Page 67 of The Guy Who Stole My Ranch

“Shut up.” I almost pushed him but thought of William who was coming up behind me and decided he didn’t need to see me commit another act of violence today.

Everyone else had gathered around the truck with the big water jug. Now they were all watching William and me.

William studied the machine as he approached. He took in each and every part of it. I doubted he had any idea what any of the components did, but I could practically hear him making mental notes to ask me about it.

“Come on, you’ll ride out with me and then you can drive.”

When he got to me, he looked up at the cab. “There’s only room for one in there.”

“I’ll keep the door open, and you can stand on the top of the stairs.”

He gave me a flat stare.

“Trust me. We’ve all done it, and no one has died. Or been maimed.”

Xavier jumped up and down. “Can I come?”

“Not this time, buddy.” I patted him on the head, which I knew he hated. “When William and I get back, you and your dad can take over, okay?”

“Yay!” He ran off to tell his dad, which I was sure would cause an international incident between him and his brother.

“Follow me,” I said as I climbed the stairs. My boots clanged on the metal. I wrinkled my nose at the stench of stale jerky and diesel fuel inside the cab. Good thing I was going to keep the door open. The cracked leather seat gave a little huff as I sat down, but the engine purred to life when I turned the key.

William got to the landing and studied the interior of the cab—with its wide array of buttons and levers—like he had the outside. “You know what all of those do?”

“Not all, but most.” I pointed at a handle by the door. “Hang on to that and stand right where you are.” In truth, he was a little too close for comfort because my leg was bound to brush his as I drove, but there wasn’t much I could do about that.

I pulled hard to the left and started around the outside of the field so we could harvest the first swath of it.

William grunted as I went over a particularly deep hole. “Is any road in this place smooth?”

“You have to drag the dirt ones every few years. It’s on my to-do list.” I leaned as we turned another corner. “But this isn’t a road, so it’s always rough.”

“Understood.”

Great, we really were back to one-word answers. I ignored the twist in my gut and maneuvered us until we sat at the very edge of the field facing in. The long, golden barley swayed in the breeze. I always hated cutting down ripe grain because it looked so pretty.

But that’s what had to happen in life, right? You could only grow so much before you had to harvest and move on.

I didn’t like where that thought was leading me—all deep and adulting and suggesting that maybe I should embrace leaving the ranch—so I cleared my throat and pointed. “This thing drives pretty straight, but here’s how you steer.”

I went on to show William the controls, then I had him sit.

He managed to make himself small enough that we barely brushed when we switched places, and for some reason, that made me sad.

When he got settled, I gave him a few more instructions, then told him to lower the plow.

“Is it actually called the plow?” William asked.

“Technically, I think it’s the reel, but we refer to it as the plow.”

The cab shuddered as the front section went down.

“Now, go forward. Slowly.”

I’d preset everything on our way over, so all William had to do was drive.

Which he did.

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