day. They let him come a few minutes late all the time cuz they all knew he was savin' to go off to college."

  "What happened? Why didn't he go?" Anne recalled the tiny breath of bitterness she thought she'd heard when she and Buck had discussed college the night before. Now she knew she hadn't been mistaken. "They go off to college and never come back," he'd said. Had he wanted to get away from Webster and never come back, only to lose that dream somehow?

  "He did go. For a while anyway. Him and Momma had this scheme, see, where they'd use his savin's and the money we got from the company when daddy died, and Buck'd go to college. Then when it was my turn, he'd pay my way."

  "What happened?"

  "Momma died. Buck came home to take care of me. I was eleven."

  "How sad. So you both missed out." Her heart ached for Buck. It wasn't hard for her to picture the proud, arrogant young man full of hopes and visions. Nor was it hard for her to see him with his dreams suddenly dashed to the ground.

  "Actually, I never took to books the way Buck did. I'm happy at the mill." His reference to the mill brought back her concern for Buck's present well-being. Hours had passed since Bryce had taken her away. What was keeping him?

  "I hope nothing's happened to him," she said peering through the window once again. She let the curtain fall back into place and turned to Bryce. “That—that Mr. Shanks wouldn't do anything to hurt him, would he?"

  "Nah. Everybody knows Buck's a good ol' boy. They'd never hurt him." He seemed very sure of this.

  "Are you a good ol' boy also, Bryce?" she asked impulsively, her cheeks beginning to burn the moment the last word was out of her mouth. It was a natural question for someone who couldn't tell the difference, but it somehow felt very rude to ask.

  "Yes, ma'am. I am," he said proudly, and then recalling that he'd called her ma'am again, he apologized.

  "Bryce? Would you mind answering a very stupid question for me?"

  "No, ma— No. I wouldn't mind."

  "Could you explain to me the difference between a redneck and a good ol' boy? I know they're not the same as a hillbilly, but I'm not sure what the difference between the two are."

  He laughed. "You Yankees. Always gotta have a nice little niche for everythin'."

  "But you call yourselves and each other rednecks and good ol' boys. I'd just like to know the difference so I don't insult anyone."

  Bryce was still grinning as he began to answer. "If ya got to pick and choose your friends, you'd want to pick a good ol' boy. He don't care what color your skin is or what church ya go to or who ya vote for, so long as you're a good ol' boy too. And if you were in trouble, say your car was to break down. Well, you'd want a good ol' boy to help ya, cuz he'd probably feed ya the lunch his wife packed for him while ya sat and watched him fix your car. Now a redneck, if he stopped at all, would probably charge ya for his efforts."

  A seed of suspicion began to grow in Anne's mind. "Did Buck tell you how we met?"

  He nodded, but his expression told her that he thought it a very strange question. "Said he gave you a tour of the mill today, why?" he asked guilelessly.

  She lifted one shoulder. "I was just wondering."

  Buck hadn't told his brother about their meeting the day before or the rotten way in whi
ch she'd treated him or about their dinner and the kisses they'd shared. And yet Bryce didn't seem to think it the least bit strange that his brother had asked him to protect someone who was a total stranger. She was beginning to like the good ol' boy concept and wished there were a few more of them where she came from. They weren't as smooth and polished as some of the northern men she knew, but then again, how many real diamonds were found that way? Frankly, she had to admit that she'd rather have a raw, uncut natural gem than one that was shaped and buffed to look like a thousand others—and was possibly synthetic to boot.

  After waiting in companionable silence for twenty more minutes, they heard a truck pull up outside the door.

  Buck looked both worried and relieved as he burst into the room without knocking. "Get your stuff together," he ordered her without preamble.

  "Why?"

  "I don't want you stayin' here alone. I'm takin’ you home."

