Stephen felt the charge that he enjoyed when driving powerful vehicles. This one might not be a mighty mite like his poor wounded Triumph, but it made up for its lack of speed with size and complexity.
He calmed himself down, checked for cars before he crossed the road, drove into the overgrown pasture and stopped.
Seth said, “Run through your checklist again.”
Stephen did with gestures.
“Don’t forget you have to pull out the choke to shut off the engine. Otherwise it keeps running. If you don’t disengage the gears, it’s happy to run right over you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, before you engage the Bush Hog and start cutting, I am backing off and so you can’t run over me.”
“You have no faith!” Stephen said with a grin.
Stephen inhaled a deep breath, lowered the Bush Hog, checked that the front loader was safely off the ground, checked and rechecked, and finally moved the accelerator lever forward.
It worked.
Now this was living!
It actually functioned precisely the way Seth had explained it would. He began to cut. The grinding noise was terrific, but not as loud as he’d feared.
He glanced back over his shoulder. Seth was relaxing by the road with his hands in his pockets.
Thud! Bump! Stephen felt a jolt. What was that? His heart gave an answering lurch. He barely touched the right brake pedal, but the monster pivoted to the right.
He looked down to see a fallen sapling hidden below the level of the grass, invisible to anyone not almost on top of it.
“Damn!” he whispered, pulled back on the accelerator, took his foot off the brake, came to a halt and sat a moment to get his pulse under control. It hit him that he was all alone in the cab of a giant, complex machine that cost a fortune and could land him in a heap of trouble in a millisecond.
“It’s okay, Seth,” he called and gave a thumbs-up sign. Seth smiled and returned it, but did not come to his aid.
He expelled his anxious breath, squared his shoulders and started again.
This time he bumped easily across the sapling.
This was nothing but a big lawn mower after all. He could handle it. He increased his speed as he became more comfortable. Ten acres hadn’t seemed like a lot. Now, seen from the cab of the tractor, it stretched away like the Great Plains—with a pond in the middle full of lily pads and no discernible boundaries between muddy marsh and dry land. The water was still and silver in the foggy morning.
“Whatever you do, do not drive into the pond.” He repeated Seth’s words. “Don’t even get close.” He glanced behind him. He’d created a neat, clipped swath.
Apparently satisfied that he was safe—well, safe-ish—at the controls, Seth no longer watched him but had gone back up his driveway.
Stephen began to whistle tunelessly. Time to check out the barn.
He drove carefully and kept the brush pile between himself and the pond. On closer view, the barn didn’t seem to be in such bad shape. The back third of the metal roof had fallen inside and hung precariously from one side of the rafters to the concrete floor. The remainder looked rusty but sound. It would all have to be pulled out and replaced.
None of the rafters had fallen. They might be rotten, but they, too, could be easily replaced.
Everything outside and inside was filthy, festooned with love vine and poison ivy and hung with spiderwebs. Easy to clean out. With a large enough crew, most of the work could be done in a couple of days. If a power washer could be hooked up to draw water from the pond, cleaning the walls and concrete floor would be relatively simple. Sonny Prather could sell him a generator to use until the county electrical authority ran lines from his house to provide power.
He had no idea about the state of the plumbing, assuming there was or had ever been any plumbing at all. As a city man, he had never concerned himself with septic tanks or wells. The Hovel had both. The well water in his house came from the aquifer that served the area and was soft, clean and sweet. Did the barn have a well? Or did it just pump water from the pond suitable for livestock but not for human consumption?
And how did one set up a new septic tank? Surely Seth could educate him.
He had been cutting the pasture on automatic pilot. Behind him the area he had finished wasn’t as smooth or as weed-free as a golf course, but reseeded and fertilized in the spring, it would make fine grazing. He could hardly wait to show Barbara what he had accomplished.
There must be plans for the barn somewhere. Emma might know where they were located. If not, then surely there were such creatures as county planners and trustees who kept plans. He was a researcher. If they existed—and they must—he would locate them.
There were no windows set into the solid barn walls, and no doors across either end, although the hardware to hang them was there. It would probably have to be replaced as well. There seemed to be sufficient height to build a flight cage inside the building. Barbara would have to call the shots on the rest of the interior, depending on what she decided should be done with it. If she wanted it for her rehabilitators, or to bring in more animal foundlings, or as a large animal adjunct to her clinic, that would be her choice. If she didn’t want to keep the place after Orville no longer strengthened his wings there, then he could rent it out as Emma and Seth had planned to do.
What if Emma didn’t want to sell? Or if he couldn’t afford it? She might not even want to lease it to him.
She had to. He was counting on it.
He wanted to give Barbara her flight cage for Christmas.
No, Orville needed it sooner. How soon should Orville start trying to fly? When could he be released? If they couldn’t work out a proper place to build his strength and teach him to catch his prey on the wing again, Barbara would be forced either to send him to the Memphis zoo, or to the facility in Kentucky. Orville would be essentially gone for good, whatever happened to him. He must convince her that keeping Orville under their control until they released him was doable.
