The Pioneer Woman (16 page)

This was what we brought each other, I realized. He showed me a slower pace, and permission to be comfortable in the absence of exciting plans on the horizon. I gave him, I realized, something different. Different from the girls he'd dated before—girls who actually knew a thing or two about country life. Different from his mom, who'd also grown up on a ranch. Different from all of his female cousins, who knew how to saddle and ride and who were born with their boots on. As the youngest son in a family of three boys, maybe he looked forward to experiencing life with someone who'd see the country with fresh eyes. Someone who'd appreciate how miraculously countercultural, how strange and set apart it all really is. Someone who couldn't ride to save her life. Who didn't know north from south, or east from west.

If that defined his criteria for a life partner, I was definitely the woman for the job.

I
T WAS
time for me to go that Thursday night. We'd just watched
Citizen Kane
—a throwback to my Cinema 190 class at USC—and it was late. And though a soft, cozy bed in one of the guest rooms sounded much more appealing than driving all the way home, I'd never really wanted to get into the habit of sleeping over at Marlboro Man's house. It was the Pretend-I'm-a-Proper-Country-Club-Girl in me, mixed with a healthy dose of fear that Marlboro Man's mother or grandmother would drop by early in the morning to bring Marlboro Man some warm muffins or some such thing and see my car parked in the driveway. Or even worse, come inside the house, and then I'd have to wrestle with whether or not to volunteer that
“I slept in a guest room! I slept in a guest room!”,
which only would have made me look more guilty.
Who needs that?
I'd told myself, and vowed never to put myself in that predicament.

With Marlboro Man's strong hands massaging my tired shoulders, I walked in front of him down the narrow porch toward the driveway, where my dusty car awaited me. But before I could take the step down he stopped me, grabbing a belt loop on the back of my Anne Kleins, and pulling me back toward him with rapid—almost shocking—force.

“Woooo!”
I exclaimed, startled at the jolt. My cry was so shrill, the coyotes answered back. I felt awkward. Marlboro Man moved in for the
kill, pulling my back tightly against his chest and wrapping his arms slowly around my waist. As I rested my arms on top of his hands and leaned my head back toward his shoulder, he buried his face in my neck. Suddenly, September seemed entirely too far away. I had to have this man to myself 24/7, as soon as humanly possible.

“I can't wait to marry you,” he whispered, each word sending a thousand shivers to my toes. I knew exactly what he meant. He wasn't talking about the wedding cake.

I was speechless, as usual. He had that effect on me. Because whatever he said, when it came to his feelings about me or his reflections on our relationship, made whatever I'd respond with sound ridiculous…lame…bumbling…awkward. If ever I said anything to him in return, it was something along the lines of “Yeah…me, too” or “I feel the same way” or the equally dumb “Aww, that's nice.” So I'd learned to just soak up the moment and not try to match him…but to show him I felt the same way. This time was no different; I reached my arm backward, caressing the nape of his neck as he nuzzled his face into mine, then turned around suddenly and threw my arms around him with every ounce of passion in my body.

Minutes later, we were back at the sliding glass door that led inside the house—me, leaning against the glass, Marlboro Man anchoring me there with his strong, convincing lips. I was a goner. My right leg hooked slowly around his calf.

And then, the sound—the loud ringing of the rotary phone inside. Marlboro Man ignored it through three rings, but it was late, and curiosity took over. “I'd better get that,” he said, each word dripping with heat. He ran inside to answer the phone, leaving me alone in a sultry, smoky cloud.
Saved by the bell,
I thought. Damn. I was dizzy, unable to steady myself. Was it the wine? Wait…I hadn't had any wine that night. I was drunk on his muscles. Wasted on his masculinity.

Within seconds, Marlboro Man was running back out the door.

“There's a fire,” he said hurriedly. “A big one—I've got to go.” Without pausing, he ran toward the pickup.

I stood there, still dazed and fizzy, still unable to feel my knees. And then, just as I was beginning to reflect on the utter irony that a prairie fire may have just saved my eternal soul from burning in hell for carnal sin, Marlboro Man's pickup flew into reverse and screeched abruptly to a halt at the edge of The Porch—our porch. Rolling down his window, he leaned out and yelled, “You comin'?”

“Oh…um…sure!” I replied, running toward the pickup and hopping inside.

