The Pioneer Woman

by Ree Drummond

  We spent every possible moment together, driving around his ranch, cooking each other dinner, watching movies…trying our best to practice restraint on the comfortable couch in the living room of his isolated house on the ranch. And we largely remained alone on our dates, as nightclubs and parties weren’t anywhere to be had. And we had no use for them anyway; socializing and meeting people weren’t high on our agenda. We had way too much to learn about each other.

  Soon, however, Marlboro Man decided it was time for me to meet his brother, Tim. The call came on my car phone as I drove to his ranch one evening, as I stared out of the windshield of my car and looked forward with eager anticipation to the glorious evening ahead of me. I’d have Marlboro Man all to myself. I’d get to crawl into those magical arms and forget the world around me. Though it had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d last seen him, I couldn’t wait to get my fix.

  “Hey,” Marlboro Man said. “Where are you?”

  Like I knew. I was somewhere between my house and his. “Oh…somewhere between my house and yours,” I said, copping to my directional cluelessness.

  He chuckled. “Okay, let me put it this way: are you more than halfway to my house? Or have you not gone that far?” He was already learning to speak my language.

  “Umm…,” I said, looking around and trying to remember what time I’d left my house. “I would say…I would say…I’m exactly halfway there.”

  “Okay,” he said, his smile evident through the phone. “When you get somewhere in the vicinity of the ranch, I want you to meet me at my brother’s house.”

  Gulp. Your brother’s house? You mean, we actually have to introduce other people into our relationship? You mean, there are other people in the world besides us? I’m sorry. I forgot.

  “Oh, okay!” I said, enthusiastically, checking my makeup in the rearview mirror. “Um…how do I get there?” I felt butterflies in my gut.

  “Okay, about a mile and a half before my turnoff, you’ll see a white gate on the north side of the highway,” he instructed. “You’ll need to turn and head down that road a half a mile or so, and his house is right there.”

  “Okay…,” I said tentatively.

  “Make sense?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I replied, pausing. “But…um…which way is north?”

  I was only halfway kidding.

  Miraculously, thirty minutes later I found Marlboro Man’s brother’s house. As I pulled up, I saw Marlboro Man’s familiar white pickup parked next to a very large, imposing semi. He and his brother were sitting inside the cab.

  Looking up and smiling, Marlboro Man motioned for me to join them. I waved, getting out of my car and obnoxiously taking my purse with me. To add insult to injury, I pressed the button on my keyless entry to lock my doors and turn on my car alarm, not realizing how out of place the dreadful chirp!chirp! must have sounded amidst all the bucolic silence. As I made my way toward the monster truck to meet my new love’s only brother, I reflected that not only had I never in my life been inside the cab of a semi, but also I wasn’t sure I’d ever been within a hundred feet of one. My armpits were suddenly clammy and moist, my body trembling nervously at the prospect of not only meeting Tim but also climbing into a vehicle nine times the size of my Toyota Camry, which, at the time, was the largest car I’d ever owned. I was nervous. What would I do in there?

  Marlboro Man opened the passenger door, and I grabbed the large handlebar on the side of the cab, hoisting myself up onto the spiked metal steps of the semi. “Come on in,” he said as he ushered me into the cab. Tim was in the driver’s seat. “Ree, this is my brother, Tim.”

  Tim was handsome. Rugged. Slightly dusty, as if he’d just finished working. I could see a slight resemblance to Marlboro Man, a familiar twinkle in his eye. Tim extended his hand, leaving the other on the steering wheel of what I would learn was a brand-spanking-new cattle truck, just hours old. “So, how do you like this vehicle?” Tim asked, smiling widely. He looked like a kid in a candy shop.

  “It’s nice,” I replied, looking around the cab. There were lots of gauges.

  Lots of controls. I wanted to crawl into the back and see what the sleeping quarters were like, and whether there was a TV. Or a Jacuzzi.

  “Want to take it for a spin?” Tim asked.

  I wanted to appear capable, strong, prepared for anything. “Sure!” I responded, shrugging my shoulders. I got ready to take the wheel.

