The Pioneer Woman (14 page)

“I can't picture Ree…riding a horse.”

“She's the last person I would ever imagine in the country.”

“Whatever happened to her boyfriend in California?”

Halfway through my trip, my car phone rang. It was my sister, Betsy, who'd been home visiting for the past twenty-four hours.

“Mom just saw Carolyn at the gift shop.” Betsy laughed. “She said she'd just heard about you getting engaged and she could not
believe
you were actually going to be living in the country….” We both laughed, knowing this was going to become a regular thing.

I couldn't blame people for their doubts. The truth was, I still didn't even know how I'd manage it. Country life? As much time as I'd spent at Marlboro Man's house, the reality of a day-to-day rural existence was still a big unknown to me. I closed my eyes and tried to reconcile my future—a future in an as-yet-unidentified house, likely at the end of an as-yet-unidentified dusty gravel road far away from restaurants and shops and makeup counters—with my citified, pampered, self-absorbed existence. What would I do every day? What time would I have to get out of bed? Would there be hens involved? Though I'd dated Marlboro Man for some time, I'd never really spent the night with him…I'd never woken up to his schedule and watched how it all played out once his feet hit the floor. I couldn't imagine what I'd do with him in the morning. Would I eat Grape-Nuts in front of him, or wait till he left for the office? Wait—there
was no office. Would I go to work with him, or would I have to spend the day scrubbing clothes on the washboard…and hanging them on a clothesline? Where would Bounce come into play? If I sat still, my mind wandered. All the stereotypes I'd ever heard about country life swam around in my mind like a school of tiny fish. I was completely powerless to shake them.

I finally arrived back home and entered my house. Betsy had gone out with friends from high school, and when I walked into the kitchen I saw it—the elephant in the room: the door leading to the family room was closed; my parents were on the other side. The air was thick and suffocating. I could actually see, floating around my childhood home, what is normally invisible: tension, strife, conflict, pain. I realized I was a person split in two—giddy and fizzy and ecstatic about my future with Marlboro Man…and, simultaneously, devastated and filled with doom and dread over the knowledge my stable, normal, happy family life was coming apart before my eyes. How could this perfect, shiny house have spiraled downward into such a den of sadness? That it happened to coincide with my finding the greatest love of my life had to be a joke.

Dragging myself up to my bedroom, I kicked off my shoes and curled up on the soft chair next to my bed. I so wanted to leave, to avoid the whole godforsaken mess altogether. It was my parents' problem, after all—not mine. I certainly had no power to reunite them. But instead of being liberated and resigned to that reality, all I could think about was how on earth I'd be able to negotiate the next several months of my engagement. I could see it all in front of me—a never-ending, schizophrenic cycle of euphoric highs from being with my beloved…and abysmal lows the second I walked back into my parents' house. I wasn't sure I had the intestinal fortitude to withstand the roller coaster.

That's when my savior called. He called as he always did after we'd spent a day or evening together. He called to say good night…I had a good time today…what are you doing tomorrow…I love you. His calls
were a panacea; they instantly lifted me, reassured me, healed me, made everything whole again. This call was no different.

“Hey, you,” he said, his voice reaching new heights of sexiness.

“Hey,” I said, quietly sighing.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Sitting here,” I answered, hearing the muffled voices of my parents through my upstairs bedroom floor. “And thinking…”

“What about?” he said.

“Oh, I was thinking…,” I began, hesitating for a moment. “That I think I want to elope.”

Marlboro Man laughed at first. But when he realized I wasn't laughing, too, he stopped, and we both sat in silence.

 

Y
OU DO
?” Marlboro Man responded. “You want to elope?”

“Well yeah…kinda,” I responded. “What do you think?”

“Well,” he began. “What brought this on?” He didn't say it, but I knew he didn't want to elope. He wanted to have a wedding. He wanted to celebrate.

“Oh, I don't know.” I hesitated, not really knowing how I felt or what to say. “I was just thinking about it when you called.”

He paused for a moment. “You okay?” he asked. He'd detected the change in my voice, that a dark cloud had descended.

