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done
alright.”
    “If you call wreckin' alright. I've seen
demolition derbies with less damage than you do on a
racetrack.”
    “They aren't all my fault.”
    “Don't matter whose fault it is, the result's
the same. Scrap metal ain't a trophy.”
    Silence filled the truck cab again. Dell
wasn't used to defending his driving. Ever since his last argument
with his dad, he'd left the topic of his driving skill to the
commentators, and done his best to ignore them at the same time.
His avoidance skills weren't in question. They were trophy quality,
all the way.
    “How's the crew?” he asked.
    “They know their stuff. Might not be the best
in the business, but they're okay.” Dell had worked with less
skilled crews. “Biggest problem is, she's got some of 'em
pussy-whipped. That darn fool woman comes in the garage wearin'
those coveralls, tellin' 'em what to do.” Dell turned his head so
Russell wouldn't see him roll his eyes as the crew chief went off
on another misogynist rant. “Woman don't know her place. I blame
that on Stewart. He sent her away alright, but he sent her up
north. Filled her head with all that liberal women's lib shit.”
    Dell picked up on the only part of Russell's
tirade that was pertinent. “What does Caro tell them to do?”
    “Everything from engine adjustments to
bitchin' about keepin' the tools in order. I'm tellin' you, the
woman don't know her place,” he repeated.
    Dell didn't know anything about women's lib,
but he did know what century it was. “Does she know what she's
talking about, with the engine adjustments?”
    “Hell no! She's a woman.”
    “Are the mechanics taking her advice?”
Getting useful information out of Russell was harder than finding
gold in a coalmine.
    “Some.”
    He'd done a bit of research on Hawkins Racing
in the last week, and no one was arguing about the quality of their
engines. “You're still building your own engines?”
    “One of the few,” Russell said with pride. A
good engine builder could make a fortune building and selling to
other teams, but as far as he knew, Hawkins wasn't selling to
anyone else. He wondered why, but he wasn't going to ask Russell.
He'd bet his next trophy the answer would place the blame on
Caro.
    Dell mulled that over. He wondered how much
input Caro actually had when it came to the engines. Unlike
Russell, he didn't dismiss her knowledge because of her gender. The
Caro he remembered had a good, basic knowledge of a racecar when
she was ten, and if she'd spent the last decade increasing her
knowledge, she might know what she was talking about. He'd find out
soon enough.
    When Dell didn't respond, Russell continued.
“I don't know why she brought you on, and I don't give a damn why
you came. I suspect it had somethin' to do with the skirt in the
office, but as much as I hate the idea of a woman in this business,
I like that girl. I've known Carolina all her life, and so help me,
if you hurt her…well, I'll kill you myself.”
    Dell turned to watch the landscape speed by
and let a smile lift his lips. The old codger might have his
backward ways when it came to women, but he was loyal to a
fault.
    “Point taken,” he said.
    * * * *
    Dell drove the car into the stall allotted to
Hawkins Racing and killed the engine. The practice run was one of
the worst he'd ever had. The car had a shimmy on the right side and
was so loose, he almost spun out on the first turn before he
figured out how to control it through the others. He pulled his
helmet off and climbed out of the car. The crew had the hood up and
their heads together under it before his feet hit the floor.
    A familiar voice caught his attention. “Chet,
adjust the track bar. Raymond and Pete, see where the shimmy is
coming from.” Dell strolled around to the front of the car and
looked under the hood. Today, her hair was in a high ponytail that
brushed her right shoulder, partially obscuring her face. She was
elbow-deep in the engine compartment.
    “Hey, what's