He turned away from barn and lake and set the Bush Hog to cut again.
He’d have to work out the details with Barbara. If this wasn’t feasible, he’d do something else. Plan B was to enlarge Emma’s cage at The Hovel. Surely Orville wouldn’t need all that room for his initial attempts at flight.
He cut his way past the barn to the back of the acres farthest from the road and soon settled into a routine. He would not have been able to cut the overgrown back acreage if Seth had not already cut it once. The heavy brush and most of the downed saplings had already been piled up, which would be perfect for the Guy Fawkes bonfire that he hoped to have. He had less than ten days to find out about permits and hire the volunteer fire brigade to keep the fire under control.
Today, he hoped merely to avoid bouncing over more obstacles.
He had not accurately calculated the length of time the cutting required, or how quickly driving the tractor exhausted him. He’d imagined he would feel no more tension than he would driving a car. His Triumph was a simple animal compared to this. He felt as though he was guiding the first lunar rover over the unknown surface on the moon.
His head and neck ached, his back muscles pulled. His bum leg felt hot and sore.
No matter. He’d finish the job, even if he wound up back in the hospital when it was done. He couldn’t wait to show Barbara.
By the time he finished all but the area around the pond, a weak sun attempted to burn through the clouds. He slipped off his jacket and hung it over the back of the tractor seat. He was feeling confident. Who said farmers were born, not made? Simply a matter of embracing new skills. Old dogs—well, middle-aged dogs—could certainly learn new tricks. He felt as though he was really getting the hang of this country life.
He checked his watch. He’d been at this since about eight o’clock. Now it was close to noon. S
eth had said he wouldn’t be coming home from checking deer stands for a while, so he’d finish up, rinse the dirt off the tractor, park it back in its carport, knock on Emma’s door and convince her to go down to the café for lunch with him.
Barbara closed the clinic at noon on Saturdays, perhaps she’d come along. Then he could drive her by the pasture and brag about his skill with a tractor.
He drove circumspectly alongside the pond by the edge of the lily pads, where the ground was dry enough to hold the tractor. He was creating an actual divide between water and land.
He remembered reading someplace that lilies were frequently planted in polluted water. The plants sucked up the pollution into their roots and recycled them. Cities planted water lilies in their septic lagoons to clean them. The water he could see in the center of the pond looked crystal clear. Probably an illusion, but it must be potable for livestock and wildlife. He watched as a giant snapping turtle surfaced and slid back under the water the moment it glimpsed him. It looked big enough to eat the Bush Hog in one gulp. A holdover from the dinosaurs. At least there were no alligators...none that Seth had mentioned anyway.
He remembered Emma telling him about the deer that took refuge in the old barn. On this cloudy day, they would no doubt be out foraging and would be invisible to all but the trained eye. Seth could spot them among the trees, but Stephen doubted he could. So far he had not even seen a squirrel. Hardly surprising given the noise he made. Plenty of time for raccoons and rabbits to race out of his way.
Slurp.
In an instant the whole equipage slid sideways.
He jammed on both brakes and locked up all four tires.
That stopped the forward momentum, but the large rear tires continued their sideways slide, burying themselves in the mud along the edge of the pond.
The Bush Hog was lighter than the tractor. It didn’t slide, and kept the tractor nearly upright. It had twisted on its hitch, however, and now stood at an acute angle to both tractor and water.
Stephen looked behind him. How could he back the tractor up without jackknifing the Bush Hog farther and tearing it off its hitch?
The obvious solution was to pull forward. The Bush Hog would straighten up and follow the tractor back to straight and level ground. Dry ground.
He leaned out the open door on the left side and peered down to see if forward movement was possible. Then he remembered Seth’s comment about falling out. Doors came open. Or fools opened them and hung out of them. Precisely what Seth warned him not to do.
Nothing for it. He had to climb out and see firsthand. Before he got down, however, he had to shut down the tractor and engage all his brakes—however many there were. He thought he remembered. Wouldn’t do to leave even one brake disengaged while he was playing in the mud.
And mud it would be. He pulled his folding hiking stick from the pocket of his windbreaker. Not enough room in the cab to fully extend the stick, so he slipped the loop over his wrist so he couldn’t drop it in the mud or have it sucked out of his grip, held it outside the door and flicked it open.
He carefully stuck the tip down into the mud outside his door.
Oh, great. Just great. The good news was that the ferrule struck what felt like solid ground only a foot down in the mud. The bad news was that he was sitting in the cab of a giant tractor with its wheels stuck in a foot of mud. One foot between him and freedom.
Nothing for it but to climb down and leave the tractor unoccupied and driverless, while he floundered in the mud and tried not to slide under either the tractor or the Bush Hog and carve himself into small, bloody pieces on the blades.
Never mind getting it out of the mud. That came later. One of his professors used to say, “First, assess. Second, confess.” He’d have to confess.
He would have to call Seth to rescue him. He would have preferred to be beaten with whips and chains.
He must not call Emma. She would run across the road, or what passed for running at her stage of pregnancy, and attempt to help.
