The Pioneer Woman (17 page)

I, on the other hand, was fazed. I was extremely fazed. Adrenaline poured from my eyeballs.

“C'mon,” Marlboro Man said, grabbing my hand. But my feet were firmly planted. I wasn't moving another inch toward that fire. “Go ahead,” I said, shaking my head. “I'll just go wait in your pickup.”

“Okay,” he said, giving me a quick glance. “You'll be fine.” Then he broke into a run and jumped onto the back of the truck with Tim…and I watched as the three brave, psychotic men drove straight back into Hades.

I turned on my heels and walked briskly toward Marlboro Man's pickup, which glowed light orange from the fire behind me. After crawling into the backseat, I watched as the fire—and all the firefighters—traveled farther and farther away. The night air took over, and I rested my head against the door—eventually slumping over into a deep coma of a sleep. I dreamed that Marlboro Man and I were playing golf, and that he was wearing a kelly green Izod. He had a caddy named Teddy. Then, just as we started playing the back nine, I heard the door of the pickup open.

“Hey,” he said, his hand gently rubbing my back. I heard the diesel rattle of vehicles driving away from the scene.

“Hey,” I replied, sitting up and looking at my watch. It was 5:00
A.M
. “Are you okay?”

“Yep,” he said. “We finally got it out.” Marlboro Man's clothes were black. Heavy soot covered his drawn, exhausted face.

“Can I go home now?” I said. I was only halfway kidding. And actually, I wasn't kidding at all.

“Sorry about that,” Marlboro Man said, still rubbing my back. “That was crazy.” He gave a half-chuckle and kissed my forehead. I didn't know what to say.

Driving back to his house, the pickup was quiet. My mind began to race, which is never good at five in the morning. And then, inexplicably, just as we reached the road to his house, I lost it.

“So, why did you even take me there, anyway?” I said. “I mean, if I'm just going to ride in someone's pickup, why even bring me along? It's not like I was any help to anyone….”

Marlboro Man glanced over at me. His eyes were tired. “So…did you want to operate one of the sprayers?” he asked, an unfamiliar edge to his voice.

“No, I just…I mean….” I searched for the words. “I mean, that was just ridiculous! That was
dangerous
!”

“Well, prairie fires are dangerous,” Marlboro Man answered. “But that's life. Stuff like this happens.”

I was cranky. The nap had done little to calm me down. “
What
happens? You just drive right into fires and throw caution to the wind? I mean, people could die out there. I could have died.
You
could have died! I mean, do you realize how crazy that was?”

Marlboro Man looked straight ahead, rubbing his left eye and blinking. He looked exhausted. He looked spent.

We arrived in his driveway just in time to see the eastern sun peeking over the horse barn. Marlboro Man stopped his pickup, put it into park, and said, still looking straight ahead, “I took you with me…because I thought
you'd like to see a fire.” He turned off the pickup and opened his door. “And because I didn't want to leave you here by yourself.”

I didn't say anything. We both exited the pickup, and Marlboro Man began walking toward his house. And then, still walking, he said it—words that chilled me to the bone.

“I'll see you later.” He didn't even turn around.

I stood there, not knowing what to say, though deep down I knew I wouldn't have to. I knew that just as he'd always done anytime I'd ever been rendered speechless in his presence, he'd speak up, turn around, come to my rescue, hold me in his arms…and infuse love into my soul, as only he could do. He always swooped in to save me, and this time would be no different.

But he didn't turn around. He didn't speak up. He simply walked toward the house, toward the door on his back porch—the same porch door where, hours earlier, he and I had stood in a complete fit of romance and lust, where the heat between us was but a foreshadowing of the fire waiting for us in that distant prairie. Where I was safe and cozy and secure, and had Marlboro Man just the way I wanted him: with no accompanying danger, no risk, no interruption from the outside world, no scariness. Where I'd had Marlboro Man on my terms. And now a dumb, out-of-control prairie fire had come along and ruined it.

He didn't run over, swoop me up in his arms, or whisper love into my ear. I just stood there, alone, in Marlboro Man's driveway, suddenly painfully aware of the glaring ugliness of my outburst. And the only sound in my ear that morning would be the quiet click of his back door closing behind him.

