Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (12 page)

He cleared his throat—a raw, guttural sound. “Do you realize that you’ve just confessed to stealing?”

Caroline recalled Ollie’s reasoning that the candies would be thrown away anyway. She also recalled telling Letta it was never right to take something that didn’t belong to her. Empty of any defense, she met his gaze and stood in silent acceptance of his statement.

“Rule number five for employees of this factory is ‘No removal of goods without express permission from the management.’ I do not recall granting you permission to help yourself to the creams.” A knowing look crept across his face. “As a matter of fact, I believe I told you clearly that making a habit of helping yourself to the candy would result in your instant dismissal.”

Cold chills broke out across Caroline’s frame. Would he let her go? She
hadn’t finished her investigation. She couldn’t lose this job and go back to Noble in defeat. She clasped her hands behind her back to control the trembling. “Mr. Hightower, it only happened the one time. It won’t happen again.”

“I can make sure it doesn’t by removing you from the employment roster.”

So she’d lost before she’d even begun. Defeated, she offered a miserable nod and hung her head.

“But I don’t believe that’s necessary.”

She shot her gaze upward, uncertain she’d heard correctly. “You aren’t releasing me?”

He pushed his jacket aside to slip his hand into his pocket. He raised his other hand and twisted his finger through the coil of hair dangling along her throat. “Not this time.”

Something in his expression frightened her even more than the prospect of being fired. Mildred’s warning about Mr. Hightower cornering the girls to steal a kiss rose from her memory. Her stomach roiled. She wanted to step away, but he continued to hold the strand of hair, trapping her in place. Besides, retreating would take her deeper into his office and farther from the door. She wouldn’t create a greater distance between herself and the exit.

Lord, protect me …

As quickly as he’d caught hold of her hair, he let go, giving the coil a stinging yank as he drew his hand downward. Caroline’s legs nearly gave way with the intense rush of relief. He stalked to his desk, leaving her quivering in indignation near the door.

“But the incident is on my report. Should you choose to disregard any more of the factory’s rules, I will have no choice but to send you packing.” He spun to face her. “Do I make myself clear, Miss Lang?”

She forced a reply through clenched teeth. “Yes, sir.”

“Very well, then. Go. And no lollygagging in the lunchroom.”

Caroline gave a quick nod and threw the door open. She dashed onto the landing, peeking over her shoulder to be certain he wasn’t pursuing her, and she collided with a solid chest. The air whooshed from her lungs, and a pair of hands caught her arms, holding her upright. She’d barreled into Ollie Moore.

Oliver held Carrie’s arms tightly. She trembled beneath his hands. Alarm bells rang in the back of his mind. Although he’d never witnessed it, he’d heard rumors about Hightower making advances on some of the factory girls. Rage rose, and he leaned close to Carrie’s face and rasped, “Did he touch you?”

She shook her head and wriggled free of his grasp. Stepping a few feet away from him, she wrapped her arms across her stomach and shuddered.

Oliver frowned. She was lying. But why protect Hightower? Had the man threatened her into silence? He took a step toward her, his hand extended in entreaty. “Carrie—”

“Moore!” Hightower’s harsh bark stopped Oliver in his tracks. “Get in here.”

Oliver resented the man’s dictatorial attitude, but he had little choice except to obey if he hoped to continue as a worker. He offered Carrie an apologetic look, then turned and strode into Hightower’s office. “What do you need?” Despite his efforts to be respectful, his words held a note of challenge.

“I had to release two craters this morning—lazy bums were caught sleeping
again
. Post this notice about openings on the job board.” Hightower thrust a paper at Oliver.

Oliver picked up the square of paper and read it. He tapped it with his finger. “You haven’t indicated which shift.”

Hightower yanked it back and scrawled the words
night shift
below the request.

Oliver tipped forward, his gaze on the page. “Qualifications?”

The man huffed. He added,
Must be able to wield a hammer
.

“Any age restrictions?”

Another mighty huff exploded.

Oliver gritted his teeth. Hightower’s penchant for expelling blasts of air grated on his nerves. Such a denigrating sound, meant to intimidate.

Hightower whisked the paper across the desk. “It’s hardly a skilled position, Moore. Any fool can bring a hammer down on a tack. No doubt even a woman could do it.” He flopped into his chair and yanked a drawer open, his attention shifting to the drawer’s contents. “Just post the notice. I’ll sort through the contenders for likely candidates.”

“All right. Two openings for night-shift craters. Anything else?”

“No.”

Oliver turned to leave, eager to find Carrie and ascertain she was all right.

“Moore!”

Oliver paused in the doorway but didn’t turn around.

“Fulton Dinsmore, the factory owner, intends to visit later this week. He’s requested a personal meeting with you.” A thread of jealousy seemed to wind through Hightower’s statement.

Oliver swallowed a snort of amusement, envisioning Hightower clenching his fists in frustration. “Oh?”

“Yes.” The word snapped out. “You will behave appropriately in his presence.”

Oliver always behaved appropriately in his father’s presence. Since he had nothing to say concerning Hightower’s demand, he offered no response.

Hightower blasted another aggravated breath. “You may go.”

Oliver darted for the stairway. He rounded the bend and came upon Carrie, who stood just inside the door at the top of the stairway, her back pressed to the wall, and her pale face aimed toward him. “Carrie …”

“I want to be a crater.”

