Becky almost let him drive, just to save his shoes. But it was too silly. It was less than a hundred yards from the back door of her brewery to Peggy’s airplane hangar, but it would be a half mile drive or more to reach the airport entrance and double back. The path was well-trodden—either she or Peggy tromped along it several times a week and at least once every Saturday morning—and it wasn’t too muddy from yesterday’s rain. The path ran through this corner of the broad field of hay. Her father had put a gate in the fence years ago. Becky still latched it every time out of happy memory of her father’s cows who always thought the airport grass looked so much sweeter. Every chance they had, they broke out, much to the consternation of pilots trying to land on the grass and gravel strip.
Th
