The Pioneer Woman (6 page)

 

M
Y PHONE
rang at eight the next morning, startling me from my coma.

“Hello, Ree?” the pleasant female voice said. It wasn't Marlboro Man.

“Yes?” I responded. I smelled Marlboro Man's delicious scent. Even in his absence, he was all around me.

“This is Rhonda,” the voice continued. “I'm just calling about your one-bedroom on Goethe?”

It was a great place, close to where my older brother lived. White paint, wood floors, good location. Nothing overly large or fancy, judging
from the photos they'd sent, but so perfect for what I needed. I'd plunked down a healthy deposit on the place as soon as it became available the week before my brother's wedding, knowing I'd be up there within the month. Reasonably priced for what it was, the apartment would soon be my home, my haven, my New Jerusalem. Tiny as it was. There was plenty of room for all of my black pumps, plenty of room for a comfy bed. And no room whatsoever for a boy.

But my original move-in date had come and gone. I was stalling, delaying, putting off the inevitable. Swapping kisses with a cowboy. Dying daily in his arms.

“Are you still planning to move in this week?” Rhonda the Realtor continued. “Because we'll need to go ahead and get your first month's rent as soon as possible.”

“Oh.” I sat up. “I'm so sorry; I've been packing and getting ready to go, and it's gone a little more slowly than I thought.”

“Oh, no problem,” she said. “That's fine. We'll just need it by the end of this week, otherwise we'll have to let the place go, as a few other people are interested.”

“Okay, thanks for calling,” I replied. “See you soon.”

I hung up the phone and fell backward, staring at the ceiling. I had things to do—I had to get busy. Stumbling to my bathroom, I fastened my hair in a knot and splashed icy cold water on my face. Brushing my teeth and looking at my reflection in the mirror, I knew what I had to do.
Okay,
I told myself, nodding.
Let's get this show on the road.

Returning to my bedroom, I picked up the phone and clicked the caller ID button to reveal Rhonda the Realtor's phone number. Dialing the number, I took a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled.

“Hi, Rhonda—this is Ree again,” I said when she picked up her phone. “Listen, I'm so sorry—but my plans have changed. I'm going to have to let the place go after all.”

“Oh…Ree, are you sure?” Rhonda asked. “But you'll lose your deposit.”

“Yeah, I'm sure,” I said, feeling my heart thumping through my chest. “Go ahead and let it go.”

I fell on my bed, my face tingling with unease, feeling not unlike a psychotic horse running wildly into a flaming barn. That's how sure I was of my decision.

W
AIT A
minute. What had I just decided? What did all of this mean? I looked across the room at my boxes of clothes, my bags of belongings, stacked neatly by my bedroom door. They'd been packed with purpose and resolve. It was going to be seamless, my new start as an Independent Woman of the Midwest. And now, in the blink of an eye, it was Gone with the Wind.

What had I done?
I loved that apartment. I'd spent so much time picturing myself there—where I'd put my bed, where I'd hang my collection of black-and-white prints of Mikhail Baryshnikov. Months from now, when I'd eventually come to my senses and move to Chicago as originally planned, there's no way I'll find another apartment like this one.

In an internal panic, I picked up the phone and hurriedly pushed redial. I had to catch Rhonda the Realtor, had to tell her wait, hold off, don't let it go, I'm not sure, hang on, give me another day…or two…or three. But when the numbers finished dialing, I heard no ringing; instead, in a perfect moment of irony, coincidence, and serendipity, I heard Marlboro Man's voice on the other end.

“Hello?” he asked.

“Oh,” I replied. “Hello?”

“Hey, you,” he replied.

So much for calling Rhonda the Realtor. Three seconds into the phone call, Marlboro Man's voice had already taken hold. His voice. It weakened my knees, destroyed my focus, ruined my resolve. When I heard his voice, I could think of nothing but wanting to see him again, to be in his presence, to drink him in, to melt like butter in his impossibly strong arms. When I heard his voice, Chicago became nothing but a distant memory.

“What're you up to?” he continued. I could hear cattle in the background.

“Oh, just getting a few things done,” I said. “Just tying up a few loose ends.”

“You're not moving to Chicago today, are you?” he said with a chuckle. He was only halfway joking.

I laughed, rolling over in my bed and fiddling with the eyelet ruffle on my comforter. “Nope, not today,” I answered. “What are you doing?”

“Coming to pick you up in a little bit,” he said. I loved it when he took charge. It made my heart skip a beat, made me feel flushed and excited and thrilled. After four years with J, I was sick and tired of the surfer mentality. Laid-back, I'd discovered, was no longer something I wanted in a man. And when it came to his affection for me, Marlboro Man was anything but that. “I'll be there at five.” Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir. I'll be ready. With bells on.

I started getting ready at three. I showered, shaved, powdered, perfumed, brushed, curled, and primped for two whole hours—throwing on a light pink shirt and my favorite jeans—all in an effort to appear as if I'd simply thrown myself together at the last minute.