A prairie fire. A real, live prairie fire,
I thought as Marlboro Man's diesel pickup peeled out of his gravel driveway.
Cool! This'll be so neat!
Moments later, as the pickup reached the top of the hill by his house, I could see an ominous orange glow in the distance.

I shuddered as I felt a chill go through me.

 

M
ARLBORO MAN'S
whole demeanor changed; a seriousness descended. Looking straight ahead, Marlboro Man drove with a clear purpose: to get to the scene of the fire as soon as humanly possible. I shivered with anticipation—I'd never seen a prairie fire before, let alone a prairie fire in the dead of night. I felt adventurous and excited, feeling twinges of the thrill I used to feel when my friends and I would explore the seedier parts of Los Angeles. There was always a rush, a jolt of energy I'd feel driving into the more dangerous areas of the city. It had been so far away from the idyllic seventh fairway on which I'd grown up.

So was the tallgrass of Marlboro Man's ranch. It was so natural, so wild, and it waved beautifully in the late-night breeze—the same breeze that was rapidly fueling the fire on the horizon. It was nothing like the grass on the golf course, which was always a precise, prescribed height—
usually measured in centimeters or inches—and was never unruly or out of control. Looking out in front of Marlboro Man's pickup at the impossibly tall bluestem, which was eerily lit by the headlights, I began to comprehend why prairie fires were such a serious business. And then, when his pickup reached the top of his hill and I could see the ranch in its entirety, I didn't have a hint of a doubt.

“Oh my…,” I gasped as I beheld the scope of the fire that engulfed the countryside.

“That's huge,” Marlboro Man said, accelerating.

The sense of thrill I'd felt moments earlier was replaced by impending doom as the inferno ahead of us grew more and more enormous. When we arrived at the scene, other pickups—many with large machines in the back—were just pulling up. Area cowboys and ranchers—mere silhouettes against the huge wall of fire—scrambled around, hopped onto spray trucks, and began fighting the fire.

When Marlboro Man and I got out of his pickup, we could feel the heat immediately.
What am I doing here?
I asked myself, looking down at my shoes. Joan & David flats, adorned with bronze and silver jewels. Absolutely perfect for the occasion.

“C'mon!” Marlboro Man shouted, jumping onto the back of a nearby spray truck driven by an elderly man. “Hop in there with Charlie!” He pointed toward the door of the old, royal blue vehicle. Not having many other appealing options, I ran to the truck and hopped inside. “Well…hi, darlin'!” the old man said, putting his truck into gear. “You ready?”

“Um, sure,” I replied. Who was Charlie? Had we met before? Why was I in his spray truck, and where was he taking me?

I would have asked Marlboro Man these questions, but he'd jumped onto the back of the truck too quickly. As far as I could tell, I was riding in the pickup with an elderly gentleman who was about to drive the both of us straight into hell. I guess I'd have to ask all my questions later…when they wouldn't be so relevant anymore. The fire seemed twice as large as it
had when we'd arrived moments earlier. I wished I was somewhere else. A seedy area of L.A. would be great.

Charlie stopped just short of the flames, whose heat I could feel through the windshield, then turned to the right and began driving parallel to the blaze. I saw Marlboro Man hop off the back of the pickup and direct the hose toward the fire, occasionally shielding his face with his other arm. I could hardly see a thing. Just fire, silhouettes, and my own life passing before my eyes.

 

W
HEN THERE'S
a fire in the country, everyone shows up. It's an unwritten rule, a universal rural truth. Helping neighbors fight fire on their land is the ultimate show of support and goodwill, not to mention a clear acknowledgment that prairie fires are no respecters of persons or fence lines and can quickly jump from ranch to ranch, taking nutritive grass, animals, and structures along with it. Plus, while it's probably only a small part, it's an excuse for a bunch of men to get together and, well, fight fire…to gather around a huge inferno and start up the sprayers…to drive around and extinguish flames…to light backfires and try to anticipate changes in the direction of the wind. Men, whether they admit it or not, thrive on that kind of thing.

Women, on the other hand, are not like that in the least, and minutes after Charlie had driven us within three feet of the fire, the novelty had worn off and melted into a pool of irritability and fear caused by a combination of the lateness of the hour, fear for my personal safety, and, most of all, anxiety over having to watch the father of my ninety-four future children standing in the face of what seemed like an entire planet of violent, whipping flames. The childhood I'd spent looking at X-rays in my dad's office, seeing my surgeon father calculate the risks of everything from skiing to go-carts and skateboards, seeing medical tragedies
and challenges firsthand…it all came rushing to the surface. It couldn't have helped that in high school, my best friend's sister had been critically burned in an explosion…and I'd seen firsthand how devastating burn injuries can be.