  "But I'm not finished here. I have a job to do, Buck, and I'm not going home until I’ve done it. And that's that." She had been going to tell him how happy she was to see him in one piece but decided against it. She didn't like it when he acted so heavy-handedly with her. This was the second time that night that he'd said jump and had expected everyone within hearing to ask how high. If she didn't nip this in the bud now, it would be even harder to break him of the habit later.

  "Not New York. I'm takin' you home to my house."

  "Oh, no you are not," she said, sitting down on the end of the bed and crossing her legs stubbornly.

  He put his hands on his hips and glowered at her for several long minutes. She sensed that he was very angry with her and that it didn't have a whole lot to do with her refusal to leave with him. When he spoke, his voice was softer than usual, his tone was controlled, and his brother was very nervous. "Okay. You stay here if you want to. Just don't say I didn't try to help you when Roy Shanks and his buddies come callin' tonight."

  "Come callin'?"

  "Oh, I don't think they'll hurt you," he said with very little reassurance. "But according to what they were sayin' down at the Steel Wheel, they seem to think that if they scare you a little bit, you'll go runnin' home to New York with your tail between your legs."

  "Wha— what do you suppose they'll do?" she asked.

  "Well, hell, Annie, how the hell should I know? All I do know is that I'm not plannin' to stick around here to find out. I’ll be outside for five minutes in case you change your mind." And with that he slammed out of the room.

  Anne and Bryce sat staring at each other. "Mr. Shanks," she said, "he isn't a good ol' boy, is he?"

  Bryce shook his head very slightly. "You want help gettin' your stuff together?"

  "No. I think I can do it in less than four minutes."

  All Anne knew for sure was that they'd been traveling southeast and up hill for the past thirty minutes. Buck hadn't said a word since they'd left the motel. Bryce had opened the door of the truck for her, and she'd struggled to get in.

  "You gotta pick her up and throw her in," he'd snapped at his brother. Bryce had done his best to be mannerly and had given her a watch-your-step look as he'd closed the door for her.

  Since then, Buck had sat next to her in the cab with his arm out the window in a permanent right-turn signal and had stared straight ahead at the road. The night air was growing cooler, and she was getting cold with the window open, but she hadn't dared mention it yet. She was still trying to figure out why he was so angry with her.

  It wasn't because of Roy Shanks. She had a feeling that Mr. Shanks lived to stir up trouble and that it wouldn't have mattered what she'd done at the meeting, he'd have found something to get everyone upset about.

  That left the employee-ownership thing. If Buck was mad about that, he should have left her at the motel. He knew from the beginning that they were to be on opposite sides of the mill issue. Being furious with her wasn't going to change that. Nothing could.

  She looked back through the rear window to see that Bryce was still following them at a distance. Maybe a neutral subject would break the ice.

  "Bryce is very nice. I like him," she said.

  Buck's expression was rocklike as he glanced in her direction and then in the rearview mirror at his brother's headlights. He nodded but he didn't say anything. Anne got the distinct impression that she would be getting none of Buck's toe-curling, gut-gripping grins in the near future. But that didn't stop her.

  "Why didn't you tell him that we'd met before today?"

  "None of his business."

  Okay.

  "What's the Steel Wheel?" she asked. "A bar? Is that where you were all that time?"

  He just nodded.

  She couldn't stand it anymore. "Are you mad because I didn't agree with your employee-ownership idea?" "Annie, I don't think we should talk about that right now."

  "Why not?"

  "Cuz I'm madder than hell, and I might wring your neck."

  "Why? Because I think it's impossible?"

  "Because you wouldn't give it a chance. You wouldn't even listen to what we had to say tonight."

  Anne sighed and fell silent. Bryce had mentioned the same thing. Maybe she hadn't been fair. But how much of a bad plan did she have to listen to before knowing it wouldn't work? Joel Harriman would never sell Webster Textiles to anyone. They would be in direct competition with Harriman Industries, and Joel wouldn't allow that. If she took an employee-ownership proposal to Calvin Schwab, he'd laugh in her face, and then he'd fire her. Besides, what did a bunch of textile workers know about running anything? They'd go under in less than a year. She was saving them a lot of time, trouble, and pain by refusing to let them get their hopes up.

