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
