Like a bucking bronco, Lizzie jumps and jerks across the field, doing her best to throw Sam and me through the windshield. I hang onto the steering wheel for dear life while my feet tap dance on the clutch and gas. Lizzie roars a protest, then chokes and stutters — over and over again, bucking the whole time. I panic and jam both feet on the brake. She lurches forward one last time before stalling out with a weary rattle.
For a few seconds, Sam and I don’t move. We want to be sure Lizzie has really stopped. Finally, Sam loosens his grip on the dashboard and leans back against the seat. I want to do the same thing, but my hands are fused to the steering wheel, so I just sit there — stiff as a board — staring out at the field.
“I said let the clutch out slowly and give her a little gas.” I expect Sam to be yelling, but his voice is as calm as always.
“That’s what I was trying to do,” I tell him. “I don’t know what happened.”
“The same thing that happens to everybody the first time they drive a standard transmission,” he says. “It’s something you have to develop a feel for. C’mon. Let’s try it again.”
I frown. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” At lunchtime, when Sam had suggested I learn to drive Lizzie, I was all for it, but now I’m not so sure. “What if I don’t get the hang of it? Lizzie’s going to hate me. She’ll probably hate you too for putting her through this.” Now it’s not just Sam who talks like Lizzie is a person; he’s got me doing it too.
He smiles and pats the dash. “You’ll be fine, won’t you, old girl? It’s going to take more than a case of hiccups to make you throw in the towel.” Then he turns to me. “So let’s try this again. Step on the clutch and brake and then start her up.”
I do as he says, and to my surprise, Lizzie rumbles to life as soon as I turn the key.
Though I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, Sam pats the dash again. “All right,” he says, “take your foot off the brake and put it on the gas but don’t push down. Just rest it there.”
I follow his instructions. This part is not the problem.
“Now easy as you can, release the pressure on the clutch until you feel a change — sort of like Lizzie is getting set to take off.”
I do that too.
“Good,” Sam says. “Hold it there. This is the point where the clutch is engaging. Remember that feeling. Okay, push it in and do it again.”
He makes me practice this one move until I can do it every time without stalling.
“I think you’ve got it,” he finally says “Now you just need to add the gas, and you’ll be good to go.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter and grip the steering wheel tighter than ever.
Sam chuckles. “Relax. You’re doing fine. It’s all in the touch. Slow and steady, that’s all it takes. You’ve got a handle on the hardest part already. The last bit is easy. Remember how you eased your foot off the clutch until you reached the point where Lizzie was either going to engage or stall?”
I nod.
“Well, you’re going to do the same thing with the gas. The only difference is that you ease pressure onto the gas pedal while you take pressure off the clutch. One foot’s coming up while the other is going down. It’s sort of like a seesaw. Understand?”
“I think so.”
“If you do it gradual enough, you’ll feel the clutch and gas connect. When that happens, you ease your foot completely off the clutch, and you’re driving — just like you would in your mom’s car. Okay, let’s give it a try.”
The first couple of times I mess it up and stall the truck, but the third time I get it right, and Lizzie starts to crawl across the field like she’s prowling a shopping mall parking lot. I give her more gas, and though she speeds up a little, her engine roars in protest.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Sam hollers above the noise.
I slam my foot onto the brake, and Lizzie instantly grabs the ground and stalls out, hurling Sam and me toward the windshield yet again. I’m pretty sure all this lurching and lunging against the seatbelt is going to leave me with some lovely bruises.
“That was good. That was good,” Sam assures me, though he’s looking a little frayed around the edges. “You balanced the clutch and gas perfectly.”
“Yeah, but I still stalled the truck.”
“That’s because you braked without putting the clutch in. This isn’t an automatic, Dani. You can’t forget the clutch.”
I grimace. “I know. I know. There’s just so much to remember. And why was the engine making all that noise? It sounded like it was going to explode!”
“Lizzie was just letting you know she can’t go eighty in first gear,” he mumbles into his moustache. “Let’s try it again.”
———
The next morning Sam hands me the keys to his truck. Apparently, I’m driving myself to Greener Pastures. You’d think this was an everyday occurrence the way Sam takes a seat on the trailer steps with a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, looking relaxed as can be. Has he forgotten yesterday’s wild ride already?
I don’t say anything though. If he’s good with me taking Lizzie on my own, then so am I. Besides, it’s not like I can’t drive. I’m just new at driving a standard.
Despite my cool exterior, I am nervous about taking Lizzie out on my own. But I can’t let Sam see that. So I take the keys, march over to Lizzie, and get in. I adjust the seat and mirror and buckle my seat belt. It’s the moment of truth. I push in the clutch and turn the key. If Lizzie senses it’s me behind the wheel instead of Sam, she doesn’t let on. She starts right up.
“Good girl.” I pat the dash. “Thank you, Lizzie.”
I wave to Sam and slide the gear shift into first. Then — holding my breath and praying — I ease my foot off the clutch and give Lizzie some gas. She hesitates for a second before rolling forward. It isn’t the smoothest start in the world, but I don’t stall her. I shift to second, and I’m on my way.
I can see Sam in the rear-view mirror, and I wave again. He nods, smiles, and takes a long drag on his cigarette.
———
When I get to the ranch, Micah is waiting for me. Though he’s been making me saddle Sweetpea myself lately, today she’s all set to go. And she has company.
