Chapter 11: The Truck

I taught her to drive on a Sunday, on the old track along the north fence.

I told myself it was practical.

A woman who could handle a truck could haul feed and check the far pasture, and she would be more use on the ranch.

I did not tell myself the rest.

She sat behind the wheel of the old Ford in a sundress, her braid over one shoulder.

Her hands were at ten and two, as I had shown her.

She was grinning so hard her cheeks must have hurt.

"It's so big," she said.

"It's a half-ton."

"I mean it's loud, and it's heavy, and it does what I tell it."

"Not yet it doesn't. Foot on the clutch."

"Where's the clutch?"

"Left."

She pushed it down.

The truck shuddered.

"Now first gear. Let it out slowly."

She let it out too fast and the truck bucked once and died.

She shrieked with laughter.

"Again," I said.

She tried again, and it stalled, and again.

I sat in the passenger seat with my arm along the back of hers.

I watched her laugh until she cried.

I had not seen her like this in the four years I had known her.

On the fifth try the truck rolled forward and kept going.

"Jack!" she yelled. "Jack, I'm driving!"

"You are."

"I'm actually driving!"

"Watch the fence."

She steered a wide, careful curve along the wire.

The grass hissed under the tires, and the sky was huge and blue above the windshield.

She hummed.

I put my hand on her knee.

She glanced at it and then at the road.

"What are you doing?"

"Teaching."

"This isn't a driving lesson."

"It is. Keep your eyes on the track."

I slid my hand up under the sundress.

She gasped.

"Jack."

"Keep your eyes on the track."

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