He jolted. Whatever he’d expected her to say, it wasn’t that.

“It’s a night position, correct?”

Oliver nodded, unable to locate his voice. This woman always managed to surprise him.

“Then I wish to apply. Do you think I have a chance of being hired?”

He stared at her. Her colorless face and stiff posture indicated a lingering fear from her time in Hightower’s office, yet she spoke with strength. No timid hothouse flower, this one. How he admired her. He forced a casual tone. “It’ll be up to Hightower, of course, but he gave no specific qualifications other than being able to swing a hammer.” If she had the strength to carry the heavy trays of chocolate, she certainly had the strength to pound tacks through wood.

She pursed her lips into a cynical moue. “Yes. I heard his remark that even a woman could do it.” With a glib shrug, she pushed off from the wall and opened the door. The factory noises assaulted them, and as she began moving down the stairs, she raised her voice to be heard over the wheeze and rattle of machinery. “So he’d be open to my application?”

Oliver trailed alongside her, his gaze locked on her profile. Her rosy lips were set in a determined line that contrasted with the soft curve of her round cheek. She was hardly a petite woman—full figured although far from plump. The top of her head reached the underside of his nose, and he stood an inch above six feet. Despite her stature and strong nature, he still desired to protect her. He’d never met a woman who inspired so many conflicting emotions.

He pushed past his musings to answer her question as they moved across the busy floor to the loading tables. “I don’t see why not. But I’m curious why you’d want it. Craters earn less than toters, and the night shift is the least desirable of the three shifts.”

“I have my reasons.” A little pigtailed girl carrying a bag of sugar staggered into their path, and Carrie stopped abruptly to avoid running the child down. She stared after the girl for a moment and then spun on him. “Besides, if I take it, some hapless child will be spared the task of hammering tacks into boards when he should be sleeping.”

Her adamancy sent him backward a step. He raised his eyebrows and peered at her, unblinking.

“Are you aware, Ollie, that this factory hires a greater percentage of child workers than any other factory in the state of Kansas?”

Of course he was aware. He and Father had discussed the situation at length, and he was proud of their inclusion of younger workers.

Her eyes blazed as passion ignited her features. “One-third of the workers
here are under the age of sixteen. One-third!” Throwing her hands outward, she glowered at him. “Boys who should be sitting in a schoolhouse, dipping some little girl’s braid into the inkwell, are instead stacking crates or pushing a broom. Girls who should be making sheep’s eyes at the boys are wrapping chocolates with gold foil or sprinkling nuts on the tops of candies. Sprinkling nuts, for heaven’s sake!”

Defensiveness tiptoed through Oliver’s center, and he found his voice. “Making sheep’s eyes at some boy on the opposite side of the schoolroom is more important than earning a wage?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be facetious.”

“I’m not. You said girls should be making sheep’s eyes instead of working.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and leaned his weight on one hip, assuming a casual position that belied the tightness in his chest. “Working gives them a means of providing for themselves or helping their families. Working teaches them a skill they can use well into adulthood. Working—”

“Working steals everything that is precious!” Carrie’s voice rose, and several workers paused to look in their direction. Oblivious to the curious gazes, she continued her emotional tirade. “The hours they spend on the factory floor rob them of the opportunity for an education. When they leave the factory, they’re so tired they don’t want to play. Their lives become a drudgery of work, sleep, work, sleep, and one day they awaken in a grown-up, exhausted body, wondering why they feel so much older than their years.” She gestured to the bustling floor at large, her trembling hands pointing toward one work station and then another. “What kind of future does this promise to them, Ollie? Tell me that.”

Her impassioned plea moved him. He wouldn’t deny a rush of feeling. But did he agree with her? No. His father provided a service to the families of Sinclair by allowing children to earn a wage and learn a craft. Many of the youngsters pushing a broom today would be the ones tomorrow creating new flavors of candies or traveling to distant places to sell Dinsmore’s chocolates in new marketplaces. Their lives would be enriched by the opportunities offered at the factory.

He said staunchly, “A bright one.”

Her face crumpled. The depth of disappointment reflected in her deep brown eyes pierced him. But he believed what he’d said, and he wouldn’t change it. These children’s lives would be better because he and his father were willing to teach them a skill. Remove children from the roster of workers? He had no intention of doing so.

Caroline battled the desire to cry. Why did Ollie’s words hurt so much?
“A bright one,”
he’d said, completely sure of himself and yet so wrong. Why couldn’t he see the harm done to these little ones forced to labor away the most tender years of their lives? Memories from her childhood rose up to haunt her—memories of such tiredness her very bones ached, of hunger that was never satisfied, of stinging blows across her shoulders from the master’s rod when she made a mistake. Painful, bitter memories. She wanted so much more for the children of this community. And, admittedly, she wanted Ollie to want more for the children, too.

Defeated, she spoke stiffly. “Please inform Mr. Hightower of my interest in the position as crater.”

“Carrie, I—”

She ignored him and scurried to her work station. Over the remainder of the day, Ollie repeatedly moved into her line of vision, his expression pleading. But each time she steadfastly pretended he wasn’t there. She had a job to do, and he’d already stolen too much of her focus. Now that he’d made clear his position on child workers, he’d given her the impetus she needed to turn her attention fully to the job Noble had sent her to do.