The Pioneer Woman

by Ree Drummond

  When Betsy and I pulled up and parked, Tim greeted us at the chute and immediately assigned us our duties. He handed my sister a hot shot, which is used to gently zap the animal’s behind to get it to move through the chute.

  It’s considered the easy job.

  “You’ll be pushing ’em through,” Tim told Betsy. She dutifully took the hot shot, studying the oddly shaped object in her hands.

  Next, Tim handed me an eight-inch-long, thick-gauge probe with some kind of electronic device attached. “You’ll be taking their temperature,” Tim informed me.

  Easy enough, I thought. But how does this thing fit into its ear? Or does it slide under its arm somehow? Perhaps I insert it under the tongue? Will the cows be okay with this?

  Tim showed me to my location—at the hind end of the chute. “You just wait till the steer gets locked in the chute,” Tim directed. “Then you push the stick all the way in and wait till I tell you to take it out.”

  Come again? The bottom fell out of my stomach as my sister shot me a worried look, and I suddenly wished I’d eaten something before we came. I felt weak. I didn’t dare question the brother of the man who made my heart go pitter-pat, but…in the bottom? Up the bottom? Seriously?

  Before I knew it, the first animal had entered the chute. Various cowboys were at different positions around the animal and began carrying out their respective duties. Tim looked at me and yelled, “Stick it in!” With utter trepidation, I slid the wand deep into the steer’s rectum. This wasn’t natural. This wasn’t normal. At least it wasn’t for me. This was definitely against God’s plan.

  I was supposed to check the monitor and announce if the temperature was above ninety-nine degrees. The first one was fine. But before I had a chance to remove the probe, Tim set the hot branding iron against the steer’s left hip. The animal let out a guttural Mooooooooooooo!, and as he did, the contents of its large intestine emptied all over my hand and forearm.

  Tim said, “Okay, Ree, you can take it out now.” I did. I didn’t know what to do. My arm was covered in runny, stinky cow crap. Was this supposed to happen? Should I say anything? I glanced at my sister, who was looking at me, completely horrified.

  The second animal entered the chute. The routine began again. I stuck it in. Tim branded. The steer bellowed. The crap squirted out. I was amazed at how consistent and predictable the whole nasty process was, and how nonchalant everyone—excluding my sister—was acting. But then slowly…surely…I began to notice something.

  On about the twentieth animal, I began inserting the thermometer. Tim removed his branding iron from the fire and brought it toward the steer’s hip. At the last second, however, I fumbled with my device and had to stop for a moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that when I paused, Tim did, too. It appeared he was actually waiting until I had the thermometer fully inserted before he branded the animal, ensuring that I’d be right in the line of fire when everything came pouring out. He had planned this all along, the dirty dog.

  Seventy-eight steers later, we were finished. I was a sight. Layer upon layer of manure covered my arm. I’m sure I was pale and in shock. The cowboys grinned politely. Tim directed me to an outdoor faucet where I could clean my arm. Marlboro Man watched as he gathered up the tools and the gear…and he chuckled.

  AS MY sister and I pulled away in the car later that day, she could only say, “Oh. My. God.” She made me promise never to return to that awful place.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d found out later that this, from Tim’s perspective, was my initiation. It was his sick, twisted way of measuring my worth.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HIGH NOON

  IN THE first week of my relationship with Marlboro Man, I’d spent more time alone with him, it seemed, than I’d ever spent with J in the four years we were together. And now, so many months later, I realized how important it really is for a couple in love to sit in silence every once in a while. To be still. To trace your thumbs along each other’s hand and let the sounds of the atmosphere be your music for a while. J and I had never had that. There were always too many people around.

  I’d been reflecting on this—the drastic turn my life and my outlook on love had taken—more and more on the evenings Marlboro Man and I spent together, the nights we sat on his quiet porch, with no visible city lights or traffic sounds anywhere. Usually we’d have shared a dinner, done the dishes, watched a movie. But we’d almost always wind up on his porch, sitting or standing, overlooking nothing but dark, open countryside illuminated by the clear, unpolluted moonlight. If we weren’t wrapped in each other’s arms, I imagined, the quiet, rural darkness might be a terribly lonely place. But Marlboro Man never gave me a chance to find out.

