Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb - Lexi George Page 0,91
further sign of the witch, thank goodness. Sassy turned down Peterson Mill Road, a wide dirt avenue bracketed by scrub pines, various varieties of oaks, sweet gum, and maple saplings, and infested with wild privet hedge. She pulled over as a huge truck carrying telephone poles lumbered down the road. The thing bore down on them like some wheeled behemoth.
Taryn straightened from her slump. “By the vessel, what is that?”
“That’s a log truck. It’s carrying telephone poles, I think.”
“I should like to drive one of those. I should like that very much.”
The truck boomed past, kicking up a cloud of gravel, sand, red dust, and a strong chemical smell that made Sassy cough and sputter. When the fumes and grit had settled, they continued down the road. They heard the mill long before they saw it, a brangle of whines, bangs, rumbles, hums, and thumps. They drove through the front gates, and Sassy slammed on the brakes, the odors of raw and treated wood, sawdust, and machinery fumes assaulting her. Her temples pounded. Bunny rabbits, her headache was back and she was queasy.
Trey barked sharply.
“He says you need to move. You are blocking the entrance.” Taryn glanced at Sassy when she didn’t budge. “Are you well? You look wan.”
Sassy took her foot off the brake. “I’m fine. I’m excited, I guess.”
She parked the car next to a neat brick building marked Office. To the right and across the dusty yard was a cluster of sheds. Some of the sheds held drying lumber. A tremendous clanging and strident whining came from within the largest structure, and conveyor belts clanked and groaned.
Beyond the sheds was more lumber, bundles and bundles of yellow wood stacked like graham crackers in the sun. Behind the planed wood was a mountain of cut timber some forty or fifty feet high, trees hewn at their prime and arranged in piles against a backdrop of verdant Alabama forest. Red dirt trails ran into the woods like bleeding veins.
Bile rose in Sassy’s throat. Goodness, she was letting her imagination run away with her.
She focused her attention on the yard where forklifts scurried to and fro, mechanical ants carrying stacks of lumber in their strong mandibles. On the far side of the bustling compound, a yellow Caterpillar with a long arm and a grappling hook loaded logs onto the bed of a truck. Another Cat moved logs onto a conveyor. A man wearing a hard hat and an air of authority stood in the midst of this activity discussing something with a burly woman in coveralls. The woman saw them. She stared at the Maserati a moment and jerked her head in their direction. The man turned. He gave Sassy and Taryn a hard look and started toward them.
Sassy got out of the convertible and checked the backseat. The Dalmatian was gone. Probably off running the woods. She smoothed the seat belt creases in her dress. This was it, her first face-to-face with a mill employee. She would not throw up on her new shoes. She would not throw up on the man’s shoes.
She would not throw up. Period.
Taryn exited from the passenger side and leaned one slim hip against the sports car. Arms crossed, the huntress watched the fellow in the hard hat approach, an elegant predator in form-fitting jeans and sparkalicious boots. The man didn’t know it, but he was a gazelle and Taryn was a lioness.
Sassy guessed the man was somewhere in his forties. He had thick shoulders and a slight paunch, and was dressed in a pinstriped cotton shirt, jeans, and steel-toed work boots. He walked elbows out with one shoulder in the lead, John Wayne style. This was a man accustomed to being in charge.
“I’m Leroy Houston.” The man removed his hard hat and wiped his dark brow. His tightly curled hair was cut close to his head. The horseshoe mustache around his mouth was immaculate. “You ladies lost?”
“No.” Taryn moved not a muscle. “Are you?”
Houston’s mouth thinned. “I’m the plant manager. What do you want?”
Sassy smiled and stepped into the breach. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Houston.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sassy Peterson and this is Taryn . . . er . . . Kirvahni. We’ve come to tour the mill.”
Houston’s gaze flicked to Sassy’s outstretched hand. He didn’t take it.
His shoulders hunched in aggression. “This your buyer?”
“What?” Sassy was taken by surprise. “No. I’m not—”
“Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Miss Got Rocks,” Houston said. “Word’s out. You’re selling the mill.