  Marlboro Man chuckled, and Tim remained in his seat, saying, “Oh, maybe you’d better not. You might break a fingernail.” I looked down at my fresh manicure. It was nice of him to notice. “Plus,” he continued, “I don’t think you’d be able to shift gears.” Was he making fun of me? My armpits were drenched. Thank God I’d worn black that night.

  After ten more minutes of slightly uncomfortable small talk, Marlboro Man saved me by announcing, “Well, I think we’ll head out, Slim.”

  “Okay, Slim,” Tim replied. “Nice meeting you, Ree.” He flashed his nice, familiar smile. He was definitely cute. He was definitely Marlboro Man’s brother.

  But he was nothing like the real thing.

  Marlboro Man opened the passenger door of the semi and allowed me to climb out in front of him, while Tim exited the driver-side door to see us off. That wasn’t so bad, I thought as I made my way down the steps. Aside from the manicure remark and my sweating problem, meeting Marlboro Man’s brother had gone remarkably well. I looked okay that evening, had managed a couple of witty remarks, and had worn just the right clothing to conceal my nervousness. Life was good.

  Then, because the Gods of Embarrassment seemed hell-bent on making me look bad, I lost my balance on the last step, hooking the heel of my stupid black boots on the grate of the step and awkwardly grabbing the handlebar to save myself from falling to my death onto the gravel driveway below. But though I stopped myself from wiping out, my purse flew off my arm and landed, facedown, on Tim’s driveway, violently spilling its contents all over the gravel.

  Only a woman can know the dreaded feeling of spilling her purse in the company of men. Suddenly my soul was everywhere, laid bare for Marlboro Man and his brother to see: year-old lip gloss, a leaky pen, wadded gum wrappers, and a hairbrush loaded up with hundreds, if not thousands, of my stringy auburn hairs. And men don’t understand wads of long hair—for all they knew, I had some kind of follicular disorder and was going bald. There were no feminine products, but there was a package of dental floss, with a messy, eight-inch piece dangling from the opening and blowing in the wind.

  And there were Tic Tacs. Lots and lots of Tic Tacs. Orange ones.

  Then there was the money. Loose ones and fives and tens and twenties that had been neatly folded together and tucked into a pocket inside my purse were now blowing wildly around Tim’s driveway, swept away by the strengthening wind from an approaching storm.

  Nothing in my life could have prepared me for the horror of watching Marlboro Man, my new love, and his brother, Tim, whom I’d just met, chivalrously dart around Tim’s driveway, trying valiantly to save my way-ward dollars, all because I couldn’t keep my balance on the steps of their shiny new semi.

  I left my car at Tim’s for the evening, and when we pulled away in Marlboro Man’s pickup, I stared out the window, shaking my head and apologizing for being such a colossal dork. When we got to the highway, Marlboro Man glanced at me as he made a right-hand turn. “Yeah,” he said, consoling me. “But you’re my dork.”

  SOMETIMES MARLBORO Man and I would venture out into the world—go to the city, see a movie, eat a good meal, be among other humans. But what we did best was stay in together, cooking dinner and washing dishes and retiring to the chairs on his front porch or the couch in his living room, watching action movies and finding new and inventive ways to wrap ourselves in each other’s arms so not a centimeter of space existed between us. It was our hobby. And we were good at it.

  It was getting more serious. We were getting closer. Each passing day brought deeper fe
elings, more intense passion, love like I’d never known it before. To be with a man who, despite his obvious masculinity, wasn’t at all afraid to reveal his soft, affectionate side, who had no fears or hang-ups about declaring his feelings plainly and often, who, it seemed, had never played a head game in his life…this was the romance I was meant to have.

  Occasionally, though, after returning to my house at night, I’d lie awake in my own bed, wrestling with the turn my life had taken. Though my feelings for Marlboro Man were never in question, I sometimes wondered where “all this” would lead. We weren’t engaged—it was way too soon for that—but how would that even work, anyway? It’s not like I could ever live out here. I tried to squint and see through all the blinding passion I felt and envision what such a life would mean. Gravel? Manure? Overalls? Isolation?

