“I’ll think about it,” Jesse thought he said.
The two men sat, staring at Muller, saying nothing. One of them said something briefly, then they got up and left Muller’s office.
“Good morning to you, Mr. Ruger,” Agnes said as they passed her desk.
“Morning,” Ruger replied, and then they were gone.
A man in a hard hat walked into the office from the direction of the factory.
“This is Jesse Barron, Harley,” Agnes said. “Jesse, this is Harley Waters.”
Jesse shook the man’s hand.
“Follow me,” Waters said. “I’ll show you around.”
“That would be fine,” Jesse replied.
“When can you start?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“That’s good; I can use you.”
Ruger, Jesse thought. That’s Coldwater’s other right-hand man, and Herman Muller didn’t seem too pleased to see him.
The machinery was noisy, and Jesse was given ear protectors, a kind of headset without electronics. Harley Waters started at the beginning of the chipboard production line and walked him through to the end, shouting comments over the noise, while Jesse nodded his understanding.
When they were finished, Waters walked him to the car park exit. “This is a good place to work,” he said, “because Herman Muller is a good man to work for. He built this business from nothing, designed a lot of the equipment himself, picked every man who works here. He must have liked you, or he wouldn’t have hired you, not even when he needs people bad, because of this new contract.”
“I liked him, too,” Jesse said.
“Good; I’ll see you in the morning,” Waters replied. “We work seven to five Monday through Thursday, and we take Friday off. It’s a good deal.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Jesse said. “See you tomorrow.”
He got into the pickup and drove back to town, wondering what this man, Ruger, was up to with Herman Muller. As he drove back into town, the sun broke through. On Main Street, Jesse stopped the truck, got out and looked up. Right behind the business district, a sheer mountain wall rose a good five hundred feet. It looked as if it might fall on the town.
Wow, Jesse said to himself. With the sky overcast, he had never known it was there.
Chapter 11
Jesse pulled up in front of the house and gave it a good look. A two-story Victorian with a beautiful lawn and flower beds, a wide front porch and gingerbread everywhere. It looked old but was in perfect condition. He got out of the pickup, walked up the front walk, climbed the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. He reckoned on a long wait, while Mrs. Weather by made it to the front door with her walker.
He had turned and was admiring the flowers when a low voice behind him said, “Good morning.” He turned to find a much younger woman than he had expected. Mrs. Weather by’s nurse, no doubt.
“Good morning,” he replied. “My name is Jesse Barron. May I speak with Mrs. Weather by?”
She rewarded him with a quizzical smile. “I’m Mrs. Weather by,” she said, opening the screen door. “Please come in.” She turned and walked toward the rear of the house, expecting him to follow.
Jesse followed. “Forgive me, I suppose I was expecting a nice little old lady — the widow Weatherby,” he said to her back.
“I am the widow Weatherby,” she said without turning, and there was amusement in her voice. She led him into a large kitchen and indicated a chair at the breakfast table. “I was just making some tea; would you like some?”
He sat down and looked at her again. She was nearly as tall as he, slim, in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with gray streaks in her light brown hair. She wore a simple cotton dress that emphasized her small waist and full breasts.
“Would you like some tea?” she repeated, and as if on cue, the kettle began to sing.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. My mind was wandering, I guess.”
“Milk?”
“Just lemon, if you have it.”
She poured the tea and set it before him with a wedge of lemon on the saucer. “Sugar’s there on the table,” she said as she poured herself a cup. She set down her tea and pulled up a chair.
Her nose was slim and straight, her large eyes wide apart and her mouth broad, revealing large teeth when she opened it. She sipped her tea tentatively and gazed at him in a direct manner.
“Pat Casey said you might have a room to rent,” he said, trying not to seem unsettled.
“Jesse, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“You look like a pretty tough guy, Jesse.”
“I was in an accident; I used to look a little more respectable.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and a hint of a blush ran up her cheeks. “It’s just that I’m particular about who comes into my house, even if Pat Casey did recommend him.”
“That’s understandable,” Jesse said. “I don’t blame you a bit.”
“I have a little girl, you see; she’s at school right now.”
“How old?”
“Six. She’s in first grade.”
Jesse looked away, a move that was becoming more natural as he perfected his performance. “I had three girls, once,” he said.
“Are you divorced?”
“Widowed. My wife and daughters were killed in the car wreck that made me look like this.”
Her face fell. “Oh, I am sorry. I can only imagine what it must be like to lose a child, let alone three.”
“Thank you; I’m living with it.”
“Was the accident your fault?”
“No, thank God. I don’t think I could have lived with that.”
Slowly, methodically, she extracted his story from him, leaving nothing unexamined. Jesse gave her what she wanted, a little at a time.
“Thank you for telling me all this,” she said finally.
“Not at all. But you’ve told me nothing about yourself.” He smiled. “I’m particular whose house I live in.”
She laughed. “All right, I’m a local girl, married in my late twenties, lost my husband in my early thirties, in an automobile accident.”
“I’m sorry. That’s your whole story?”
“Just about. I dote on my daughter, I help out at the local library, do some volunteer work.”
“No regular job?”
“My husband provided for us.”
“It’s a lovely house,” he said.
“Thank you. I have the time to work on it.” She set down her tea cup. “Come, I’ll show you the room.” She got up and led the way down the hall and up the stairs. “Carey’s room is straight ahead,” she said, when they had reached the top of the stairs. “And—”
“What did you say?” The name was an arrow through his heart.
“It’s my daughter’s room; Carey’s.”
“How do you spell the name?”
She spelled it.
“I used to know a little girl named Carrie,” he said, spelling it.
“Oh. Well, my room is to the right, and the spare room is to the left, here.” She led the way into a large, sunny bedroom, comfortably furnished with a double bed, a chest of drawers and a comfortable chair. “The bath’s over there.”
“It’s very nice,” he said.
“I’d be happy to have you here, if you want it,” she replied. “The rent is fifty dollars a week and another fifty with three meals a day. I cook well.”
“I’m sure you do,” Jesse replied. “I’ll take the room and the meals. Is a month in advance all right?” He counted out eight fifty-dollar bills.
“Thank you, yes, and you should open a bank account, Mr. Barron. That’s a lot of money to be carrying around.”