Chapter 2 Red Dust and Rough Hands
Learning the Yard
Eli arrived at Blackthorn Brickworks earlier than necessary the next morning.
Part of him blamed his nerves.
The other part blamed Mason Voss.
Ever since their awkward introduction the previous afternoon, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about the man.
Which was ridiculous.
He had known Mason for less than a day.
Yet somehow the image of broad shoulders covered in red dust, scarred hands, and intense gray eyes had followed him all the way back to the small apartment he had rented in town.
Not that it mattered.
Mason clearly wasn't interested in being friends.
The man had looked downright offended when Rick assigned him as Eli's guide.
Eli couldn't really blame him.
If their positions were reversed, he probably wouldn't want to spend his summer babysitting a stranger either.
Especially one carrying the Bennett name.
The morning air was already warm when Eli stepped out of his car. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, yet workers were already moving across the yard.
Forklifts rumbled between stacks of bricks.
Machinery growled in the distance.
Dust drifted through the air like a permanent part of the landscape.
The entire brickworks seemed alive.
Unlike yesterday, Eli came prepared.
He wore lighter clothes.
Brought extra water.
And most importantly, he intended to stay as far away from heat exhaustion as possible.
A deep voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You made it."
Eli turned.
Mason stood several feet away with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm.
The man looked exactly as intimidating as he had yesterday.
Tall.
Broad.
Solid.
A faded gray work shirt stretched across his muscular frame, the sleeves rolled high enough to reveal heavily tattooed forearms. Red clay dust already coated parts of his clothes despite the early hour.
For some reason, Eli's stomach performed an embarrassing little flip.
He quickly ignored it.
"Good morning."
Mason grunted.
That seemed to be his preferred method of communication.
"Ready?"
"I think so."
"You think so?"
Eli smiled.
"That's probably the best answer you're going to get."
Something flashed briefly across Mason's face.
Not quite amusement.
But close.
"Come on."
Without another word, Mason turned and started walking.
Eli hurried to keep up.
Within minutes they were moving through sections of the brickworks he hadn't seen the previous day.
Mason explained the process with surprising efficiency.
Clay extraction.
Mixing.
Molding.
Drying.
Firing.
Storage.
Every stage connected to the next with a level of coordination Eli hadn't expected.
As they walked, Eli filled page after page with notes.
Occasionally he stopped to photograph equipment or record observations.
Mason never complained.
Though he clearly wasn't thrilled about waiting.
"The company's been here over a hundred years?" Eli asked.
"One hundred and twelve."
Eli scribbled the number into his notebook.
"And some families have worked here that entire time?"
"Some of them."
"That's incredible."
Mason shrugged.
"Depends who you ask."
Eli glanced up.
"What does that mean?"
The older man slowed slightly.
"It means some families are proud of it."
"And others?"
"Others never had many choices."
The answer lingered in Eli's mind long after the conversation moved on.
That was exactly the kind of perspective he hoped to capture in his research.
Not numbers.
Not production reports.
People.
Real experiences.
The things statistics couldn't explain.
As the morning continued, Eli found himself paying attention to more than the brickworks.
He watched Mason.
Not intentionally.
At least not at first.
The man carried himself differently from anyone Eli knew.
Every movement seemed purposeful.
Efficient.
Confident.
Years of physical labor had left their mark on him.
His hands were rough and scarred.
His forearms were powerful beneath layers of ink.
Even the way he walked conveyed quiet strength.
It fascinated Eli more than it should have.
Mason wasn't conventionally polished or refined.
He wasn't the type of man featured in magazines or attending charity galas.
Yet Eli couldn't remember the last time he had found someone this compelling.
Maybe because Mason felt real.
There was no performance.
No carefully crafted image.
Just honesty.
Even when that honesty came in the form of grunts and irritated looks.
The realization made Eli smile.
"What?"
Mason's voice startled him.
"What?"
"You smiled."
Heat touched Eli's cheeks.
"Oh."
Mason raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"I was just thinking."
"Dangerous activity."
The deadpan response caught Eli completely off guard.
A laugh escaped before he could stop it.
To his surprise, Mason's mouth twitched slightly.
Not quite a smile.
But definitely close.
For a moment the distance between them felt smaller.
Then reality returned.
A pickup truck rolled past.
Several workers looked directly at Eli.
The expressions weren't friendly.
One man nudged another.