  It was on this very porch that Marlboro Man had first told me he loved me, not two weeks after our first date. It had been a half-whisper, a mere thought that had left his mouth in a primal, noncalculated release. And it had both surprised and melted me all at once; the honesty of it, the spontaneity, the unbridled emotion. But though everything in my gut told me I was feeling exactly the same way, in all the time since I still hadn’t found the courage to repeat those words to him. I was guarded, despite the affection Marlboro Man heaped upon me. I was jaded; my old relationship had done that to me, and watching the crumbling of my parents’ thirty-year marriage hadn’t exactly helped. There was just something about saying the words “I love you” that was difficult for me, even though I knew, without a doubt, that I did love him. Oh, I did. But I was hanging on to them for dear life—afraid of what my saying them would mean, afraid of what might come of it. I’d already eaten beef—something I never could have predicted I’d do when I was living the vegetarian lifestyle. I’d gotten up before 4:00 A.M. to work cattle. And I’d put my Chicago plans on hold. At least, that’s what I’d told myself all that time. I put my plans on hold.

  That was enough, wasn’t it? Putting my life’s plans on hold for him? Marlboro Man had to know I loved him, didn’t he? He was so confident when we were together, so open, so honest, so transparent and sure. There was no such thing as “give-and-take” with him. He gave freely, poured out his heart willingly, and either he didn’t particularly care what my true feelings were for him, or, more likely, he already knew. Despite my silence, despite my fear of totally losing my grip on my former self, on the independent girl that I’d wanted to believe I was for so long…he knew. And he had all the patience he needed to wait for me to say it.

  IT WAS a Tuesday when I finally threw caution to the wind, when I decided, finally, to articulate the words I knew I so desperately felt but that, for whatever reason, I’d always been too scared to say. It was impromptu, unexpected. But there was something about the night.

  He’d greeted me at the car. “Hey, you,” he said as I closed the door behind me and, still out of habit, armed the theft alarm of my car. “Do you think you might ever get to a point where you’ll actually leave your car unlocked out here?” he asked with a chuckle.

  I hadn’t even noticed. “Oh,” I said, laughing. “I don’t know why I even do that!” My face turned red. Freakazoid.

  Marlboro Man smiled, wrapped his arms around my waist, and lifted me off the ground—my favorite move of his. “Hi,” he said, the right side of his mouth turned upward in a grin.

  “Hi,” I replied, smiling back. He looked so beautiful in his worn-out, comfortable jeans and his starched charcoal button-down shirt. God, did he look good in charcoal.

  Charcoal, the color, was created with Marlboro Man in mind.

  And then came the kiss—the kind usually reserved for couples who spend weeks and weeks apart and store up all their passions for the moment when they say hello again. For us, it had been less than twenty-four hours. At that moment, there was no one in the world but the two of us, and as closely as we were pressed together in our embrace, there weren’t really two of us at all anymore.

  My whole body tingled as we walked into the house. I was feeling the love that n
ight.

  Marlboro Man cooked a tenderloin on the grill. The most unimaginably scrumptious cut of beef there is, tenderloin, when prepared properly, can be easily cut with a fork. Marlboro Man had made it for me a couple of times during the previous few months, and there were moments, usually after the first bite or two, when I would nearly shed a tear over its beauty. To cook the tenderloin, Marlboro Man would nestle it on a sturdy ship of heavy foil, then sprinkle it generously with salt and coarsely ground pepper. To finish it off, he’d pour a saucepanful of butter over the top, set the whole thing on a hot grill, and cook it for twenty to thirty minutes until it was a perfect, warm medium-rare inside. I was sure that a more beautiful piece of animal flesh had never existed.

  We ate dinner and talked, and I sipped chilled wine slowly, savoring every single swallow, even as I savored every single moment with the man sitting next to me. I loved looking at him when he talked, loved the movement of his mouth. He has the best mouth, I’d think to myself. His mouth drove me absolutely wild.

