A Jewel of a Blog

I am more of a good medical mystery/suspense kind of reader and not much of a romance Danielle Steele kind of gal, but I came across this blog The Pioneer Woman and spent the next few days reading her love story chapters, gazing at her amazing photography of horses, sunsets, early morning sunrises, family, and don't forget Charles- basically I am hooked and wanted to spread the obsession to you.

Trust me, you will thank me later - no gifts necessary.

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The Night I Met Marlboro Man, Part IVOr, Harlequin Romance Meets Green Acres, Part IVSep. 11, 2007

“Hi, Ree? We met at the J-Bar last Christmas?”
It was the Marlboro Man.
It had been almost four months since we’d met; four months since we’d locked glances in a bar over Christmas; four months since his icy blue-green eyes and prematurely gray hair had made my knees go weak; four months since he’d failed to call me the next day, or week, or month. I’d moved on, of course, but the rugged, smoky image of that Marlboro Man-esque creature had left an indelible mark on my mind. And my hiney.
But. I’d been planning my big move to Chicago before I’d met him that night four months earier, and I continued my planning the next day. By the end of April, just after my brother’s wedding, I was just about ready to go. But suddenly, four months after we’d first met, I found myself on the phone with him, mistaking him for a boy named Walrus and trying to appear cool.
“Oh, hi.” I said, nonchalantly. I was moving to Chicago. I didn’t need this guy.
“How’ve you been?” he continued. Ugh, that voice. It was gravely and whispery at the same time. I hadn’t realized it had already set up permanent residence in the marrow of my bones.
“Good,” I replied, focusing my efforts on appearing casual, confident, and strong. “I’m just gearing up to move to Chicago, actually.”
“No kidding,” he said. “When are you going?”
“Next month,” I replied.
“Oh…” he paused. “Well…would you like to go do something this week?”
This was always the awkward part. I could never imagine being a guy.
“Um, sure,” I said, not really seeing the point of going out with him, but also knowing it was going to be next to impossible for me to turn down a date with the first cowboy I’d ever been attracted to. Actually, the first cowboy I’d ever met. “I’m pretty free all this week, so…”
“How ’bout tomorrow night?” he cut in. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
He didn’t know it at the time, but that single take-charge moment, that instantaneous transformation from shy, quiet cowboy to this confident, commanding presence on the phone, affected me very profoundly. It positively set my interest afire.
So did the starched denim shirt he wore when he picked me up for our date the next evening.
“Hello,” he said, as I opened the front door of my parents’ house.
Oh, those eyes. They were fixed on mine, and mine on his, for more seconds than is customary at the very beginning of a first date. My knees—the knees that had turned to rubber bands that night four months before in a temporary fit of illogical, immature lust—were once again like spaghetti.
“Hello,” I said, smiling. I was wearing sleek black pants, a violet v-neck sweater, and spiked black boots—a glaring contrast to the faded denim ensemble he’d chosen. Little did I know how utterly symbolic of our future lives together those respective wardrobe choices would turn out to be.
We talked through dinner; I don’t remember the food. About my childhood on the golf course; about his upbringing on the ranch. About my college days at U.S.C.; about his unnatural passion for football. About my retarded brother, Mike; about his older brother, Todd, who died. About Los Angeles and celebrities; about cows, horses, and manure. And by the end of the evening, I had no idea what exactly I’d even said. All I knew was, I was riding home in a white Ford F250 diesel pickup with a boot-wearing cowboy—and there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.
He walked me to the door, naturally. Oh, I’d been walked to that same door many times before, by pimply high school boys and cocky college boys and a few miscellaneous suitors along the way. But this time was different, bigger. I felt it.
That’s when the spiked heel of my boot got hung up on the grout line of my parents’ brick sidewalk. I saw my life and any ounce of pride remaining in my soul pass instantly before my eyes as my body lurched forward; I was going to bite it for sure—and right in front of the Marlboro Man. I was an idiot, I told myself, a dork, a clutz of the highest order. I wanted desperately to snap my fingers and magically wind up in Chicago where I belonged, but my hands were too busy darting in front of my torso to brace me from the fall.
Someone caught me, though. An angel? In a way. It was Marlboro Man, whose tough upbringing on a working cattle ranch had produced the quick reflexes necessary to save me, his spastic date, from a certain wipeout. Once the danger was over, I laughed from nervous embarrassment. Marlboro Man chuckled gently. He was still holding my arms, though, in the same strong cowboy grip he’d used to rescue me moments earlier. Where were my knees? I suddenly couldn’t feel them. And suddenly, he wasn’t chuckling anymore; he was standing right in front of me, still holding my arms.
To be continued…