The Pioneer Woman

by Ree Drummond

  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.

  YOU’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.

  MY 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.

  Chapter Seven

  CHICAGO, ADIÓS

  WAIT 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 co
uld 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.