He swung out of the cab, stood for a second on the step, shoved his stick as deep as he could, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and stepped down.
For an instant the tractor shuddered and seemed to settle closer toward him.
Strictly an illusion. Wasn’t it?
He hated mud. Always had. When other children had made mud pies, he’d built sand castles. He told himself sand gave greater scope for architectural creativity in castles and forts than mud. Actually, he hated the way it squeezed between his fingers, and that it frequently stank. He was fully aware of both of those things now.
The rear tires—the big ones—were the only ones actually stuck in the mud, and only the left tire was sunk so deep that the hole it made had seeped full of water. The smaller front tires had been lifted clear like the front paws of a dog ready to jump on his master.
He held on to the front loader and sloshed his way around to the right side. At each step the mud tried unsuccessfully to pull his boot off his foot. By halfway around, he had worked out a method. First, plunge his stick into the mud. Second, pull his boot free of the mud. Third, step down into the mud and get stuck all over again. Stick, pull, repeat.
Breathe, if possible.
Though the right rear tire was not buried as deeply as the left, the moment he tried to rock it until it moved forward, it would bury itself hubcap-deep. He’d be on an even keel all right. He’d be stuck on both sides, not just one.
If he had a shovel and enough stamina, he might be able to dig himself out. Or if he could move some of those saplings to put under the tires, he might be able to use them as a kind of ramp.
Who was he kidding? They’d find him dead of a heart attack. He might be able to do it with Seth’s help but not alone.
He sat on the tractor’s step and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“YOU DID WHAT?” Barbara asked.
“I was cutting Emma’s pasture and got the tractor stuck in the mud. You have no idea how much damage making this phone call has done to my ego. I intend to go climb into a hole and not come out for the foreseeable future. Hey! Don’t you dare laugh!”
“I’m not laughing. Really.” She snickered. “All right, a tiny bit.”
“Oh, heck, go right ahead and dissolve in spasms of glee! I deserve it. How do I get it out?”
“Have you called Seth or Emma?”
“No! I do not dare call Emma. Seth is out on patrol heaven knows where. The only good thing is that so far Emma has not come out on her porch and noticed there is a problem. I pray she won’t.”
“Describe the situation.”
He gave her what he hoped were simple, cogent facts that did not adversely impact his manhood or make him look like a bigger idiot than he felt.
“Okay. I’m giving first shots to a Westie puppy, then we close for the weekend. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“To do what?”
“Get you out, doofus.”
* * *
BARBARA’S TRUCK PULLED into the pasture only ten minutes later.
“Don’t you get stuck, too,” Stephen said as he held her door open.
“This truck is equipped with four-wheel drive, heavy-duty transmission and winches front and back. There’s fifty feet of heavy chain in reserve back in the truck bed. I have to haul trailers and drive through muck all the time.” She reached up and touched his cheek with her index finger, then wiped it on his shirt front. “You have a long streak of mud down the side of your face. Not certain how you managed that, but it’s there. You have some on your shirt, too, so there’s no sense in getting myself dirty when you’re already a mess.” She sauntered over to the tractor.
Stephen noted that her rubber boots came higher than her knees, almost like fishing waders.
She frowned at the tractor, circl
ed it, both Bush Hog and front loader, much more easily than Stephen had. When she came back to him, she said, “Didn’t Seth warn you about the pond?”
“He did. I assumed—incorrectly, as it turned out—that so long as I stayed on the bank above the lily pads I was on safe ground.” He knew he sounded pompous as he tried to snatch some iota of dignity.
“Ask Emma about where the mud ends,” Barbara said. “When she came out here to explore, she only stuck her foot in the mud, not the whole tractor. Actually, this isn’t too bad. I may not even need the chain. Have you tried driving it out?”
“Of course. While I waited for you. I stopped when I saw I was making it worse.”
“Right. Let’s get started. Go sit in my truck out of the way.”
“But...”
“When was the last time you hauled a tractor out of the mud?”
“Never.”
“I have never taught a college history class, either. How about we play to our strengths. If I need you, I’ll holler.”
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
He trudged over and perched sideways on the front seat of Barbara’s truck with his feet in the mud. He watched her climb into the cab, leaving the left-hand door open as he had, and start the engine. She was going to try to rock it out of the mud. He’d tried. It didn’t work.
What if she fell out and was pulled under the wheels or the Bush Hog? What if the tractor turned over? Why had he called her and not Seth? If he got her hurt, he might as well let that Bush Hog roll right over him, too. He’d lost one love. He couldn’t bear to lose another. He ignored his choice of words.
He watched as the arms of the front loader lifted and stretched forward until the bucket between them moved up six or seven feet in the air. At its apex, she rotated the bucket until it faced straight down, curled over like a paw. She lowered it until its back rim dug into the mud.
Slowly she began to extend the arms forward like a child shoving away from the dining-room table. Against that much power, the tractor inched back.
Behind it, the Bush Hog continued to pivot. Barbara followed it as it turned.
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