“This needs to go to the Parkers. If there’s no one around, Kenny said you could just stack it in the old barn,” a deep male voice ordered.
The tailgate slammed shut, and Heathcliff’s door re-opened.
A large figure paused just outside my window, rough, work-chapped hands curling over the edge. “Got company, I see,” a man greeted.
I glanced up, my gaze meeting a kind, lined face that reminded me of my uncle’s. This man was rougher around the edges, broad and tall, a denim work top buttoned over a white T-shirt. His hair was black, a bit of silver touching his sideburns. A name tag was stitched to his shirt, the name Dusty sewed across it.
“Yeah …” Heathcliff hesitated, and I wondered if it was because of me or because I’d met the man’s eyes. The thing was, I wasn’t afraid of looking at people. I was afraid of looking at the ones I might care for. “This is—”
“Clare Macy,” the man muttered. “We don’t see much of you and your uncle in town.” He studied me. “It’s amazing really. You look just like your moth—”
“It’s Hawthorne now, sir,” I said quickly.
The man’s startled gaze met mine, something akin to pity crossing his features. “Hawthorne,” he repeated. Stepping back, he reached into the truck and offered me his hand. “Dustin Vincent. I’m Max’s daddy. Tell your uncle I’d love to see him more.”
Accepting his offered hand, I mumbled, “Yes, sir. I will. Thank you.”
Throwing his son a quick glance, he backed away.
Heathcliff eased the truck out of the lot. “I’ll be home a little after dark, Dad!” he called.
Gravel crunched, the tires spinning out onto the road, the wind rushing once more into the cab. It helped chase away conversation, but I felt Heathcliff’s gaze when he glanced at me. He shifted gears, the afternoon sun glinting across our faces. Outside, fields rolled by, bare and brown but full of idle life, the soil antsy for spring.
We turned onto a dirt strip, dust flying up along the Toyota’s thin, red paint.
“You like speed?” Heathcliff asked.
My head had fallen back, the wind’s cold fingers a welcome relief on my too busy scalp and chaotic thoughts. But while the air felt good, it didn’t mean I liked going fast.
I shook my head, and Heathcliff hit the brakes. “Do you even know how to drive, Hawthorne?”
My hands clutched the leather bench seat, my fingers pushing through the cracked material to the yellow stuffing beneath.
Heathcliff parked. “You’re what … seventeen? Eighteen at the oldest?”
“Seventeen,” I volunteered.
He glanced out the window at the pasture next to the road, the ground flat and the grass low. “Want to learn?” he asked.
My stomach lurched. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
He laughed. “Of course it is.” Flinging open the door, he climbed out and rounded the truck before entering the passenger side, his hand falling to my hip, urging me gently to scoot across the bench.
Moving carefully behind the steering wheel, I sat stiffly, my back tense.
Heathcliff slid as close to me as he could get without impeding me. “You know,” he said, “I like driving. It clears my head. The windows down, the wind in my face. The air kind of speaks to you when you do that. It drags away the cobwebs and leaves behind an odd kind of resilience.”
I grimaced. “More like the smell of road kill on the back roads.”
He chuckled. “I was thinking more along the lines of honeysuckle in summer. I thought girls found that kind of stuff romantic.”
My brows arched. “The road kill or the honeysuckle?”
Heathcliff’s hand found mine on the bench, his fingers lifting my fingers. Placing my palm against the shifter, he snorted with amusement. “You’ve got a lot of sass for a quiet girl.” He should have released me then, but he didn’t. “Let’s drive. I’m going to shift with you at first until you get used to the sensation. Once you figure out how to use the clutch and get the feel of the gears, it’s pretty easy from there.”
He went through the steps, walked me through the operation and the feel of the different components, his words carrying me and the pickup into the pasture.
It was one of those days—the sun shining and short brown grass swaying around the old truck—that I couldn’t remember exactly how we ended up racing through the field, our laughter rising through the cab and out the open windows. In truth, I was a terrible driver, and we lurched more like a boat in the middle of a storm rather than sailing smoothly.
“Slow it down a little,” Heathcliff laughed. “You’re doing fine.”
Turning sharp, I literally grinded to a stop. “I’m going to kill your truck,” I gasped, my ribs sore from the laughter. “Don’t you have a delivery?”
His hand tightened around mine on the shifter. “It was worth the stop.” Releasing me, he pushed open the door and trudged through flattened grass to switch places with me. “It was good to see you smile.” Once behind the wheel, he faced me. “Admit it, driving clears the cobwebs.”