At Every Turn Read Online Free PDF Page B

not—”
    “I need to drive her. Please?” I clasped my hands in front of my chest, knuckles whitening. “Father needn’t know.”
    One of his eyebrows rose. “Because no one will notice a half-built racing car tearing up the roads. Or a woman behind its wheel.”
    “Not if we take her out to the track.” I plucked an old duster from a nail on the wall, thankful I’d traded my Sunday corset for a newfangled brassiere. I buttoned the duster over my simple dress before settling a pair of goggles on top of my head. “You coming or not?”
    “Ally, you can’t—” His nostrils flared, but his eyes twinkled. He grabbed another pair of goggles. “I’m certainly not letting you take it out alone.” He jogged to the doors, pushed them open wide, and met me behind the car. We rolled her into the open before he cranked the engine to life. The roar reverberated through my head. And with every rumble, my excitement climbed.
    Webster shut the doors of the carriage-house-turned-garage and hopped in beside me. I eased the auto into gear and puttered down the brick drive. We moved slowly at first, past the house and onto the hard dirt road out front. I turned left, away from town.
    “Hold on.” I eased off the clutch and let the gas out a bit.
    “Don’t let ’er go till we hit the track,” Webster called out over the engine’s noise.
    I nodded, both hands on the wheel.
    “So what happened?” Webster laced his hands behind his head and slouched lazily in the seat beside me.
    I raised my voice above the din. “I asked Father for some money.”
    “Money for what?” he shouted over the motor and the wind.
    A small gap appeared in the tall grass of a fallow field. My foot jammed down on the brake pedal as I jerked left, into the wheel ruts. The uneven path threatened to jolt me from the car. I gripped the wheel more tightly, focused all my effort on maintaining control of the car as the path carried us toward the back of Father’s property.
    A clump of trees to my left drew nearer. Waving grass obscured the half-mile dirt oval from any but those who knew of it. Father. Me. And Webster.
    No errant stones or holes marred the surface of the track. Webster must have been here recently. I motored onto the more level surface. Spark plugs firing fast, gas flowing without restraint, we surged forward.
    The first turn came quickly. I eased off my speed and held us steady, eyes locked on the straightaway. Then we gained speed again.
    Three laps around the oval. I shifted gears once more. We flew forward, the speedometer inching up toward fifty miles per hour as Webster squeezed the bulb of the pump beside him to send more oil to the engine.
    The sun rose higher, transforming the moist coolness of morning into sultry summer air that slammed against my cheeks and tangled curls about my face.
    “Sixty-seven,” I yelled, glancing at Webster and pointing to the speedometer. A grin stretched across his face, shoving his round cheeks closer to his goggled eyes. I hunched over the steering wheel, head low, eyes on the path slipping beneath my tires.
    “Watch the curve.” Webster’s voice sounded far away. I eased back just a bit on the gas and pressed the brake as I rounded the far end of the track.
    Then, with another straight stretch before me, we shot forward, even faster than before. I peeked down. The needle quivered at seventy-two. My breath caught in my throat as a thrill shivered down my spine. Could I go faster? Heart pounding, I rested my thumb on the lever in the center of the steering wheel.
    Webster’s hand appeared on top of mine. He wanted me to slow down. Rounding the track once more, I moderated the spark plugs, the gas, employed the brake, until finally, after another lap, we ambled off across the field and arrived at the real road once more. I turned the car opposite of home and tooled along at a respectable twenty miles per hour.
    I looked at Webster. He raised his eyebrows in question as he slung his arm