I pull the boots out of the bag and admire them from every angle. Not that I know anything about cowboy boots, but they’re certainly beautiful to look at. The foot is tan while the top is a darker brown with designs tooled into the leather. The toe is pointed, and there’s even a bit of a heel.
“They’re gorgeous!” I tell Sam.
“Try ’em on,” he says.
I kick off my runners, grab the tabs on the boot top, slide my foot inside, and pull. Then I do the same for the other foot.
“They fit!” I exclaim with surprise as I stand up and take a stroll around the grass. “How did you know my size?”
“I checked your running shoes when you weren’t in them. You know you have pretty big feet for a girl.”
I make a face and nudge his boot with the toe of mine. “Look who’s talking. I wouldn’t exactly call these puppies petite.”
He glances down and frowns. “I’m a man. I’m supposed to have big feet. It makes me look —” He pauses as if he’s searching for the right word and finally settles for “manly.”
“Yeah, right!” I hoot. “Whatever you say. Anyway, thanks for the boots. I feel like a real western girl now. All I’m missing is the hat.” Then I smile and add, “And the belt buckle. And the bandana. And the —”
“Uh-oh,” he mutters into his moustache. “On second thought, maybe you’re not so different from your mother after all.”
I laugh.
That’s when my cellphone rings. First time since I’ve left Vancouver. I dig it out of my pocket and look at the screen.
“Speak of the devil,” I say. “It’s Mom.”
Chapter Nine
Mom’s call is short and sweet. Basically, she wants to know how Sam and I are getting along, and she is clearly relieved when I assure her things are fine. She laughs at my horse-riding stories and then gushes about Spain for a few minutes before hanging up with a promise to call again when she and Reed get to Paris.
In a matter of days, life with Sam slides into a comfortable routine. I spend mornings at Greener Pasture, working on my riding skills with Micah, while Sam does chores, gets groceries, or runs errands. At noon he picks me up and we return to the trailer for lunch — which we make together. We never end up taking turns cooking, even though that was the original plan. Preparing meals together is just more fun — talking and laughing and experimenting with recipes. The food even tastes better.
Afternoons just happen. Some days we head out in Lizzie, go for a walk, or double on Jasmine and explore Sam’s ten acres. If I’m running out of clean clothes, I do my laundry, and Sam putters in the shed or drags fence posts around the field. On the days we’re feeling lazy, we just loll in the sunshine, reading and then discussing what we’ve read. Books, like cooking, are something Sam and I both enjoy, which is a good thing since there are lots of books around. Even so, I make a point of choosing ones I know Sam has already read, so we can have our discussions. Sometimes we agree; sometimes we don’t. It doesn’t matter. It’s the exchange of ideas that counts, and I get totally stoked as my thoughts bubble up and overflow like a runaway chemistry experiment. The same thing happens to Sam. I can tell by the energy in his voice. Somewhere along the way, my ideas get mixed up with his until I’m not quite sure whose thoughts are whose anymore, but when we’re finally all talked out, I feel as if my whole body has been scrubbed with a brush — I’m tingly inside and out.
At some point during the afternoon or evening, we plant ourselves in front of Sam’s huge television and take in a baseball game — or two. I’m not really a fan, but Sam is nuts about baseball, so I keep him company. I mean, where else am I gonna go? Besides, Sam really gets into the games, and it’s kind of fun watching him get all excited — or pissed off — depending on how his team is doing. We both root for the Blue Jays — it’s the Canadian thing to do — but otherwise, I cheer for whatever team Sam wants to lose, just to make things interesting.
“Go, Rangers!” I holler at the television as Texas takes the field. “C’mon, boys. Get ’em out one, two, three. You can do it.” Then I grab a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the coffee table and shove them into my mouth.
Sam shoots me a sideways glance and his eyebrows dive together into a bushy knot. “Since when are you a Texas fan?”
I shrug and grin. “Since you’re a Baltimore fan and that’s who they’re playing.”
He shakes his head and clucks his tongue in disgust. “That’s not how you choose a team.”
“That’s how I choose,” I say as I help myself to more nuts.
He slides the bowl out of my reach. “If you keep eating those things, you aren’t going to have room for your supper.”
“If I’m not supposed to eat the peanuts, why did you put them out?”
Sam ignores my question and points to the television. “Watch the game.”
The first batter comes to the plate, crosses himself, looks skyward, and takes a few practice swings. Then he cocks the bat and waits for the pitcher to throw the ball. When it comes, he swings so hard he loses his balance and has to lean on the bat to keep from falling.
“Woo-hoo!” I cheer. “Strike one.”
Sam sits forward on the couch.
