The Pioneer Woman (5 page)

I laughed out loud. Getting my fill of Marlboro Man? I couldn't go five minutes after he dropped me off at night before smelling my shirt, searching for more of his scent. How much worse would my affliction be a month from now? Shaking my head in frustration, I stood up, walked to my closet, and began removing more clothes from their hangers. I folded sweaters and jackets and pajamas with one thing pulsating through my mind: no man—least of all some country bumpkin—was going to derail my move to the big city. And as I folded and placed each item in the open cardboard boxes by my door, I tried with all my might to beat back destiny with both hands.

I had no idea how futile my efforts would be.

H
E WASN'T
a country bumpkin. He was poised, gentlemanly, intelligent. And he was no mere man—at least no man the likes of whom I'd ever known. He was different. Strikingly different.

Marlboro Man was introspective and quiet, but not insecure. The product of an upbringing that involved early mornings of hard work and calm, still evenings miles away from civilization, he'd learned at an early age to be content with silence. I, on the other hand, was seemingly allergic to the quiet. Talking had always been what I did best—with all the wide-open airspace we, as humans, had been given, I saw no need to waste it. And as a middle child, I simply had a lot to say to the world.

I'd finally met my match with Marlboro Man. It had taken all of five seconds for his quiet manner to zap me that night we'd first met over four months earlier, and the more I'd been around it over the previous two weeks, the more certain I'd become convinced that this type of man—if not this man specifically—had to be my perfect match. In the short time I'd been with him, I'd seen clear examples of just how complementary our differences were. Where I'd once been quick to fill an empty conversational void with vapid words, I now began to rein it in when I was with him, stopping long enough for the silence between us to work its magic. Where he'd never learned to properly twirl a forkful of linguine around in a large
tablespoon, I was right there to show him the light. Where I'd normally be on the phone the second dinner ended, rounding up friends to go have a drink, he'd do the dishes and we'd watch a movie, maybe sit outside on the porch, weather permitting, to listen to coyotes howl, and contemplate life.

We lived life at entirely different paces. His day began before 5:00
A.M
., and his work was backbreaking, sweaty, grueling. I worked so I'd have something to do during the daylight hours, so I'd have a place to wear my black pumps, and so I could fund a nightlife full of gourmet food and colorful drinks. For Marlboro Man, nightlife meant relaxation, an earned reward for a long day of labor. For me, nightlife meant an opportunity to wear something new and gloss my lips.

At times the differences concerned me. Could I ever be with a man who'd never, in his entire life, eaten sushi? Could I, a former vegetarian, conceivably spend the rest of my life with a man who ate red meat at every meal? I'd never thought about it before. And, most concerning, could I ever—in a million years—live so far out in the country that I'd have to traverse five miles of gravel road to reach my house?

The Magic 8-Ball in my head revealed its answer:
OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD
.

And what was I doing even thinking about marriage, anyway? I knew good and well that with Marlboro Man, a rancher who lived on land that had been in his family for years, one thing was a certainty:
he was where he was,
and any future plans involving him would have to take place on his turf, not mine. It wasn't as if I could take off for Chicago armed with even the faintest hope that Marlboro Man might relocate there one day. Downtown Chicago isn't known for its abundant wheat-grazing pasture. His life was on the ranch, where he would likely remain forever. His dad was getting older, which meant Marlboro Man and his brother held the future of the ranch in their capable and calloused hands.

And so I found myself in the all-too-familiar position of deciding whether to frame my life around the circumstances of the man in my life.
I'd faced the same situation with J, when he'd wanted me to move to northern California with him. It had been difficult, but I'd held tightly to my pride and chosen to leave California instead. It had been a personal accomplishment, extricating myself from the comfortable shackles of a four-year relationship, and it had been the right decision. And so would my decision to stick to my plans to move to Chicago now, as hard as it would be to put the skids on my two-week love affair with Marlboro Man. I was a strong woman. I'd done it before—refused to follow a man—and I could do it again. It might sting for a short time, sure, but in the long run I'd feel good about it.

My phone rang, startling me smooth out of my internal feminist diatribe. It was late. Marlboro Man had dropped me off half an hour earlier; he was probably halfway home. I loved his phone calls. His late-at-night, I'm-just-thinking-about-you, I-just-wanted-to-say-good-night phone calls. I picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied. You sizzling specimen you.