I
STOOD THERE
in his driveway, not knowing whether to run after him or leave; the latter was certainly the easier of the two options. I'd never felt so exhausted; I felt needles in my eyes when I blinked. Never mind how Marlboro Man's eyes must have felt after staring into a blazing prairie fire for over four hours. I heard a mama cow moo in the distance. What was she telling me?
You were stooooooopid. Go in after him
. I wasn't sure what the right move was; he'd never put me in this position before. He always made the moves; he always flew in and saved the moment.

The romantic thing, the right thing, the brave thing would have been for me to follow him into his house. To grab him, to hug him, to embrace him…to say
I'm sorr
y, whether I felt that way or not. Acknowledge that it had been a rough night for both of us. Admit that I'd overreacted. Show him that I'm here for him, no matter what life brings, and that I love him more than anything. That's what my heart commanded me to do.

But my head took over and reminded my heart, which by now was thumping inside me, of the tone of Marlboro Man's voice moments earlier—the cold, distant, detached “see you later” that plunged a thousand icicles into my chest. And within moments, I was quietly pulling out of Marlboro Man's gravel driveway, trying to convince myself that the past several hours had been a bad dream…that I'd soon wake up to the familiar sound of Marlboro
Man saying “Hey, you…” over the phone. It had to have been a bad dream. But all the way home, my car phone remained deafeningly silent.

An hour later, I was pulling into my parents' driveway, the site of so many long, impassioned embraces between Marlboro Man and me. I'd lived in this house since third grade—had walked up to this same porch in everything from Sperry Top-Siders to Reebok high-tops to Birkenstocks. I'd stood on that porch, saying good night to prom dates and boyfriends and band geeks and tennis pros. But the ghosts of those dates were long gone; this porch had been forever etched with the soles of Marlboro Man's boots. He'd taken over everything—every speck of my focus and attention since I'd laid eyes on him in that bar in my hometown. It had been a whirlwind, a tsunami—a natural disaster of my judgment and resolve and self. One week with a Wrangler-wearing cowboy, and the entire course of my life had changed.

As I walked up the same driveway where it had all begun with a kiss between us, I knew without a doubt that it was the only thing I'd ever really wanted. I fell onto my bed and buried my head in my pillow, wanting desperately to fall fast asleep. But sleep wouldn't come, no matter how much I wanted it to rescue me from the horrible feeling in my stomach. I didn't want to feel what I was feeling—that a bubble had burst, that I'd gotten so angry and lost it the way I had. Unable to sleep, I got up and took a long, refreshing shower and went for a walk on the golf course.

I walked counter to the direction of the golf course: first down the seventh fairway to the seventh tee, and on to the sixth hole. Seeing early golfers in the distance—retirees with socks stretching halfway up their calves—I cut across the sixth fairway to continue my walk in the rough, a perfect reflection of the state of things that day.

A bird dog, cooped up in a wire dog run, barked at me as I walked past. “Shut up,” I snapped back, as if the dog even heard me, or cared. I was cranky; it had definitely set in. I looked around for any bird or squirrel who might want to cross me; I'd take them out with one cold stare. I'd been
awake for twenty-four hours, save for the deep, face-pressed-against-the-pickup nap in Marlboro Man's pickup while he fought the blazing fire early that morning. And we'd had our first fight since our delicious love affair began. It hadn't been a knock-down, drag-out fight, though; in a way, I wished it had been. Then I'd be able to put my finger on it, identify it, wrap my brain around what had happened.

Instead I was left with the cold shiver of the sound of Marlboro Man's voice—Marlboro Man, my beautiful love, saying “I'll see you later” as he walked away. I didn't even remember what had happened before that moment; I didn't even care. I just knew I felt tired and broken and wrong.

And the only person I had to talk to was a nameless bird dog on a golf course.