“Oh, I'm fine!” I reassured him. “I'm totally fine. I just…oh, I just thought it might be fun to run off together.”

But that wasn't at all what I meant.

What I meant was that I didn't want to have anything whatsoever to do with family celebrations, tensions, stress, or marital problems. I didn't want to have to worry from one day to the next whether my folks were going to hold it together through the next several months of wedding preparations. I just didn't want to deal with it anymore. I wanted to bail. I wanted it to go away.

But I didn't say that; it was too much for that late-night phone call, too much for me to explain.

“Well, I'm open,” Marlboro Man responded, yawning through his words. “We can just figure it out tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I said, yawning in return. “Good night…”

I fell asleep on my comfortable chair, hugging Fox Johnson, a worn-out Steiff animal my parents had given me back when we were a happy, perfect family.

 

C
OME OUT
today,” he said the next morning. “You can come help me finish burnin'.”

I smiled, knowing he didn't need my help at all. But I loved it when he phrased it that way.

“Oh, okay!” I said, rubbing my eyes. “What should I wear?”

Marlboro Man laughed, probably wondering how many years would pass before I'd quit asking that question.

Controlled burning, or, simply, burnin', as landowners usually call it, is usually done in the spring just as new grass growth would begin. Burning gets rid of the old, dead grass from the winter months and makes room for fresh, green grass to push through the ground more robustly. It also kills new weeds that have already popped up, since many weeds sprout first in early spring. Normally, burning is carried out from a Jeep or other open vehicle, the driver holding a torch out of the side, lighting grass as he goes. I'd seen Marlboro Man do it from afar but had never been up close and personal with the flames.
Maybe he needs me to drive the Jeep!
I thought.
Or, better yet, man the torch!
This could be really fun.

He asked me to meet him at the barn near his house, where his Jeep was parked. Just as I pulled up, I saw Marlboro Man exiting the barn…
with two horses in hand. My stomach felt funny as I scrunched up my nose and mouthed the word
crap
. I wasn't comfortable riding a horse, and like my parents' marital problems, I'd been secretly hoping this whole “horse thing” would just up and magically disappear.

When it came to horses, the problem wasn't that I was afraid—not at all. I thought horses were beautiful, and I'd never been nervous around animals. The problem wasn't my ability to get on or off the horse—this was one of the few things on the ranch in which a background in ballet was an asset. Neither did the smell bother me—I actually kind of liked it. My problem with horses had to do with the fact that any time the horse broke into a trot, my bottom wouldn't stay in the saddle. No matter what level of instruction Marlboro Man gave me, no matter how many pointers, a horse trot for me meant a repeated and violent
Slap! Slap! Slap!
on the seat of my saddle. My feet were fine—they'd stay securely in the stirrups. But I just couldn't figure out how to use the muscles in my legs correctly, and I hadn't yet learned how to post. It was so unpleasant, the whole riding-a-horse business: my bottom would slap, my torso would stiffen, and I'd be sore for days—not to mention that I looked like a complete freak while riding—kind of like a tree trunk with red, stringy hair. Short of taking the rectal temperatures of cows, I'd never felt more out of place doing anything in my life.

All of this rushed to the surface when I saw Marlboro Man walking toward me with two of his horses, one of which was clearly meant for me.
Where's my Jeep?
I thought.
Where's my torch? I don't want a horse. My bottom can't take it. Where's my Jeep?
I'd never wanted to drive a Jeep so much.

“Hey,” I said, walking toward him and smiling, trying to appear not only calm but also totally unconcerned about the reality that faced me. “Uh…I thought we were going burning.”

I clearly sounded out the
g.
It was a loud, clanging cymbal.

“Oh, we are,” he said, smiling. “But we've got to get to some areas the Jeep can't reach.”