“I thought we’d go for a trail ride,” Micah says as he hands me the reins and watches me mount. Then he springs expertly onto the other horse and gazes up at the brilliant blue sky. “It’s the perfect day for it, and I think you’re ready.”
My stomach does a somersault. Finally! For the two weeks I’ve been coming to Greener Pastures, I haven’t been out of the corral once. Though I can saddle Sweetpea and put her through her paces — make her go, stop, walk, trot, canter, and even sort of gallop — it’s all been within the confines of the corral.
For a split second, I panic. What if sweet, docile Sweetpea isn’t so sweet or docile in wide open spaces? I suddenly have visions of myself clinging desperately to the mane of a runaway horse before being knocked to the ground by an aggressive and way-too-solid tree branch, and then — because my boot is caught in the stirrup — being dragged across rocks and prickly brush.
I shudder. Clearly, I’ve seen way too many old Westerns on television. I lean forward and pat Sweetpea’s neck. She’d never do that to me.
The Tooby ranch is huge. Not that I didn’t know there was more to it than the barns and corrals I see every day, but I never dreamed it was as big as it is. It seems to go on forever. At first it’s mostly rolling fields laid out in an impressive array of greens and gold, dotted with grazing cattle and the occasional lonely outbuilding. As the hills get higher, the ground becomes rockier. Vibrant colours give way to more sombre reds and browns, and tidy pastures are replaced with scraggly clumps of scrub. Beyond that is forest — dense and quiet and regally green. We wind our way respectfully along the trails through mighty stands of cedar, fir, hemlock, alder, and ponderosa pine. Our horses’ footfalls are muffled by a centuries-old carpet of rotting leaves and coniferous needles. Micah leads the way. I follow. We don’t talk.
I have no idea where we are going. I simply trust that Micah does, and, of course, I’m right, because he eventually leads us out of the forest and into an open field. It’s long but narrow, with a rocky stream running through the middle. Tall sun-bleached grass on its banks rustles in the breeze.
Micah dismounts, so I do too. We’ve been riding nearly an hour, and it feels good to stand.
“We’re not still on your family’s ranch, are we?” I say.
He removes his hat, squints up at the sun, and wipes a sleeve across his forehead. “Yup. We are.”
“You’re kidding,” I say. “Where does it end?”
He points toward the horizon. “Way out there. Farther than you can see.”
We lead our horses to the stream. As they lower their heads to drink, I realize that I’m thirsty too.
Micah hunkers down at the stream’s edge, cups his hands, and scoops water into his mouth.
I laugh. “I thought cowboys were supposed to use their hats for that.”
He shuts one eye and grins up at me.
Damn — he’s good-looking!
“If it wasn’t a new hat, I just might,” he says. “Then I’d soak it in the stream and stick it back on my head. It would keep me cool the whole ride home. Are you thirsty?”
“Actually, I am, but I sincerely doubt that I can drink from my hands.”
“Sure you can,” he insists. “It’s easy. Even a city slicker like you can manage it. I’ll show you.”
I recognize a dare when I hear one, and not being a person to back away from a challenge, I kneel down and give it a try. But something goes wrong on the way to my mouth and the water lands all down the front of my T-shirt.
“Aaaaaggghh!” I holler as I jump to my feet and hop around, trying to pull my shirt away from my body. “Jeez, that’s cold!” I look down at myself. I’m soaked. Who knew my hands could hold that much water?
Micah is laughing so hard he’s reeling around the field. “You’re supposed to drink it, not wear it,” he informs me between guffaws.
I make a face. “Very funny.”
Still chuckling, Micah walks over to his horse and retrieves something from the saddle bag. I can’t see what it is though, and when he turns around, he slips it behind him. I take a step backwards.
Micah stops. “What? You don’t trust me?”
I send him what I hope is a withering glare. “You’re surprised?”
“Hey, you’re the one with the hole in your hands — or your mouth.” His face breaks into that smile of his, and even though I know the joke is on me, I have to concentrate on not melting. “I had nothing to do with it,” he adds.
His gaze wanders down to my wet T- shirt, and suddenly, I’m self-conscious. I cross my arms over my chest.
“I have a peace offering,” he says. And without another word, he returns to the stream. His back is to me, so I can’t see what he’s doing.
When he turns around again, he has an enamelled cup, brimming with water. He holds it out to me.
My jaw drops open. “You had that all along? Micah! Why didn’t you give it to me in the first place?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t think of it, I guess.”
“Liar,” I mumble as I take the cup.
The water is sweet and tastes of minerals and snowy mountains. I shut my eyes to savour its refreshing iciness. When the cup is empty, I lick my lips and open my eyes.
And there’s Micah. Not that he wasn’t there before, but now he’s so close I can practically see my reflection in his eyes. I can smell his aftershave, too.
I’ve imagined this moment a hundred times, but now that it’s here, I can’t believe it’s happening. I’m surprised. I’m nervous. I’m excited. Trapped in the gaze of those unbelievably blue eyes, I catch my breath.
Micah finds one of my hands. His fingers curl around mine, and he traces the shape of my nails with his thumb. I let my eyes travel his face, memorizing every detail for later. His mouth twitches as if he’s going to smile.
Time stops, and in my mind I’m poised on the edge of a cliff.
And then he kisses me.