It worked. “Man,” Marlboro Man said when I opened the door. “You look great.” I couldn't focus very long on his compliment, though—I was way too distracted by the way
he
looked. God, he was gorgeous. At a time of year when most people are still milky white, his long days of working cattle had afforded him a beautiful, golden, late-spring tan. And his typical denim button-down shirts had been replaced by a more fitted
dark gray polo, the kind of shirt that perfectly emphasizes biceps born not from working out in a gym, but from tough, gritty, hands-on labor. And his prematurely gray hair, very short, was just the icing on the cake. I could eat this man with a spoon.

“You do, too,” I replied, trying to will away my spiking hormones. He opened the door to his white diesel pickup, and I climbed right in. I didn't even ask him where we were going; I didn't even care. But when we turned west on the highway and headed out of town, I knew exactly where he was taking me: to his ranch…to his turf…to his home on the range. Though I didn't expect or require a ride from him, I secretly loved that he drove over an hour to fetch me. It was a throwback to a different time, a burst of chivalry and courtship in this very modern world. As we drove we talked and talked—about our friends, about our families, about movies and books and horses and cattle.

We talked about everything but Chicago.

I wanted so badly to tell him, but I couldn't. I wanted to tell him that I'd impulsively decided—within a period of five minutes earlier that morning—that I couldn't leave him. That I'd indefinitely put on hold—if not nixed altogether—my plans to move away. That I had a new plan now, and that was to be with him. But for some reason, the words just wouldn't come.

Instead of continuing on the highway to the gravel road that led to his house, Marlboro Man took an alternate route. “I've got to turn some cattle out of the horse trap,” he said. I didn't even know what that meant, but I was game. He drove through a series of twisted, confusing roads—roads I could never imagine understanding or negotiating myself—and stopped at a pasture full of black cattle. Swinging open a couple of gates, he made a few gestures with his arms—and in no time at all, the cattle had gone where they were supposed to go. This man had a way of getting creatures of all kinds—whether it be bovine animals or redheaded women in their midtwenties—to bend to his influence.

We took the long way back toward his house and drove past the northernmost point of the ranch just as the sun was beginning to set. “That's so pretty,” I exclaimed as I beheld the beauty of the sky.

Marlboro Man slowed to a stop and put his pickup in park. “It is, isn't it?” he replied, looking over the land on which he'd grown up. He'd lived there since he was four days old, had worked there as a child, had learned how to be a rancher from his dad and grandfather and great-grandfather. He'd learned how to build fences and handle animals and extinguish prairie fires and raise cattle of all colors, shapes, and sizes. He'd helped bury his older brother in the family cemetery near his house, and he'd learned to pick up and go on in the face of unspeakable tragedy and sadness. This ranch was a part of him. His love for it was tangible.

We got out of the pickup and sat on the back, holding hands and watching every second of the magenta sunset as it slowly dissipated into the blackness underneath. The night was warm and perfectly still—so still we could hear each other breathing. And well after the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the sky grew dark, we stayed on the back of the pickup, hugging and kissing as if we hadn't seen each other in ages. The passion I felt was immeasurable.

“I have something to tell you,” I said as the butterflies in my gut kicked into overdrive.

 

M
ARLBORO MAN
paused, his eyes piercing through to my marrow. We'd started out watching the sunset over the ranch, sitting on the tailgate of his pickup, legs dangling playfully over the edge. By the time the sun had gone down, we were lying down, legs overlapping, as the sky turned blacker and blacker. And making out wildly. Making out, oh, so very wildly.

I didn't want to wait for him to bring it up again—the dreaded subject
of Chicago. I'd avoided it like the plague for the past several days, not wanting to face the reality of my impending move, of walking away from my new love so soon after we'd found each other. But now the subject wasn't so scary; it was safe. I'd made the decision, at least for now, to stay—I just had to tell Marlboro Man. And finally, in between kisses, the words bubbled suddenly and boldly to the surface; I could no longer contain them. But before I had a chance to say them, Marlboro Man opened his mouth and began to speak.

“Oh no,” he said, a pained expression on his face. “Don't tell me—you're leaving tomorrow.” He ran his fingers through my hair and touched his forehead to mine.

I smiled, giggling inside at the secret I was seconds away from spilling. A herd of cows mooed in the distance. Serenading us.

“Um…no,” I said, finding it hard to believe what I was about to tell him. “I'm not…I'm…I'm not going.”

He paused, then pulled his face away from mine, allowing just enough distance between us for him to pull focus. “What?” he asked, his strong fingers still grasping my hair. A tentative smile appeared on his face.

I breathed in a deep dose of night air, trying to calm my schoolgirl nervousness. “I, umm…” I began. “I decided to stick around here a little while.” There. I'd said it. This was all officially real.