“What're you doing?” he asked, casually.

I glanced down at the pile of tank tops I'd just neatly folded. “Oh, just reading a book,” I replied. Liar.

He continued, “Feel like talking?”

“Sure,” I said. “I'm not doing anything.” I crawled onto the comfortable chair in my room and nestled in.

“Well…come outside,” he said. “I'm parked in your driveway.”

My stomach lurched. He wasn't joking.

 

Y
OU'RE
…you're what? Where?
” I stood up and glimpsed myself in the mirror. I was a vision, having changed into satin pajama
pants, a torn USC sweatshirt, and polka-dotted toe socks, and to top it off, my hair was fastened in a haphazard knot on the top of my head with a no. 2 Ticonderoga pencil. Who wouldn't want me?

“I'm outside,” he repeated, throwing in a trademark chuckle just to be extra mean. “Get out here.”

“But…but…,” I stalled, hurriedly sliding the pencil out of my hair and running around the room, stripping off my pathetic house clothes and searching in vain for my favorite faded jeans. “But…but…I'm in my pajamas.”

Another trademark chuckle. “So?” he asked. “You'd better get out here or I'm comin' in….”

“Okay, okay…,” I replied. “I'll be right down.” Panting, I settled for my second-favorite jeans and my favorite sweater of all time, a faded light blue turtleneck I'd worn so much, it was almost part of my anatomy. Brushing my teeth in ten seconds flat, I scurried down the stairs and out the front door.

Marlboro Man was standing outside his pickup, hands inside his pockets, his back resting against the driver-side door. He grinned, and as I walked toward him, he stood up and walked toward me, too. We met in the middle—in between his vehicle and the front door—and without a moment of hesitation, greeted each other with a long, emotional kiss. There was nothing funny or lighthearted about it. That kiss meant business.

Our lips separated for a short moment. “I like your sweater,” he said, looking at the light blue cotton rib as if he'd seen it before. I'd hurriedly thrown it on the night we'd met a few months earlier.

“I think I wore this to the J-Bar that night…,” I said. “Do you remember?”

“Ummm, yeah,” he said, pulling me even closer. “I remember.” Maybe the sweater had magical powers. I'd have to be sure to hold on to it.

We kissed again, and I shivered in the cold night air. Wanting to get me out of the cold, he led me to his pickup and opened the door so we
could both climb in. The pickup was still warm and toasty, like a campfire was burning in the backseat. I looked at him, giggled like a schoolgirl, and asked, “What have you been doing all this time?”

“Oh, I was headed home,” he said, fiddling with my fingers. “But then I just turned around; I couldn't help it.” His hand found my upper back and pulled me closer. The windows were getting foggy. I felt like I was seventeen.

“I've got this problem,” he continued, in between kisses.

“Yeah?” I asked, playing dumb. My hand rested on his left bicep. My attraction soared to the heavens. He caressed the back of my head, messing up my hair…but I didn't care; I had other things on my mind.

“I'm crazy about you,” he said.

By now I was on his lap, right in the front seat of his Diesel Ford F250, making out with him as if I'd just discovered the concept. I had no idea how I'd gotten there—the diesel pickup or his lap. But I was there. And, burying my face in his neck, I quietly repeated his sentiments. “I'm crazy about you, too.”

I'd been afflicted with acute boy-craziness for over half my life. But what I was feeling for Marlboro Man was indescribably powerful. It was a primal attraction—the almost uncontrollable urge to wrap my arms and legs around him every time I looked into his eyes. The increased heart rate and respiration every time I heard his voice. The urge to have twelve thousand of his babies…and I wasn't even sure I wanted children.

“So anyway,” he continued.

That's when we heard the loud knocking on the pickup window. I jumped through the roof—it was after 2:00
A.M
. Who on earth could it be? The Son of Sam—it had to be! Marlboro Man rolled down the window, and a huge cloud of passion and steam escaped. It wasn't the Son of Sam. Worse—it was my mother. And she was wearing her heather gray cashmere robe.

“Reeee?” she sang. “Is that yoooou?” She leaned closer and peered through the window.

I slid off of Marlboro Man's lap and gave her a halfhearted wave. “Uh…hi, Mom. Yeah. It's just me.”