By now I was walking near the third green, near the home of a retired doctor. He was sitting on a wooden bench in his beautifully manicured backyard, his arm around a very attractive older woman—a woman who wasn't his wife of fifty years, who had died suddenly and unexpectedly two years earlier. This woman's husband, who'd also been a physician in town, had died of a heart attack just a short while before that. In their grief and loneliness, they'd found a common bond and had married each other a few months earlier.

“Good morning,” I said, waving as I walked by, managing a weak smile.

The couple waved and smiled, then resumed their original position: his arm around her shoulder, her hand resting on the inside of his leg. I loved the sight of two older adults showing each other physical attention suggestive of a more intimate relationship. As a woman madly in love, it only made me ache for Marlboro Man.

I wasn't the type to call. To pursue. To beg forgiveness. There was way too much of my mother in me: too much
I'm fine…I'm strong…I don't need you
to lay myself on the line with a phone call of contrition. But that morning, inexplicably, I made a circle around an enormous elm tree and
took off in a sprint back toward my parents' house. I had to talk to Marlboro Man—I couldn't take this stand-my-ground approach anymore.

As I ran that humid morning, I thought about the old doctor and his new wife sitting on that wooden bench. They had joy on their faces. Contentment, despite the life-altering grief of losing their respective spouses, was all around them. Together they'd picked up the pieces and found happiness. Not through golf or bridge or shopping or friends, but each other.

That was the happiness I'd found with Marlboro Man. And I wasn't about to let my pride screw it up. I picked up the pace, finally reaching my parents' backyard.

I walked into a quiet house. My parents were away on a weekend getaway, one of what would be a handful of last-ditch efforts to save their troubled marriage. My eyes were puffy and tired, but my walk had gotten my heart pumping. And though I knew Marlboro Man was likely sleeping off the exhaustion of the night before, I just knew I had to call. Whether he was dreaming or awake, I didn't want another moment to pass without reaching out to him. I wanted him to know that it had been the same exhaustion that had driven me to my early-morning outburst—exhaustion mixed with the adrenaline that comes from a near-death experience, but that was another topic for another time. I wanted him to know that I wasn't actually a reactive, histrionic brat. That I'd been overwhelmed by the fire.

And that I wanted to sit on a wooden bench in our backyard when we were eighty, with his arm around my shoulder and my hand on the inside of his leg.

I was so busy going through it all in my mind, I didn't realize I'd already dialed Marlboro Man's house, and that it had rung over a dozen times. I caught myself and immediately hung up. Only psychos let the phone ring over a dozen times.
It's just as well,
I thought. He needs to sleep. Then, slowly, the building exhaustion took over…and I crawled onto my parents' bed—one that, once upon a time, had been a joyful, safe place in our house—and drifted off into a deep, deep sleep.

I woke up in a dimly lit room. Was it dawn? Had I slept all night? I looked at my dad's circa 1984 electronic alarm clock. It was 7:23. My body felt heavy and weak, as if I'd just resurfaced from a season-long hibernation. When I put my feet on my parents' carpet and tried to stand, my knees nearly buckled. I looked into the backyard, rubbing both eyes with my knuckles. It was evening—I could tell. I'd slept for over nine hours. I inhaled deeply, then dragged myself up to the shower. The nap had been so heavy, I had to wash it off.

After my shower, I felt reborn. I was sure Marlboro Man would be rested by then—he'd likely been asleep earlier when I'd called—so I put on my favorite jeans and my equally favorite pink tank top and poured myself a glass of my mom's Far Niente chardonnay. Snuggling into a comfy chair in the living room, I reached for the phone and dialed Marlboro Man's house. I couldn't wait to hear his voice. To know that everything was fine.

Instead I heard the sultry whisper of a quiet female voice.

“Hello?” the woman said softly, as if she was trying to keep from being heard.

Startled, I hung up the phone.
Wrong number,
I told myself, then I carefully redialed Marlboro Man.

The same voice answered: “Hello?” The woman was young, breathless, busy.

I froze in my seat, then hurriedly hung up the phone again.

What the…

What in the world is going on?

 

I
SAT THERE
utterly unable to move—the young woman's breathy voice still resonating in my ears. My cheeks tingled; my entire body seized up. In a million years, I never would have expected this.