Without a moment of hesitation, Marlboro Man wrapped his ample arms around my waist. Then, in what seemed to be less than a second, he hoisted me from my horizontal position on the bed of his pickup until we were both standing in front of each other. Scooping me off my feet, he raised me up to his height so his icy blue eyes were level with mine.

“Wait…are you serious?” he asked, taking my face in his hands. Squaring it in front of his. Looking me in the eye. “You're not going?”

“Nope,” I answered.

“Whoa,” he said, smiling and moving in for a long, impassioned kiss on the back of his Ford F250. “I can't believe it,” he continued, squeezing me tightly.

Our knees buckled under the heat, and before I knew it we were back where we'd been before, rolling around and kissing manically in the bed of his diesel pickup. Occasionally my arm would hit a crowbar and my head would slam against a spare tire or a cattle prod or a jack; I didn't care, of course. I'd said what I wanted to say that night. Everything else—even minor head injuries—was a piece of cake.

We stayed there a long, long time, the balmy night air giving us no good reason to leave. Under the innumerable stars, amidst all the embraces and kisses and sounds from the surrounding livestock, I suddenly felt more at peace in my decision than I had since my phone call with Rhonda the Realtor that morning. I felt at home, comfortable, nestled in, wonderful. My life had changed that day, changed in a way I never, ever, could have predicted. My big-city plans—plans many months in the making—had all at once been smashed to smithereens by a six-foot cowboy with manure on his boots. A cowboy I'd known, essentially, for less than three weeks. It was the craziest thing I'd ever done, deciding to take an impulsive walk down this new and unexpected path. And while I secretly wondered how long it would take for me to regret my decision, I rested easily, at least for that night, in the knowledge that I'd had the courage to step out on such an enormous limb.

It was late. Time to go. “Want me to drive you home now?” Marlboro Man asked, lacing our fingers together, kissing the back of my hand. “Or, do you….” He paused, considering his words. “Do you want to come stay at my place?”

 

I
DIDN'T ANSWER
right away; I was too busy savoring the moment. The delicious night air, the music of mama cows in a distant pasture, the trillions of stars overhead, the feeling of his fingers entwined in mine. The night couldn't have gone any more perfectly. I'm not
sure anything, even going home with him, could possibly make it any better.

I started to open my mouth, but Marlboro Man beat me to it. Standing up and lifting me off the tailgate of his pickup, he carried me, Rhett Butler–style, toward the passenger door. Setting me down and opening my door, he said, “On second thought…I think I'd better take you home.” I smiled, convinced he must have read my mind.

Whether he had or not, the fact was that instantly and noticeably the whole vibe between us had changed. Before I'd dumped my Chicago apartment and told him my plans to stay, the passion between us had sometimes felt urgent, rushed, almost as if some imaginary force was compelling us to get it all out right here, right now, because before too long we wouldn't have the chance. There'd been a quiet desperation in our romance up until that point, feelings of excitement and lust mixed with an uncomfortable hint of doom and dread. But now that my move had all but been eliminated from the equation, the doom and dread had been replaced with a beautiful sense of comfort. In the blink of an eye, Marlboro Man and I, while madly and insanely in love, were no longer in any hurry.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding my head. “I agree.”

Man, did I ever have a way with words.

He drove me home, through all the windy roads of his ranch and down the two-lane highway that eventually led to my parents' house on the golf course. And when he walked me to the door, I marveled at how different it felt. Every time I'd stood with Marlboro Man on those same front porch steps, I'd felt the pull of my boxes beckoning me to come inside, to finish packing, to get ready to leave. Packing after our dates had become a regular activity, a ritual, an effort, on my part, to keep my plans moving along despite my ever-growing affection for this new and unexpected man in my life. And now, this night, standing here in his arms, the only thing left to do was unpack them. Or leave them there; I didn't care. I wasn't going anywhere. At least not for now.

“I didn't expect this,” he said, his arms around my waist.

“I didn't expect it either,” I said, laughing.

He moved in for one final kiss, the perfect ending for such a night. “You made my day,” he whispered, before walking to his pickup and driving away.

As I turned to walk into the house and up the stairs to my bedroom, every nerve ending in my body tingled. If this wasn't love, I reflected, then love should just be discontinued entirely. As I walked into my room, I glanced at my boxes with a tickly mixture of melancholy and glee, then flopped onto my comfy bed, kicking off my shoes, and sighing dreamily.

The loud ring of my phone jarred me awake an hour later. Still exhausted from the night before, I'd fallen asleep in my clothes. “Hello?” I said, still almost entirely asleep. Disoriented, confused, drunk on lust and country air.

“Hey…it's me,” the person on the line said. The voice was quiet. Grave. It was J.

I wasn't expecting this. “Hi,” I said, forcing myself to a seated position on my bed, my comforter draped over my shoulders. “What are you doing?”
(Please say you're not at the airport.)