  Then, almost without fail, just about the time my mind reached full capacity and my what-ifs threatened to disrupt my sleep, my phone would ring again. And it would be Marlboro Man, whose mind was anything but scattered. Who had a thought and acted on it without wasting even a moment calculating the pros and cons and risks and rewards. Who’d whisper words that might as well never have existed before he spoke them: “I miss you already…” “I’m thinking about you…” “I love you….” And then I’d smell his scent in the air and drift right off to Dreamland.

  This was the pattern that defined my early days with Marlboro Man. I was so happy, so utterly content—as far as I was concerned, it could have gone on like that forever. But inevitably, the day would come when reality would appear and shake me violently by the shoulders.

  And, as usual, I wasn’t the least bit ready for it.

  MARLBORO MAN lived twenty miles from the nearest town, a small town at that. There was no nightlife to speak of, save a local bar where retired oilfield workers and cowboys gossip and spin yarns over whiskey. His childhood friends were mostly gone, having moved on to larger lives in larger places. But after college he’d wound up back here, back in the same place he’d grown up. Back on the land that, apart from the telephone poles and oil wells, looked the same as it had a hundred years earlier, when his great-great-grandfather had first moved to America from Scotland. It was a quiet, isolated life. But it was where his heart was.

  Strangely, I understood. There was something about the prairie. It was so drastically different from the crashing waves of the California coast, or from the rocky cliffs of Laguna, or from the palm trees and the mountains and the sunshine and the smog. It was wide open—not a freeway or high-rise in sight—and it whispered history and serenity. Apart from the horses and cattle, it was scarcely populated, with miles from one cowboy house to the next. Though I’d been away from L.A. for months, its pace and clutter were still so much a part of me, I could sometimes hear it ringing in my ears. I’d still get road rage pulling out of my parents’ driveway. I’d still allow an hour for a ten-minute drive.

  But five minutes on the prairie, and I’d forget about all of it. My soul would settle, relax, let go. The ranch was so removed from any semblance of society, it was easy to completely forget society even existed, let alone a society brimming with traffic, hustle and bustle, and stress. And stripped of all the noise and pounding distractions that had ruled my life for the previous seven years, I found it so easy to think clearly, to focus on my growing relationship with Marlboro Man, to take in and reflect on every delicious moment.

  Absent all the friends, acquaintances, and party buddies with which I’d surrounded myself in L.A., I quickly grew accustomed to having Marlboro Man all to myself. And with the exception of a few brief meet-and-greet encounters with his brother and my mom, we’d spent hardly any time with other people. I’d loved it. But it wasn’t reality.

  And it couldn’t last forever.

  “Come over early tomorrow morning,” Marlboro Man asked over the phone one night. “We’re gathering cattle, and I want you to meet my mom and dad.”

  “Oh, okay,” I agreed, wondering to myself why we couldn’t just remain in our own isolated, romantic world. And the truth was, I wasn’t ready to meet his parents yet. I still hadn’t successfully divorced myself from California J’s dear, dear folks. They’d been so wonderful to me during my years of dating their son and had become the California version of my parents, my home away from home. I hated that our relationship couldn’t continue despite, oh, the minor detail of my breaking up with their son. And already? Another set of parents? I wasn’t ready.

  “What time do you want me there?” I asked. I’d do anything for Marlboro Man.

  “Can you be here around five?” he asked.

  “In the evening…right?” I responded, hopeful.

  He chuckled. Oh, no. This was going to turn out badly for me. “Um…no,” he said. “That would be five A.M.”

  I sighed. To arrive at his ranch at 5:00 A.M. would mean my rising by 4:00 A.M.—before 4:00 A.M. if I wanted to shower and make myself present-able. This meant it would still be dark outside, which was completely offensive and unacceptable. There’s no way. I’d have to tell him no.

  “Okay—no problem!” I responded. I clutched my stomach in pain.

  Chuckling again, he teased, “I can come pick you up if you need me to. Then you can sleep all the way back to the ranch.”

  “Are you kidding?” I replied. “I’m usually up by four anyway. That’s when I usually do my running, as you well know.”

  “Uh…huh,” he said. “Gotcha.” Another chuckle. Lifeblood to my soul.