  They'd turned off the paved road. She could hear gravel crunching as the truck's tires rolled over it. There were trees everywhere, but all she could see were their trunks and an occasional low-hanging limb in the headlights.

  "I heard all I needed to to know it was a dumb idea. And if you think that rescuing me from Roy Shanks and his buddies is going to change my mind, you're sadly mistaken. I'm here to shut the mill down, not sell it. You knew how things would be between us yesterday," she said defensively.

  "Well, I sure as hell didn't think they'd be like this."

  "Me either," she said, feeling a little sick inside. All the caution she'd tried to show in dealing with him was overridden by her deep desire to please him. She wanted him to approve of her, wanted him to like her. She wasn't sure why, she just did. But there didn't seem to be much of a chance of that happening now.

  At long last a house came into view, but even then it was hard to tell what it looked like when it wasn't covered in darkness. Her general impression was that it was an old house. It was bigger than she'd expected, but then she was beginning to realize that nothing in Kentucky was as she had expected it to be.

  Buck parked at the bottom of a low hill in front of the house. It was then that something else occurred to her and sent her spirits spiraling upward once again.

  "Okay now," she said, turning in her seat to face him, her voice loud in the silence that came when he turned off the motor. "Let me see if I've got this straight. You're super annoyed at me, but you want to protect me from Roy Shanks, but you're not going to talk to me, because you're mad enough to kill me yourself. Is that right?"

  Buck's hands froze on the steering wheel. He turned his head and looked at her but was thoughtfully quiet. When he spoke, she didn't have to stretch her imagination to hear the barest trace of humor in his voice. "That's right."

  "Good. I just wanted to clarify that before you stopped talking to me again," she said, feeling a little more sure of herself. "Now I have only one more question."

  There was a suspicious silence, and then he asked, "What is it?"

  "Should I say thank you?"

  In the dark shadows of the cab she couldn't make out his facial expression, but she saw him turn his head and look away from her for a moment, and then she saw his profile. She could feel her h
eart pulsating heavily in her chest as she waited anxiously to see what he was going to do. The noises of insects in the woods around them seemed to rise in stereophonic volume in the quiet.

  Suddenly Buck threw up his hands and let loose a throaty growl of defeat. He turned to her. "Yes. You should say thank you. But not to me. Thank your lucky stars that I'm having such a hard time staying mad at you."

  "I do, I do," she said in mock earnest, although she wasn't pretending in her heart. "I don't mind being with quiet people, but getting the silent treatment drives me nuts."

  "I figured that," he said, his voice soft and sly. She could see the lightness of his teeth when he smiled, and her mind developed pictures of that cheeky grin he used all too frequently for the good of her libido. "Course, if you'd rather, we can always get down on the ground and wrestle it out."

  All at once she wasn't cold anymore. She felt flushed and hot and in need of some air. Still facing him, she grappled with the door handle, saying, "I don't think you really want to do that. I have three older brothers, remember. I know every dirty trick in the book."

  The door came open and she scrambled out, but not before she heard him say, "Oh, yeah? And who do you think taught all them Yankee boys how to fight dirty in the first place, huh?" He was still bragging when he came around the end of the truck and reached into the bed for her suitcases. "I bet I could still teach you a trick or two that didn't get passed on."

  A trick or two or ten, she thought, noticing that even in the darkness his body seemed to cast a huge shadow over hers. She could feel his closeness and knew that he was near enough to touch, if she dared. Her fingers itched to do just that. They were actually tingling. She rubbed them together while she spoke. "Just show me where you want me to sleep."

  Buck laughed out loud. "I’ll give you a two-second chance to rephrase that, Annie."

  She used most of her time trying to recall what she'd said, and then rushed to say, "Okay. Show me a place where I can get some sleep then."