agreed.
“That McKinley
seems a nice enough fella, but I
doubt if he'd know the front end of
a tractor from the
back. City slicker if I ever saw
one.
118
GOOD GUYS LOVE DOGS
They both chuckled. Ian stayed put,
feeling
inadequate in ways he'd never
imagined would bother
him. He'd gone to college on
scholarship and built a
career that earned him more money
than he would ever
likely spend, and yet he felt like
less than a man because
two old geezers labeled him as the
city boy he was.
When he got home, he put the paint
inside the
storage building behind the house
and looked out at the
farm. As much as he hated to admit
it, the Nolen
brothers were right. The weeds were
taking over. And it
was up to him to do something about
it.
The tractor sat parked at the back
of the barn, full
of gas, the mowing blade attached.
If he drove a car, he
could certainly drive this thing.
Not like it could be that
hard. He'd show those two old-timers
city slicker.
Luke was in school, and Mabel had
taken the day to
visit her brother two towns up the
Interstate. Rachel
had returned to New York. At least
if he messed up,
there would be no one here to
witness it.
He found the ignition and turned the
key. The
tractor sputtered and lurched
forward, coming
dangerously close to rolling through
the wall in front of
him. He slammed his foot on the
brake, realizing he'd
forgotten to press in the clutch.
Honest enough mistake. Might have
happened to
anyone.
He tried again. The old tractor
labored to life, black
smoke billowing out the back. He
fumbled with the
gears until he hit reverse. The
tractor torpedoed
119
INGLATH COOPER
backward out of the barn at a speed
that would have
flattened anyone unlucky enough to
be standing in its
path. Ian sent a frantic glance over
his shoulder to make
sure it hadn't done exactly that.
Saying a quick prayer of thanks, he
finagled the
transmission into first with a
grinding of metal against
metal, then lurched toward the south
pasture. He
arrived there in a frenzy of jerks
and starts that
suggested the engine might be on its
last leg. He
stopped at the gate, got out and
opened it, then rolled
through, the sputtering tractor
bouncing him around
like a basketball at center court.
Inside the field, he worked with a
few levers until he
figured out how to raise and lower
the mean-looking
blade attached to the back. That
took no time at all, and
with a ridiculous sense of pride, he
set off across the
pasture, the tall grass falling in
his wake.
Despite feeling as if he were in the
middle of a
“Green Acres
episode, he decided this wasn't too bad,
after all. No problem. Over the
years, he'd grown so
used to financial success that it
simply became a part of
what he did. As a reward, it had
lost some of its
gratification. But this, crazy as it
sounded, made him
feel as if he'd accomplished
something. He considered
driving into town just to roll past
Thurman's Hardware
and see the look of shock on the
faces of Dillard and
Willard Nolen.
He had too much time on his hands.
Clearly. Either
that or he was losing his mind.
120
GOOD GUYS LOVE DOGS
He worked on for an hour or more,
feeling
something almost peaceful about
jostling along on the
old tractor with the warm September
breeze tugging at
the collar of his shirt. He rolled
across a slope now, the
tractor at what all at once seemed
too steep an angle. He
probably shouldn't go any higher. .
. .
Suddenly, the machine tilted. For a
moment, it held
there, suspended, then tipped and
teetered drunkenly.
He tried to hold on, thinking it
would right itself.
In the next instant, he went
airborne, projecting
himself as far from the machine as
he could manage. He
landed on his back with a crack that
ripped the air from
his lungs. The blade hung over him,
swaying like a
guillotine about to drop.
Ian rolled, tumbling down the hill,
his head
slamming against the ground. And
before he figured out
whether he'd
“That McKinley
seems a nice enough fella, but I
doubt if he'd know the front end of
a tractor from the
back. City slicker if I ever saw
one.
118
GOOD GUYS LOVE DOGS
They both chuckled. Ian stayed put,
feeling
inadequate in ways he'd never
imagined would bother
him. He'd gone to college on
scholarship and built a
career that earned him more money
than he would ever
likely spend, and yet he felt like
less than a man because
two old geezers labeled him as the
city boy he was.
When he got home, he put the paint
inside the
storage building behind the house
and looked out at the
farm. As much as he hated to admit
it, the Nolen
brothers were right. The weeds were
taking over. And it
was up to him to do something about
it.
The tractor sat parked at the back
of the barn, full
of gas, the mowing blade attached.
If he drove a car, he
could certainly drive this thing.
Not like it could be that
hard. He'd show those two old-timers
city slicker.
Luke was in school, and Mabel had
taken the day to
visit her brother two towns up the
Interstate. Rachel
had returned to New York. At least
if he messed up,
there would be no one here to
witness it.
He found the ignition and turned the
key. The
tractor sputtered and lurched
forward, coming
dangerously close to rolling through
the wall in front of
him. He slammed his foot on the
brake, realizing he'd
forgotten to press in the clutch.
Honest enough mistake. Might have
happened to
anyone.
He tried again. The old tractor
labored to life, black
smoke billowing out the back. He
fumbled with the
gears until he hit reverse. The
tractor torpedoed
119
INGLATH COOPER
backward out of the barn at a speed
that would have
flattened anyone unlucky enough to
be standing in its
path. Ian sent a frantic glance over
his shoulder to make
sure it hadn't done exactly that.
Saying a quick prayer of thanks, he
finagled the
transmission into first with a
grinding of metal against
metal, then lurched toward the south
pasture. He
arrived there in a frenzy of jerks
and starts that
suggested the engine might be on its
last leg. He
stopped at the gate, got out and
opened it, then rolled
through, the sputtering tractor
bouncing him around
like a basketball at center court.
Inside the field, he worked with a
few levers until he
figured out how to raise and lower
the mean-looking
blade attached to the back. That
took no time at all, and
with a ridiculous sense of pride, he
set off across the
pasture, the tall grass falling in
his wake.
Despite feeling as if he were in the
middle of a
“Green Acres
episode, he decided this wasn't too bad,
after all. No problem. Over the
years, he'd grown so
used to financial success that it
simply became a part of
what he did. As a reward, it had
lost some of its
gratification. But this, crazy as it
sounded, made him
feel as if he'd accomplished
something. He considered
driving into town just to roll past
Thurman's Hardware
and see the look of shock on the
faces of Dillard and
Willard Nolen.
He had too much time on his hands.
Clearly. Either
that or he was losing his mind.
120
GOOD GUYS LOVE DOGS
He worked on for an hour or more,
feeling
something almost peaceful about
jostling along on the
old tractor with the warm September
breeze tugging at
the collar of his shirt. He rolled
across a slope now, the
tractor at what all at once seemed
too steep an angle. He
probably shouldn't go any higher. .
. .
Suddenly, the machine tilted. For a
moment, it held
there, suspended, then tipped and
teetered drunkenly.
He tried to hold on, thinking it
would right itself.
In the next instant, he went
airborne, projecting
himself as far from the machine as
he could manage. He
landed on his back with a crack that
ripped the air from
his lungs. The blade hung over him,
swaying like a
guillotine about to drop.
Ian rolled, tumbling down the hill,
his head
slamming against the ground. And
before he figured out
whether he'd
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