The thought of Jordan jolted Beck’s insides, and he made a firm effort to push it away.
Beck turned to go and nearly ran over a man standing right behind him.
“Sorry. Pardon me,” Beckett apologized hastily.
“Beckett Shaw.”
Beck froze and looked the man over. He was big and broad shouldered, with a doughy paunch and small, dark, beady eyes. His hair was all but gone—just a few wisps of gray over his balding pate—and his smile was oily. Beck immediately recognized him and fought not to cringe. Homer Gagnon owned a hundred acres of trees just west of Shaw Farms in some of the lushest land Willamette Valley had to offer. He also owned one of the busiest production plants and had contracts with dozens of farms throughout the valley.
Shaw Farms wasn’t one of them. In fact, Beck wouldn’t do business with him at all.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Gagnon,” Beckett lied. They were surrounded by curious onlookers, and Beck didn’t want to cause a scene.