The Pioneer Woman by Ree Drummond Page A

as I later learned, throughout the meal he seriously considered calling one of the cowboys and asking them to start a prairie fire so he’d have an excuse to leave.
    It was a beautiful spring night, and we adjourned to the porch after dinner and sat side by side on two patio chairs. Taking my hand in his, Marlboro Man propped his cowboy boots on the porch railing and rested his head against the chair. It was quiet. Cattle were mooing in the distance, and an occasional coyote would howl.
    Suddenly, inexplicably, in the black of this impossibly starry night, with no action movie or other distractions playing in the background, I began thinking about Chicago. I should be packing, I thought. But I’m not. I’m here. With this man. In this place.
    During my months back home, I’d realized more than ever how much I’d missed living in a city: the culture, the anonymity, the action, the pace. It had made me feel happy and alive and whole. That I was even sitting on a cowboy’s porch at this point in my life was strange enough; that I actually felt comfortable, at peace, and at home there was surreal.
    I felt a chill, the air getting crisper by the minute. I shivered noticeably, unable to keep my teeth from chattering. Still holding my hand, Marlboro Man pulled me toward him until I was sitting on his lap. Enveloping my upper body in his arms, he hugged me tightly as my head rested on his strong shoulder. “Mmmm…,” he said, even as the same sound came from my own mouth. It was so warm, so perfect, such a fit. We stayed thatway forever, kissing occasionally, then retreating back to the “Mmmm…” position in each other’s arms. We didn’t speak, and the cool night air was so still, it was intoxicating.
    With no sounds save for the thumping of my own heart inside my chest, I was left to swim around in my thoughts. I’ve got to get going. This will only get harder. I don’t belong here. I belong in the city. God, his arms feel good. What am I doing here? I need to get that apartment before it goes. I’m calling in the morning. This has been wonderful, but it isn’t reality. It isn’t smart. I love the smell of his shirt. I’ll miss the smell of his shirt. I’ll miss this. I’ll miss him….
    I was half asleep—tipsy on his musky fumes—when I felt Marlboro Man gently nuzzle his face toward my ear. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled, his chest falling—the words I love you escaping from his mouth so quietly, I wasn’t sure whether I’d dreamed it.
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    I’ D KNOWN him just ten days, and it had just left his mouth in an unexpected whisper. It had been purely instinctive, it seemed—something entirely unplanned. He clearly hadn’t planned to say those words to me that night; that wasn’t the way he operated. He was a man who had a thought and acted on it immediately, as evidenced by his sweet, whispery phone calls right after our dates. He spent no time at all calculating moves; he had better things to do with his time. When we held each other on that chilly spring night and his feelings had come rushing to the surface, he’d felt no need to slap a filter over his mouth. It had come out in a breath: I love you . It was as if he had to say it, in the same way air has to escape a person’s lungs. It was involuntary. Necessary. Natural.
    But as beautiful and warm a moment as it was, I froze on the spot. Once I realized it had been real—that he’d actually said the words—it seemed too late to respond; the window had closed, the shutters had clapped shut. I responded in the only way my cowardice would allow: by holding himtighter, burying my face deeper into his neck, feeling equal parts stupid and awkward. What is your problem? I asked myself. I was in the midst of what was possibly the most romantic, emotionally charged moment of my life, in the embrace of a man who embodied not only everything