The pitcher throws the ball again and the batter swings. Another miss.
“Easy out,” I heckle.
“Relax, man. Take your time,” Sam tells the batter. “Wait for the right ball. Make the pitcher come to you.”
The way Sam’s talking, you’d think the batter can actually hear him. Who knows — maybe he can, because he lets the next pitch go. And the two after that too. Now the count is full: three balls and two strikes. The pressure is on. The pitcher has to throw a strike, and the batter has to hit it.
“Come on, pitcher,” I say. “You can do it. Easy out, easy out.”
The pitcher winds up and throws. The batter swings and —
Crack!
Even without Sam grinning and yee-hawing all over the living room, I recognize that sound. I slouch back on the couch and watch the ball sail over the centre field fence. I guess it wasn’t such an easy out after all.
Enjoying his moment in the sun, the batter trots leisurely around the bases. As he touches home plate, he pauses, points skyward again, and kisses the cross hanging from his neck. Then he carries on to the dugout where his teammates happily mob him.
“Why do guys do that?” I say.
“What?” Sam asks. “Congratulate their teammate? Why wouldn’t they? He just put a run on the scoreboard.”
I shake my head. “I don’t mean that. I’m talking about how players cross themselves when they come to bat, and then if they get a home run, they point to the sky like it’s heaven. I’ve seen lots of batters do it. It’s as if they’re telling God thanks, like He made the home run happen.”
Sam’s moustache trembles, a sure sign that he’s laughing on the inside but doesn’t want to go public with it. Obviously, he finds something I’ve said funny.
“I’m serious,” I say indignantly.
His moustache settles down. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I wasn’t really laughing at you.” And then before I can point out that he most certainly was, he says, “Are you religious?”
I don’t answer right away. I need to think first. “Not particularly,” I finally reply. “I don’t know. I don’t really think about it much. I was christened when I was a baby, and I believe there’s a God, but I don’t go to church — except for Mom’s weddings.”
He nods and smiles, but his eyes aren’t in it. I can tell he’s just being polite, and I decide I liked it better when he was laughing at me.
“Most folks are believers,” he says. “In fact, about eight out of every ten people follow one religion or another. That doesn’t just mean going to church either; it’s a daily spiritual relationship with whichever god they believe in.
“The baseball players you’re talking about are a prime example. They believe God guides them. They believe they have God to thank for their athletic abil
ity and how they use it. So every time they step up to that plate, they believe God is right there with them. When they cross themselves before an at-bat, they are praying to God to help them do their best.
“So when they hit a home run — yeah, you’re absolutely right — they are acknowledging God’s part in it.”
“Okay,” I frown, “but players on all the teams do that. Every player thinks God’s on his side, but how can He be if He’s helping everybody? He doesn’t sound like a very good fan to me. Where’s the loyalty?”
Sam’s hearty guffaws fill the tiny living room. “You should talk! You cheer for anybody.”
“Not just anybody,” I protest. “Only the teams you’re against. And I certainly don’t change sides in the middle of a game like God does.”
Sam stops laughing. “God does help all the teams a little, but He definitely has a favourite.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “And who’s that?”
“The New York Yankees.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Good one, Sam.”
“No, really. It’s true.” I have to give him credit. He looks totally serious.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What makes you think God is a Yankees fan?”
“Think about it,” he says. “In the history of baseball, the Yankees have taken the American League championship forty times. That’s way more pennants than anybody else. Even more important, they’ve been World Series champs twenty-seven times. No other team even comes close to that. What more proof do you need? God might help other teams out from time to time, but He is definitely a Yankee.”
How can I argue with that kind of logic? It’s so crazy, it makes sense. So I just nod and smile and say, “Right. Okay, then. Thanks for clearing that up.”
Sam smiles back. “My pleasure.”
We go back to watching the game, but despite my enthusiastic cheering, Texas loses, and, of course, Sam can’t resist gloating. “Looks like God was rooting for the Orioles today. Better luck next time, Dani. Let’s go make supper.”
I follow him to the kitchen and start pulling out the makings of a salad. But my mind is still in the living room, thinking about our earlier conversation.
“Sam?”
“Mmm,” he murmurs, not bothering to look up from the potato he’s peeling.
“When we were watching the game, you asked me if I was religious,” I say. “What about you? Are you religious? Do you believe in God?”
He stops peeling the potato and looks off into space. “Do I believe in God?” He slowly shakes his head. “No. No, Dani, I can’t say that I do.” There’s a thoughtful pause before he adds, “But there are definitely times I wish I did. And that’s the truth.”
Chapter Ten
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.
Truths I Learned from Sam Page 5
