By the time Bliss texts me and tells me that she’s on her way, I’ve forgotten every single argument I came up with. My ten-point essay on why she should marry me is completely gone from my mind. I’m going to have to wing it.
I get the steaks out of the fridge and prep them for the grill. I peel and slice some potatoes and take some corn from the fridge.
Moose, my dog, starts barking incessantly, and I know a vehicle has pulled in. He’s better than any new-style alarm system. He always sounds like he’s about to bite someone’s head off or puncture a tire, but he’s a lovable little soul.
I walk out onto the front porch and wait for her to come up to the house. I call off my dog, who’s leaping through the air like a kangaroo, trying to get Bliss’s attention.
Bliss parks her truck next to mine, cracks her window, then climbs out.
She doesn’t even glance at the dog, just continues toward the house while Moose is jumping up and down next to her.
Bliss stops at the bottom of the porch and looks up at me. “I feel like this is a bad idea already.”
“Don’t think that. You haven’t even had a steak yet. Maybe you’re just hungry.”
She finally looks down at Moose, who’s now sitting on the ground, shaking with excitement. She pats him on the head, and he immediately goes back to bouncing like a kangaroo.
Bliss ignores him again until he sits still, and then she turns back and tells him, “Good.”
He doesn’t move, and she just keeps scratching his ears while he sits there.
“He’s a sucker for a good scratch,” I tell her. “Come on inside. Grab something to drink. The steaks are on the grill and will be ready in a couple of minutes.”
“That sounds good. I’m hungry.”
I hear her boots on the porch as she follows me into the house.
I open the door and motion for her to go inside. She pauses for a brief moment before she steps inside and takes her boots off. I watch as she looks around the house with wide eyes, taking in every detail.
“I’ll give you the tour after dinner.”
“Well, we’ll see how dinner goes,” she says as she lines up her boots next to mine at the door. They look like they’re half the size of mine.
She follows me quietly through the living room.
I’ve never considered what my house would look like through someone else’s eyes. It’s an old farmhouse I’ve slowly been renovating. The hardwood floors are original. The molding along the ceiling is a testament to a bygone era when they still added detail to things rather than using a commercialized white board as trim. Not all of the house is original, though. I’ve added on some bedrooms downstairs and expanded the kitchen.
I lead the way into the kitchen and open the fridge. “What do you want to drink?”
Bliss stays at the edge of the kitchen, careful not to stand too close to me. She hesitates, then steps forward and reaches for a Pepsi from the top shelf in the fridge. “Thanks.”
She takes a quick step backward, putting distance between us again. She cracks the top and takes a sip.
“You’ve been working all day?” I ask, hoping to ease the tension.
“Yeah, I was marking some winter lambs.”
“Who helps you?” I ask. Bliss works with her dad with the cattle on their ranch, but she owns a herd of sheep herself and I know Hubert isn’t a big sheep guy, so that means Bliss handles her stuff mostly by herself.
“I hired two kids from the high school to come hold lambs while I worked them.” She shrugged. “I had to trim some of my bucks’ hooves today, too. I haven’t been too impressed with the genetics on these ones.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. It’d be good to remember not to make her mad. The woman can flip three-hundred-pound rams around like it’s no big deal. I’ve seen how she handles them. She’ll grab a sheep under its chin with one hand, and put another on its back hip and pull them against her leg until she has them tipped onto their butt, resting back against her while she holds onto their flailing legs and trims their hooves.
Glancing at her hands, I notice how tan they are, even though it’s not even summer yet. They’re strong, capable hands. She has short nails, but I smile when I see they’re painted light pink. My eyes settle on the back of her left hand.
“What on earth—” I reach for her arm, careful not to bump her hand as I pull it toward me for closer inspection.
“Oh, that? It’s not as bad as it looks,” she tries to laugh it off.
