“We can look at it. But we work methodically. Could take a week or more to diagnose.”
“I don’t pay for time. I pay for results.”
“Then you might want to stick with the dealership. We charge for both time and results. And we don’t rush.”
Nathaniel’s face reddened.
He wasn’t used to being told no, especially not by a teenage girl in oil-stained coveralls.
“Fine. But I expect updates every day. And if you can’t fix it, you don’t get paid.”
“Deal.”
After he left, Grandpa looked at me with something between admiration and concern.
“You know his son humiliated you. Called you stupid for being a girl interested in machines.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still going to help his father?”
“The tractor doesn’t care whose farm it’s on. It just needs to be fixed.”
“That’s more mature than I would have been at your age.”
We spent three days at the Caldwell farm, which was everything ours wasn’t.
New buildings.
Fresh paint.
Equipment that looked like it belonged in showrooms.
Their John Deere collection made our single Model B look like a museum piece.
West avoided me the first day.
Stayed in the house, probably embarrassed.
But on day two, curiosity got the better of him.
He wandered out to where Grandpa and I were working on his father’s International Harvester, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual.
“Figure out what’s wrong yet?”
“Still diagnosing. Complex electrical fault in the fuel injection system.”
He watched us work for maybe ten minutes.
Silent.
Then he spoke.
“I’m sorry about what I said last year. About girls not understanding machines.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“Just okay?”
“What do you want me to say, West? That it hurt? It did. That you were wrong? You were. But holding grudges takes energy. I’d rather use it learning things.”
He sat on a hay bale, looking younger than sixteen.
“My dad expects me to take over the farm. Four hundred acres. All the newest equipment. Everything.”
I waited.
“But I don’t understand any of it. I can drive a tractor, but I couldn’t fix one if my life depended on it.”
“So learn.”
“From who? My dad doesn’t have time to teach. The dealership guys just want to sell us new parts.”
“Mrs. Finch teaches welding on Saturday mornings. The library has books on engine mechanics. Or you could just admit you’re interested and find someone to mentor you.”
West looked at me like I’d suggested something revolutionary.
The idea that he could simply ask for help seemed foreign to him.
“Would you teach me? Not for free or anything. I’d pay.”
Before I could answer, Grandpa spoke up.
“You’d have to start at the beginning. Basic tools, basic principles. No shortcuts because you’re impatient or think you’re above manual labor.”
“I’m not above anything. I just want to understand what I’m doing instead of pretending I know.”
“All right, then. Saturdays. You come to our place, help with whatever needs doing, and we’ll teach you while we work.”
We fixed Nathaniel Caldwell’s tractor on the fourth day.
The problem was subtle, buried deep in the electrical system where most mechanics wouldn’t think to look.
But Grandpa had seen similar issues before, and between his experience and my systematic approach, we traced it down.
When the engine roared to life perfectly, Nathaniel’s expression went through several changes before settling on something that might have been respect.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Three hundred dollars. That’s four days at our standard rate.”