Several men chuckled.
Mercer’s smile disappeared for half a second.
Clara continued:
“It’s gasoline.”
Someone behind them said:
“She got you there, Cal.”
More laughter.
This time at Mercer.
His face reddened.
He leaned toward Clara.
“Back away from that tractor, little girl.”
“Your family’s finished.”
“And this land will be mine.”
Clara’s eyes filled instantly.
She hated herself for that.
Mercer noticed.
He seemed pleased.
She grabbed the steering wheel.
“My daddy died believing this farm could survive.”
“I’m not selling it to you.”
Mercer pointed toward the silent Farmall.
“When that junk won’t start, I’ll buy your acres for half what I offered yesterday.”
Clara wiped one tear away with her sleeve.
Then stepped onto the running board.
“Then listen carefully.”
Mercer laughed.
“Because when it starts, you’re the one coming back to ask me for something.”
The crowd shifted.
Someone whistled.
Mercer folded his arms.
“Go ahead.”
Clara climbed onto the seat.
Her boots barely reached the pedals properly.
She adjusted herself forward.
The auctioneer approached, irritated.
“We starting the bid or putting on a show?”
Mercer looked at him.
“Let her try.”
The auctioneer shrugged.
“Thirty seconds.”
Clara inserted the key.
Her father’s key.
The same bent brass key he had used for years.
Her fingers trembled.
She closed her eyes.
She thought about the cough from the night before.
Fuel.
Spark.
Timing.
Air.
Something still wrong.
She turned the key.
The starter dragged.
The engine rotated.
Once.
Twice.
Nothing.
Someone chuckled.
Clara released the key.
Mercer’s smile widened.
“Enough?”
She ignored him.
Her eyes moved toward the throttle lever.
Then the choke.
Her father’s voice came back.
Cold engine doesn't want what a warm one wants.
She set the throttle lower.
Choke halfway.
Turned again.
The engine coughed.
Several heads lifted.
Clara’s heart slammed.
She adjusted the choke slightly.
Again.
Cough.
Then a backfire cracked through the yard.
People jumped.
Mercer laughed.
“Sounds healthy.”
Clara did not hear him anymore.
The backfire mattered.
Spark.
Fuel.
But wrong moment.
Timing.
She looked toward the distributor.
The wire she had changed.
What if she had corrected the wrong thing?
She remembered her father’s notebook.
Firing order.
One-three-four-two.
Clockwise.
She jumped down.
“Thirty seconds is up,” the auctioneer said.
“Wait.”
Clara opened the side panel.
Mercer laughed.
“You going to rebuild it in front of us?”
She ignored him.
She traced plug wires.