  We wound up on his couch, watching a submarine movie and making out, with the chorus of “The Navy Hymn” in the background. And just like that, it happened: the executive officer had just relieved the captain of command of the ship. It was a tense, exciting moment in the movie, and I was suddenly so overcome with emotion, I couldn’t control myself. My head rested on his shoulder, my heart rested entirely in his hands. And in a whisper, my words escaped: “I love you.” He probably hadn’t heard them. He was too focused on the movie.

  But he had heard me; I could tell. His arms enveloped me even further; his embrace tightened. He breathed in and sighed, and his hand played with my hair. “Good,” he said softly, and his gentle lips found mine.

  DRIVING HOME that night, I felt so much better. I was no longer a freak of nature—the kind of freak that spends every waking hour with a man for months on end but has some sort of bizarre mental defect that prevents her from articulating her feelings for him—the kind of freak that allows the man to express his love time after time but gives nothing in return. I felt good about it, too, that I’d had the uncharacteristic boldness to tell him I loved him before he’d had a chance to say it to me first that night. I wanted to say I love you, not I love you, too. I knew there was a reason I liked submarine movies.

  I had no idea where our relationship was headed. But I did know that I meant what I’d said.

  I slept like a baby that night.

  MARLBORO MAN’S call woke me up the next morning. It was almost eleven.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

  I hopped out of bed, blinking and stumbling around my room. “Who me? Oh, nothing.” I felt like I’d been drugged.

  “Were you asleep?” he said.

  “Who, me?” I said again, trying to snap out of my stupor. I was stalling, trying my darnedest to get my bearings.

  “Yes. You,” he said, chuckling. “I can’t believe you were asleep!”

  “I wasn’t asleep! I was…I just…” I was a loser. A pathetic, late-sleeping loser.

  “You’re a real go-getter in the mornings, aren’t you?” I loved it when he played along with me.

  I rubbed my eyes and pinched my own cheek, trying to wake up. “Yep. Kinda,” I answered. Then, changing the subject: “So…what are you up to today?”

  “Oh, I had to run to the city early this morning,” he said.

  “Really?” I interrupted. The city was over two hours from his house. “You got an early start!” I would never understand these early mornings. When does anyone ever sleep out there?

  Marlboro Man continued, undaunted. “Oh, and by the way…I’m pulling into your driveway right now.”

  Huh?

  I ran to my bathroom mirror and looked at myself. I shuddered at the sight: puffy eyes, matted hair, pillow mark on my left cheek. Loose, faded pajamas. Bag lady material. Sleeping till eleven had not been good for my appearance. “No. No you’re not,” I begged.

  “Yep. I am,” he answered.

  “No you’re not,” I repeated.

  “Yes. I am,” he said.

  I slammed my bathroom door and hit the lock. Please, Lord, please, I prayed, grabbing my toothbrush. Please let him be joking.

  I brushed my teeth like a crazed lunatic as I examined myself in the mirror. Why couldn’t I look like the women in commercials who wake up in a bed with ironed sheets and a dewy complexion with their hair perfectly tousled? I wasn’t fit for human eyes, let alone the piercing eyes of the sexy, magnetic Marlboro Man, who by now was walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I could hear the clomping of his boots.

  The boots were in my bedroom by now, and so was the gravelly voice attached to them. “Hey,” I heard him say. I patted an ice-cold washcloth on my face and said ten Hail Marys, incredulous that I would yet again find myself trapped in the prison of a bathroom with Marlboro Man, my cowboy love, on the other side of the door. What in the world was he doing there? Didn’t he have some cows to wrangle? Some fence to fix? It was broad daylight; didn’t he have a ranch to run? I needed to speak to him about his work ethic.

  “Oh, hello,” I responded through the door, ransacking the hamper in my bathroom for something, anything better than the sacrilege that adorned my body. Didn’t I have any respect for myself?

  I heard Marlboro Man laugh quietly. “What’re you doing in there?” I found my favorite pair of faded, soft jeans.

  “Hiding,” I replied, stepping into them and buttoning the waist.

  “Well, c’mere,” he said softly.