My stomach lurched. For more than a couple of seconds, I actually considered feigning illness so I wouldn't have to go. What can I say? I wondered. That I feel like I'm going to throw up? Or should I just clutch my stomach, groan, then run behind the barn and make dramatic retching sounds? That could be highly effective. Marlboro Man will feel sorry for me and say, “It's okay…you just go on up to my house and rest. I'll be back later.” But I don't think I can go through with it; vomiting is so embarrassing! And besides, if Marlboro Man thinks I vomited, I might not get a kiss today….

“Oh, okay,” I said, smiling again and trying to prevent my face from betraying the utter dread that plagued me. I hadn't noticed, through all my inner torture and turmoil, that Marlboro Man and the horses had been walking closer to me. Before I knew it, Marlboro Man's right arm was wrapped around my waist while his other hand held the reins of the two horses. In another instant, he pulled me toward him in a tight grip and leaned in for a sweet, tender kiss—a kiss he seemed to savor even after our lips parted.

“Good morning,” he said sweetly, grinning that magical grin.

My knees went weak. I wasn't sure if it was the kiss itself…or the dread of riding.

We mounted our horses and began walking slowly up the hillside. When we reached the top, Marlboro Man pointed across a vast prairie. “See that thicket of trees over there?” he said. “That's where we're headed.” Almost immediately, he gave his horse a kick and began to trot across the flat plain. With no prompting from me at all, my horse followed suit. I braced myself, becoming stiff and rigid and resigning myself to looking like a freak in front of my love and also to at least a week of being too sore to move. I held on to the saddle, the reins, and my life as my horse took off in the same direction as Marlboro Man's.

Not two minutes into our ride, my horse slightly faltered after stepping in a shallow hole. Having no experience with this kind of thing, I reacted,
shrieking loudly and pulling wildly on my reins, simultaneously stiffening my body further. The combination didn't suit my horse, who decided, understandably, that he pretty much didn't want me on his back anymore. He began to buck, and my life flashed before my eyes—for the first time, I was deathly afraid of horses. I held on for dear life as the huge creature underneath me bounced and reared, but my body caught air, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I'd go flying.

In the distance, I heard Marlboro Man's voice. “Pull up on the reins! Pull up! Pull up!” My body acted immediately—it was used to responding instantly to that voice, after all—and I pulled up tightly on the horse's reins. This forced its head to an upright position, which made bucking virtually impossible for the horse. Problem was, I pulled up too tightly and quickly, and the horse reared up. I leaned forward and hugged the saddle, praying I wouldn't fall off backward and sustain a massive head injury. I liked my head. I wasn't ready to say good-bye to it.

By the time the horse's front legs hit the ground, my left leg was dangling out of its stirrup, even as all my dignity was dangling by a thread. Using my balletic agility, I quickly hopped off the horse, tripping and stumbling away the second my feet hit the ground. Instinctively, I began hurriedly walking away—from the horse, from the ranch, from the burning. I didn't know where I was going—back to L.A., I figured, or maybe I'd go through with Chicago after all. I didn't care; I just knew I had to keep walking. In the meantime, Marlboro Man had arrived at the scene and quickly calmed my horse, who by now was eating a leisurely morning snack of dead winter grass that had yet to be burned. The nag.

“You okay?” Marlboro Man called out. I didn't answer. I just kept on walking, determined to get the hell out of Dodge.

It took him about five seconds to catch up with me; I wasn't a very fast walker. “Hey,” he said, grabbing me around the waist and whipping me around so I was facing him. “Aww, it's okay. It happens.”

I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to hear it. I wanted him to let go of me and I wanted to keep on walking. I wanted to walk back down the hillside, start my car, and get out of there. I didn't know where I'd go, I just knew I wanted to go. I wanted away from all of it—riding horses, saddles, reins, bridles—I didn't want it anymore. I hated everything on that ranch. It was all stupid, dumb…and stupid.

Wriggling loose of his consoling embrace, I squealed, “I seriously can't
do this
!” My hands trembled wildly and my voice quivered. The tip of my nose began to sting, and tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn't like me to display such hysteria in the presence of a man. But being driven to the brink of death had brought me to this place. I felt like a wild animal. I was powerless to restrain myself. “I don't want to do this for the rest of my life!” I cried.