  I hung up the phone and darted to my closet. What does one wear to a ranch early in the morning? I wondered. I was stumped. I had enough good sense, thank God, to know my spiked black boots—the same boots I’d worn on basically every date with Marlboro Man thus far—were out of the question. I wouldn’t want them to get dirty, and besides that, people might look at me funny. I had a good selection of jeans, yes, but would I go for the dark, straight-leg Anne Kleins? Or the faded, boot-cut Gaps with contrast stitching? And what on earth would I wear on top? This could get dicey. I had a couple of nice, wholesome sweater sets, but the weather was turning warmer and the style didn’t exactly scream “ranch” to me. Then there was the long, flax-colored linen tunic from Banana Republic—one I loved to pair with a chunky turquoise necklace and sandals. But that was more Texas Evening Barbecue than Oklahoma Early-Morning Cattle Gathering. Then there were the myriad wild prints with sparkles and stones and other obnoxious adornments. But the last thing I wanted to do was spook the cattle and cause a stampede. I’d seen it happen in City Slickers when Billy Crystal fired up his cordless coffee grinder, and the results weren’t the least bit pretty.

  I considered canceling. I had absolutely nothing to wear. Every pair of shoes I owned was black, except for a bright yellow pair of pumps I’d bought on a whim in Westwood one California day. Those wouldn’t exactly work, either. And I didn’t own a single shirt that wouldn’t loudly broadcast *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* I wanted to crawl under my covers and hide.

  I wandered into Betsy’s room. Five years younger than me, she was away at college and deeply into grunge and hippie attire, but maybe I’d luck out and find a T-shirt she’d left behind that didn’t have Kurt Cobain’s or Bob Marley’s face on it. Maybe. I opened her closet, looked inside, and magically, there it was, bathed in a glorious light: a faded denim button-down shirt—big enough for her, in all her scrawniness, to wear open and sloppy with her dirty Birkenstocks, but still small enough for me to tuck into my jeans and somewhat look the part. I tried it on and sang praises to the heavens. It was the perfect solution. This left only the shoes.

  As fate would have it, I looked up and saw Betsy’s brown Ralph Lauren waffle-soled hiking boots she’d gotten for Christmas three years earlier. She’d forsaken them for her too-cool-for-school hippie/grunge Birkenstocks, and they’d sat on the top shelf of her closet for ages. They laced up the front, were chunky, and were a size smaller than my feet; but considering my options—spiked blac
k go-go boots or bright yellow pumps—these were the most appealing. I laid out my clothes, set my alarm for 3:40 A.M., and ran downstairs to place two spoons in the freezer. I was going to need them.

  My parents were talking quietly in the den. They were always talking in the den, it seemed. “I’m getting up at four,” I announced, waving. “Then I’m going out to the ranch to do something having to do with cattle. Wish me luck!”

  My parents waved back, smiling. “Have fun,” they said. Then I returned to my room and climbed under my covers, readying myself for the morning.

  I darted out of bed to the sound of the screaming alarm. This had to be a joke. It was nighttime. Were these people crazy? I took a shower, my heart beating anxiously at the prospect of meeting Marlboro Man’s parents on their turf. Wrapped in my towel, I slipped downstairs and retrieved my frozen spoons, which I carried upstairs and laid on both my eyes. I wanted none of that annoying puffiness. And within twenty-five minutes, I was thoroughly made up, blow-dried, curled, dressed, and out the door—dressed to the nines in my denim button-down shirt, Gap boot-cut jeans, and Betsy’s brown lace-up Ralph Lauren waffle-soled hiking boots—though something told me they weren’t necessarily designed for outdoor durability. I hopped in the car and headed toward the ranch. I almost fell asleep at the wheel. Twice.

  Marlboro Man met me at the road that led to his parents’ house, and I followed him down five miles of graveled darkness. When we pulled into the paved drive, I saw the figure of his mother through the kitchen window. She was sipping coffee. My stomach gurgled. I should have eaten something. A croissant, back at my parents’ house. A bowl of Grape-Nuts, maybe. Heck, a Twinkie at QuikTrip would have been nice. My stomach was in knots.

  When I exited my car, Marlboro Man was there. Shielded by the dark of the morning, we were free to greet each other not only with a close, romantic hug but also a soft, sweet kiss. I was glad I’d remembered to brush my teeth.