  My jeans were damp from sitting in the hamper next to a wet washcloth for two days, and the best top I could find was a cardinal and gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt from my ’SC days. It wasn’t dingy, and it didn’t smell. That was the best I could do at the time. Oh, how far I’d fallen from the black heels and glitz of Los Angeles. Accepting defeat, I shrugged and swung open the door.

  He was standing there, smiling. His impish grin jumped out and grabbed me, as it always did.

  “Well, good morning!” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist. His lips settled on my neck. I was glad I’d spritzed myself with Giorgio.

  “Good morning,” I whispered back, a slight edge to my voice. Equal parts embarrassed at my puffy eyes and at the fact that I’d slept so late that day, I kept hugging him tightly, hoping against hope he’d never let go and never back up enough to get a good, long look at me. Maybe if we just stood there for fifty years or so, wrinkles would eventually shield my puffiness.

  “So,” Marlboro Man said. “What have you been doing all day?”

  I hesitated for a moment, then launched into a full-scale monologue. “Well, of course I had my usual twenty-mile run, then I went on a hike and then I read The Iliad. Twice. You don’t even want to know the rest. It’ll make you tired just hearing about it.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, his blue-green eyes fixed on mine. I melted in his arms once again. It happened any time, every time, he held me.

  He kissed me, despite my gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt. My eyes were closed, and I was in a black hole, a vortex of romance, existing in something other than a human body. I floated on vapors.

  Marlboro Man whispered in my ear, “So…,” and his grip around my waist tightened.

  And then, in an instant, I plunged back to earth, back to my bedroom, and landed with a loud thud on the floor.

  “R-R-R-R-Ree?” A thundering voice entered the room. It was my brother Mike. And he was barreling toward Marlboro Man and me, his arms outstretched.

  “Hey!” Mike yelled. “W-w-w-what are you guys doin’?” And before either of us knew it, Mike’s arms were around us both, holding us in a great big bear hug.

  “Well, hi, Mike,” Marlboro Man said, clearly trying to reconcile the fact that my adult brother had his arms around him.

  It wasn’t awkward for me; it was just annoying. Mike had interrupted our moment. He was always doing that. “Yo, Mike,” I said. “Where the heck did you come from?”

  “Carl ju
st brought me home from the ambulance,” he said. The ambulance was one of Mike’s favorite haunts, second only to Fire Station no. 3.

  I wriggled loose of his and Marlboro Man’s grip. “So, Mike,” I said. “What can I do for you this fine morning?” (Translation: What do you want?)

  “W-w-w-well…I am fixin’ to meet Dan at the mall for lunch because he said he has not had a vacation in a l-l-l-long time and his wife has been really stressed-out so he is gettin’ ready to go on vacation with his wife and he said he wants to spend some time with me before he leaves.” Mike always liked to provide plenty of detail.

  “Okay, cool,” I said. (Translation: Bye, Mike. Scram.)

  “And I need a ride to the mall.” There it was. I knew he wanted something.

  “Well, Mike,” I said. “I’m kinda busy right now. I’ve got company, as you can see.”

  “B-b-b-but I am gonna be late and Dan will think somethin’ is wrong!” Oh, no. He was getting amped up.

  “Well, how come you didn’t just have Carl drop you off there?” I asked. Mike didn’t always take the most reasonable course.

  “Because I t-t-t-told him my sister would be glad to take me!” Mike replied. Mike liked to sign me up for things without my consent.

  I wasn’t budging, though; I wasn’t going to let Mike bully me. “Well, Mike,” I said, “I’ll take you to the mall in a little bit, but I’ve got to finish getting dressed. So just chill out, dude!” I loved telling Mike to chill out.

  Marlboro Man had been watching the whole exchange, clearly amused by the Ping-Pong match between Mike and me. He’d met Mike several times before; he “got” what Mike was about. And though he hadn’t quite figured out all the ins and outs of negotiating him, he seemed to enjoy his company.

  Suddenly, Mike turned to Marlboro Man and put his hand on his shoulder. “C-c-c-can you please take me to the mall?”

  Still grinning, Marlboro Man looked at me and nodded. “Sure, I’ll take you, Mike.”