My thumbnail was between my front teeth, getting ripped to shreds.
What just happened? Who WAS that?
I was at a total loss for words, even as countless horrific thoughts swam furiously around my brain. It certainly hadn't been his mother, whose low, sophisticated voice was way too distinctive to miss. Marlboro Man's brother, Tim, wasn't dating anyone—that wasn't a possibility, either. Marlboro Man didn't have a housekeeper, a personal chef, an acupuncturist, or even a sister…and he lived too far off the beaten path to have any drop-by visitors. No scenario—absolutely no scenario on earth—made sense.

But even if there had been a legitimate reason for the presence of another woman in his house, I couldn't get past the sexy, hushed, secretive tone to the voice. It was no voice any mother or aunt would use to answer someone else's phone. The woman sounded young. Intimate. Lusty.

The woman sounded naked. Naked and tan and extremely petite and busty. I could almost see her face—the violet-blue eyes and the full, bee-stung lips. I wanted to turn off my mind so she'd go away and fade back into The Land of People Who Don't Exist, where she'd lived before this phone call.

But she wouldn't go back to her homeland. I'd seen enough movies to know exactly what that woman's hushed voice had meant. Without even being there, I knew. She was there with Marlboro Man. She was as in love with him as I was. She'd been waiting on the sidelines ever since he and I had gotten together. And in his frustration with our argument early that morning, he'd reached out and sought comfort in this girl…this woman…this dripping-with-lust voice on the other end of the phone. They'd spent the whole day together—he, resting and reveling in her company…she, doctoring his wounds and pouring loving salve on his soul. He'd told her about the fire he'd fought, and she'd felt sorry for him and rubbed his shoulders…then his back. Then she'd kissed every inch of his body to make him feel better.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHH!
My hands clamped over my face, powerless to stop my imagination.

Marlboro Man has just jumped into the shower, closing the bathroom door behind him. The phone rings. The sex kitten jumps up wrapped in a crisp bedsheet—the tightly woven white twill setting off her glistening bronze skin—and runs down the hallway to answer it. She has no freckles. Her sexy, tousled hair falls forward and tickles her cheeks as she picks up the phone. She suspects it's me—he'd warned her I might call—so she answers quietly, knowing Marlboro Man wouldn't want her to. But she had to answer—she wanted to mark her territory, to tell me “it's on” in her own way. She was there. And I was here. And Marlboro Man was in the shower. Naked. And she was ready to rub his back all night long.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHGGH
. I drew my legs up and curled up in a tight ball on the comfy chair on which I sat and cursed every movie I'd ever seen that involved a busty, petite, or bronze female character.

I took a deep breath, trying to suppress my building agitation. I felt sick. This wasn't an emotion I'd been remotely prepared to face—not that night, not in the past, not in the future. We'd just spent the past several months spending every evening together—how could this ever have happened? When? Of all the things I ever would have suspected, Marlboro Man seeking comfort in the arms of another woman was so far down the list, it had never even crossed my mind. It flew in the face of everything I'd come to know about him. He was way too transparent, I thought, to sneak around on the sidelines with another woman, no matter how petite and bronze she was. He couldn't possibly have been duplicitous all this time…could he?

Then again, it happens all the time. Maybe I'm one of those girls who doesn't have a clue until it blows up in a nuclear explosion of betrayal and pain. But…there's no way! Is there? My thumbnail was totally gone by now. My pupils were fixed and dilated. My pink tank top fluttered from the racing of my heart.

That's when the front door opened.

“He-he-he-hello?” the thundering voice announced. Great. It was Mike.

I took a deep breath. “Hi, Mike,” I managed, my head resting on my hand. My mind was going a million miles a minute.

“Hey.” Mike started in. I braced myself. I wasn't in the mood for Mike. I wasn't in the mood for anyone or anything. I just wanted to sit there and obsess. It had only been seven minutes since the sex kitten had entered my world, and I needed to figure it all out.

“
Yes,
Mike?” I answered, irritated.

Mike paused. “W-w-w-w-what's
your
problem?” Mike could always tell when I was in a bad mood.