Page 168 of Story of My Life
I grabbed the keys off the hook on the wall and tossed them to her. “You’re driving.”
“Me? I’ve never operated a UTI.”
“UTV. Utility task vehicle,” I corrected her. “Think of it as a driving lesson. You need a damn car. You’ll die of dehydration in the summer and turn into a block of ice in the winter on a bike.”
“It’s on my list,” she said, giving me a wide berth as she approached the driver’s side of the muddy two-door vehicle. It was already full of dents and dings from nearly a decade of farm life.
I got in next to her and fastened my seat belt. “Key goes in the ignition. Gas, brake, shifter, just like a car. Try not to hit anything.”
Her glare was withering.
“Hurry it up, Trouble. I’m not missing out on meatloaf.”
She grumbled a few uncomplimentary things under her breath but still managed to get the UTV started.
“Gas pedal’s a little?—”
We shot through the open bay into the field before I could finish my warning. The hay bale on the flatbed behind us went flying. Hazel stomped on the brake, giving us both near whiplash when we came to a fast stop.
“Shut up,” she said preemptively.
“Let’s try that again,” I said, trying to make my death grip on the roll bar look casual.
This time she eased the gas down, and I didn’t nearly put my teeth through my tongue when we took off.
“Go around and follow the driveway,” I directed. “And keep it slow around the house or Mom’ll be pissed about the dust.”
Teeth in her lower lip and hands gripping the wheel like she was strangling it, Hazel carefully followed my directions. The cows and Diva the donkey were already lining up at the fence to be led across to the barn for their dinner.
“Park it, lead foot,” I said, with a tap on her thigh.
She brought us to a gravel-crunching halt, and I hopped out.
“What are you doing?”
“Feeding the girls,” I called over my shoulder. “Ready for dinner, ladies?” The three Holsteins flicked their tails. Bambi, the biggest one, let out an impatientmooo!Diva kicked at the ground and let loose an eardrum-splittingheehaw.
I swung the barnyard gate open, then backtracked to the pasture gate. “Get ready to chase down any runners,” I teased.
“Are you kidding me?” Hazel squawked from behind the wheel.
“Relax. They know where home is.” I opened the pasture gate and gave all three cows a slap on the rump when they paraded past into the yard. Diva followed, pausing for neck scratches. I put out their feed, checked their water, and, after a headbutt from Bambi, I secured the gate and climbed back in the vehicle.
“Your parents live on a petting zoo,” Hazel observed.
“A petting zoo for rejects. We used to have dairy cows and grow corn. But Dad couldn’t keep up with the labor after his stroke. Now we’re just a hobby farm for rescues.”
“People would come. Here I mean,” she said. “They’d pay money to come see the animals that you saved. Hear their stories. They’d donate so you could save more animals.”
“You’re saying tourists would come to Story Lake and pay money to pet Fart Blaster 2000?” I gestured toward the smaller of the cows, who had stuck her head over the fence and was trying to get one last scratch from me.
“Please tell me your nickname is Fart Blaster 2000,” she deadpanned.
“My parents made the epic grandparent mistake of letting Laura’s kids name all the rescues for a year,” I explained.
Hazel shook her head.
“What?” I asked.