Both stared openly.
The atmosphere shifted.
Eli felt it immediately.
The laughter faded.
The warmth disappeared.
The workers weren't just looking at him.
They were judging him.
He lowered his voice.
"Do they always stare like that?"
Mason glanced toward the truck.
"Mostly."
"Why?"
The older man hesitated.
That hesitation told Eli everything.
"It's because of my family."
Mason didn't answer.
Which was answer enough.
Eli looked away.
Part of him had expected this.
Still, experiencing it firsthand felt different.
More personal.
More uncomfortable.
Throughout the rest of the morning, the pattern repeated.
Workers greeted Mason.
Some nodded respectfully.
Others stopped briefly to ask questions or report issues.
When they looked at Eli, however, the reactions changed.
Conversations ended.
Expressions hardened.
Curiosity mixed with suspicion.
Nobody was openly rude.
Nobody insulted him.
In some ways that made it worse.
The politeness felt forced.
Like they were tolerating his presence rather than accepting it.
Eventually they stopped near a storage yard stacked with thousands of finished bricks.
Rows upon rows stretched across the property.
Red.
Brown.
Rust-colored.
Each one representing hours of labor.
Eli took several photographs.
When he lowered his camera, two workers stood nearby talking quietly.
They probably assumed he couldn't hear them.
"Looks just like Bennett."
"Yeah."
"Wonder how long he'll last."
A short laugh followed.
"Probably until he gets bored."
The words weren't cruel.
Not exactly.
But they stung.
Because they carried certainty.
These people had already decided who he was.
A rich kid.
A temporary visitor.
Someone playing worker for the summer.
They didn't know him.
They didn't know how hard he had fought for this project.
How many arguments it had taken.
How desperately he wanted to earn his place here.
To them, he wasn't Eli.
He was a Bennett.
Nothing more.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
For the first time since arriving in Blackthorn, he understood the challenge ahead of him.
Winning approval from his grandfather had never been the difficult part.
Winning the trust of the people who worked here was.
The workers didn't care about his grades.
His university.
His ambitions.
They cared about actions.
Respect.
Authenticity.
And right now, they saw him as the grandson of a wealthy owner who would leave the moment summer ended.
Someone who could never truly understand their lives.
Eli stared across the sprawling brickworks.
At the workers moving through clouds of red dust.
At the machinery.
The kilns.
The endless stacks of clay.
He had come here hoping to learn their stories.
Now he realized something important.
Before anyone shared those stories, he would have to prove he deserved to hear them.
And judging by the distrust he saw in nearly every face, that wasn't going to happen easily.
Rich Boy Troubles
Mason had spent most of his adult life avoiding unnecessary complications.
Experience had taught him that complications rarely arrived looking dangerous.
They arrived looking harmless.
A bad decision.
A tempting shortcut.
A person you shouldn't get attached to.
Before you realized it, your life became harder than it needed to be.
Which was exactly why he should have kept his attention focused on work.
Instead, he found himself watching Eli Bennett.
Again.
The kid stood near the molding station with a notebook in one hand and a camera hanging from his shoulder. Red dust coated the cuffs of his jeans and the toes of his boots. His dark curls were slightly damp from sweat, and the heat had already turned his cheeks pink.
It was barely lunchtime.
At this rate, the summer was going to eat him alive.
Mason tried not to care.
He really did.
Unfortunately, Rick had assigned Eli to him.
That made the kid his responsibility.
At least during working hours.
Which meant if Eli passed out, got hurt, or wandered somewhere dangerous, Mason would be the one answering questions.
The situation annoyed him more than he cared to admit.
Not because Eli was causing problems.
Truthfully, the kid had been trying hard all morning.
Listening.
Taking notes.
Asking questions.
Paying attention.
Most visitors lost interest after twenty minutes.
Eli seemed genuinely fascinated by everything.
That should have made things easier.
Instead, it somehow made them worse.
Because the more Mason observed him, the harder it became to dismiss him as another spoiled Bennett.
A loud curse interrupted his thoughts.
One of the younger workers nearly dropped a pallet while maneuvering a forklift.
Mason immediately shifted his attention.
Work came first.
Always.
For the next hour he moved across the property handling problems as they appeared.
A delayed shipment.
Equipment maintenance.
Safety inspections.
The usual chaos that accompanied any productive day at the brickworks.
Through it all, Eli remained nearby.
Observing.