These were the thoughts that flooded my mind as I rode helplessly in the royal blue spray truck of some unknown man named Charlie, who was following closely behind Marlboro Man, who was, by now, following the fire down a steep, rocky slope. The vehicle rose and fell and bounced as its driver navigated the large stones, and Charlie occasionally had to accelerate to get over the larger humps…then slam on his brakes to keep from hitting Marlboro Man. My imagination went crazy—I could just see it: within minutes, Charlie would get the timing wrong and run over Marlboro Man. And then he'd be injured…and trapped…and burned. This was risky—ridiculously risky—behavior! It flew in the face of everything I understood about sensibly avoiding medical tragedies. Why did Marlboro Man have to bring me along, anyway? Why didn't he just let me go home earlier? I'd be close to home by now, home in my safe, smoke-free bed on the golf course. Away from burning bluestem. Away from the heat and the throbbing fear of something terrible happening and instantly changing my life. My life had already changed so drastically in the past year; I wasn't prepared for it to change again.

But what could I do? Roll down my window and tell Marlboro Man to stop that firefighting nonsense? Throw down his hose and drive me back to the house? Go back to his house with me? And stay there? We could watch a good action flick—that's so easy and so very danger free.
Yes,
I told myself.
That sounds like the perfect plan
.

Then I heard it—the voice over the CB radio.
“You're on fire! You're on fire!”
The voice repeated, this time with more urgency, “
Charlie! Get out! You're on fire!
”

I sat there, frozen, unable to process the reality of what I'd just heard
“Oh, shit!”
sweet little Charlie yelled, grabbing his door handle. “We've
got to get
out,
darlin'—
get outta here!”
He opened his door, swung his feeble knees around, and let gravity pull him out of the pickup; I, in turn, did the same. Covering my head instinctively as I ditched, I darted away from the vehicle, running smack-dab into Marlboro Man's brother, Tim, in the process. He was spraying the side of Charlie's pickup, which, by now, was engulfed in flames. I kept running until I was sure I was out of the path of danger.

“Ree! Where'd
you
come from?!?” Tim yelled, barely taking his eyes off the fire on the truck, which, by then, was almost extinguished. Tim hadn't known I was on the scene.
“You okay?”
he yelled, glancing over to make sure I wasn't on fire, too. A cowboy rushed to Charlie's aid on the other side of the truck. He was fine, too, bless his heart.

By now Marlboro Man had become aware of the commotion, not because he'd seen it happen through the smoke, but because his hose had reached the end of its slack and Charlie's truck was no longer following behind. Another spray truck had already rushed over to Marlboro Man's spot and resumed chasing the fire—the same fire that might have gobbled up a rickety, old spray truck, an equally rickety man named Charlie, and me. Luckily Tim had been nearby when a wind gust blew the flames over Charlie's truck, and had acted quickly.

The fire on the truck was out by now, and Marlboro Man rushed over, grabbed my shoulders, and looked me over—trying, in all the confusion, to make sure I was in one piece. And I was. Physically, I was perfectly fine. My nervous system, on the other hand, was a shambles.
“You okay?”
he shouted over the crackling sounds of the fire. All I could do was nod and bite my lip to keep from losing it.
Can I go home now?
was the only thing going through my mind. That, and
I want my mommy
. The fire was farther away by now, but it seemed to be growing in intensity. Even I could tell the wind had picked up.

Marlboro Man and Tim looked at each other…and burst out in nervous laughter—the kind of laugh you laugh when you almost fall but
don't; when your car almost goes off a cliff but comes to a stop right at the edge; when your winning team almost misses the winning pass but doesn't; or when your fiancée and a local cowboy are almost burned alive…but aren't. I might have laughed, too, if I could muster any breath. But my lungs were deflated; I couldn't get them to take in air. I wanted to believe it was the smoke; but I knew it was nothing but sheer panic.

Tim and Marlboro Man looked toward the fire. “C'mon, Charlie,” Tim said. “Why don't you drive us around to the north side and we'll take to it that way.” Charlie, who'd likely been through dozens of fires in his lifetime, jumped in Tim's driver's seat, undeterred. Did he realize how close he'd just come to being terribly injured? But Charlie, a tough, leathery cowboy, was completely unfazed.