She laughed. “Oh, okay…whew! I just didn't know who was out here. I didn't recognize the car!” She looked at Marlboro Man, whom she'd met only one time before, when he picked me up for a date.

“Well, hello again!” she exclaimed, extending her manicured hand.

He took her hand and shook it gently. “Hello, ma'am,” he replied, his voice still thick with lust and emotion. I sank in my seat. I was an adult, and had just been caught parking at 2:00
A.M
. in the driveway of my parents' house by my robe-wearing mother. She'd seen the foggy windows. She'd seen me sitting on his lap. I felt like I'd just gotten grounded.

“Well, okay, then,” my mom said, turning around. “Good night, you two!” And with that, she flitted back into the house.

Marlboro Man and I looked at each other. I hid my face in my hands and shook my head. He chuckled, opened the door, and said, “C'mon…I'd better get you home before curfew.” My sweaty hands still hid my face.

He walked me to the door, and we stood on the top step. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he kissed me on the nose and said, “I'm glad I came back.” God, he was sweet.

“I'm glad you did, too,” I replied. “But…” I paused for a moment, gathering courage. “Did you have something you wanted to say?”

It was forward, yes—gutsy. But I wasn't going to let this moment pass. I didn't have many more moments with him, after all; soon I'd be gone to Chicago. Sitting in coffee shops at eleven at night, if I wanted. Working. Eventually going back to school. I'd be danged if I was going to miss what he'd started to say a few minutes earlier, before my mom and her cashmere robe showed up and spoiled everything.

Marlboro Man looked up at me and smiled, apparently pleased that I'd shown such assertiveness. An outgoing middle child all my life, with
him I'd become quiet, shy—an unrecognizable version of myself. He'd captured my heart so unexpectedly, so completely, I'd been rendered utterly incapable of speaking. He had this uncanny way of sucking the words right out of me and leaving nothing but pure, unadulterated passion in their place.

He grabbed me even more tightly. “Well, first of all,” he began, “I really…I really like you.” He looked into my eyes in a seeming effort to transmit the true meaning of each word straight into my psyche. All muscle tone disappeared from my body.

Marlboro Man was so willing to put himself out there, so unafraid to put forth his true feelings. I simply wasn't used to this. I was used to head games, tactics, apathy, aloofness. When it came to love and romance, I'd developed a rock-solid tolerance for mediocrity. And here, in two short weeks, Marlboro Man had blown it all to kingdom come.

There was nothing mediocre about Marlboro Man.

He had more to say; he didn't even pause to wait for a response. That, in his universe, was what a real man did.

“And…” He hesitated.

I listened. His voice was serious. Focused.

“And I just flat don't want you to leave,” he declared, holding me close, resting his chin on my cheek, speaking directly into my ear.

I paused. Took a breath. “Well—” I began.

He interrupted. “I know we've just been doing this for two weeks, and I know you've already made your plans, and I know we don't know what the future holds, but….” He looked at me and cupped my face in his hand, his other hand on my arm.

“I know,” I agreed, trying to muster some trite response. “I—”

He broke in again. He had some things to say. “If I didn't have the ranch, it'd be one thing,” he said. My pulse quickened. “But I…my life is here.”

“I know,” I said again. “I wouldn't….”

He continued, “I don't want to get in the middle of your plans. I just…” He paused, then kissed me on the cheek. “I don't want you to go.”

I was tongue-tied as usual. This was so strange for me, so foreign—that I could feel so strongly for someone I'd known for such a short time. To talk about our future would be premature; but to totally dismiss that we'd happened upon something special wouldn't be right, either. Something extraordinary had occurred between us—that fact was indisputable. It was the timing that left so much to be desired.

We were both bleary eyed, tired. Falling asleep standing up in each other's arms. Nothing more could be said that night; nothing could be resolved. He knew it, I knew it; so we settled on a long, lasting kiss and an all-encompassing hug before he turned around and walked away. Starting his diesel pickup. Driving down my parents' street. Driving back to his ranch.

I couldn't think; bed was all I could manage. I crawled under the covers with a faint lump in my throat.
What is that doing there? Go away, stop it. Leave me alone. I hate crying. It makes my head hurt. Makes my eyes puffy.
The lump was suddenly twice the size. I couldn't swallow. Then, against my wishes, the tears began to roll just before I fell into a deep, deep sleep.