His smile disappeared. “I know. But the bastard keeps things running. If I could find somebody cheaper, believe me, I would.”

“If you could find someone to do my job cheaper, I guess you would,” she said, her voice filled with pretend hurt.

He kissed her, then sat back and looked her in the eyes. She thought he had feelings for her that were genuine and intense. Sometimes in their relationship she felt that she was a prize Bucky Tyler was pursuing, and she understood that most women would value this. But his arm at her back was furry with reddish hair. Through his aftershave, she could smell a trace of phosphoric acid. “Darlin’, I’d never replace you,” he sang, like a line from a country song.

“Bucky, don’t talk like that. I’m just a friend. Not a girlfriend. Women who are eight months pregnant are not girlfriends.”

“But you could be. And I know I’ll like that kid, when it comes.” He looked down at a hand-tooled boot. “And it’ll need a daddy.”

“This again.”

“It could be where we’re goin’, darlin’.”

She looked into the street at his new car, pursed her lips. He would be such a dreadful husband with all his east Texas backwoods views of women and how they should have big hair, look good, and shut up. “I can’t get married because of Paul. It’s against my religion,” she said at last.

Bucky got up and turned to her, running a forefinger along her brows and down her full cheek. “Now, we can’t have you running against your religion,” he said.

*   *   *

On a Friday, Paul stood in a firing bay, his hand above his head, clutching a loop of cable. He was looking at his watch. When the second hand covered the twelve, he pulled the cable, listening to the quitting whistle cough up condensate and build into a hoarse, rising chord, gradually clarifying into a unison of three notes flooding out of the factory toward town. After thirty seconds he let go and saw Gatlin clear the overhang, his empty lunch box banging his thigh. Paul heard a noise behind him and turned to see Bucky Tyler come through the back door of the boiler house wearing a sport coat and shined boots.

“Hey, coon-ass, can you write?”

“What you want, Bucky?”

“I’m thinking of having this third boiler rebuilt. You know, so we can bring it on-line when one of the others is getting worked on.” He pointed to the idle boiler sitting in the shadows, against the far wall. “I need a write-up to send out for some ballpark figures.”

“You want a written evaluation for repairs, call a boiler shop. They’ll send out their own inspector.”

Bucky shook his head. “Nah. I want you to do an inspection so I’ll know if they’re making stuff up, trying to rip me off.”