“Can I grab some forks?”
“Of course. They’re in the kitchen—second drawer from the sink on the right side,” I tell her.
She disappears into the house while I finish turning down the barbecue, then set the plates on the patio table.
I hear clicking footsteps, and I turn around to see Moose slowly creeping up the stairs on the porch.
I narrow my eyes. “Out. Get out of here.”
He ducks his head and walks away. He’s a notorious thief, so anytime I’m cooking on the back porch, he’s not allowed, and he knows it. He knows what he did—the prime rib roast that he stole on Christmas Day. Little mooch. My mom had prepped a delicious prime rib for Christmas dinner. She’d made her own spice rub and everything. She tried to sear it on the barbecue…but when she came back to the porch with a pan, Moose had the meat in the middle of the yard and half devoured. Ever since, I haven’t allowed him on the porch while barbecuing.
Bliss comes back outside, carrying some steak knives and forks.
“Smells really good,” she says, looking at the food on the table.
We sit down to eat dinner, and I wonder if maybe this really was a bad idea. It’s awkward. It’s quiet. I’ve never felt uncomfortable in my own skin around Bliss before, but the way she’s shooting those studying glances at me makes me feel like something under a microscope. Like I’m being measured and found lacking.
Desperate to break the silence, I ask her about work. Luckily, it seems to be safe territory for conversation for us—as long as I’m not bandaging her injuries—and she warms up to the subject, talking about the ewes she bought this year and lamb crop percentages. Afterward, she asks me about the cows I worked this week.
Finally, when we’ve exhausted all safe topics and eaten our food, she sets down her fork and looks at me.
“I have questions about this proposal,” she says, dropping the statement like one of those Pop-Its fireworks.
“Okay.”
“This wasn’t a joke, was it?” she asks as she leans forward to rest her elbows on the table.
“No. Unfortunately, I’m serious. I know it sounds crazy, but you’re the only person I can trust with this.”
Something flickers across her face, and I don’t know if it’s surprise or derision.
“I thought maybe you were kidding about getting married. And if you’re actually serious about this, I want to know why.” She folds her arms across her chest and gives me a look that says she’s not joking around.
I have two options: I can sugarcoat the whole thing and risk her not believing me, or I can tell her the truth and risk her wrath.
But I want results, so I settle for the truth.
“It’s like I said earlier. Dad won’t let me buy in as a full owner until I’m married and settled. And after the last time I tried to do that…” I clear my throat awkwardly, not wanting to talk about my epic lapse in judgment where I fell in love with someone who left me on the day of our wedding. “I don’t actually want to get married.”
“Oh. I see,” Bliss says, and she relaxes, unfolding her arms and setting them on her lap.
“I just don’t really have the desire to get left at the altar again,” I say quietly.
“What makes you think I won’t leave you at the altar?” There’s no pity in her voice, just a simple, honest question.
“Because I’ve seen the kind of stuff you show up for. I’ve seen you do hard things and keep your word over and over again. And I know if you give me your word, you’ll be there.” Like the time my dad had a broken leg and I had to work through the night getting cattle out of a flash flood zone, and Bliss showed up. She’d brought her rope and her dog, and walked out through flooded fields to help me get the heifers to higher ground. I told her she should go home— I didn’t want her getting hurt. But she told me she would stay until I was done. And damn if she didn’tstay until every single calf was safe. “I have seen the hard things you show up for, and work through. I don’t know anyone else with as much staying power as you.”
Bliss nods slowly. “That’s a really nice thing for you to say.”
“I know you wouldn’t really be getting anything out of this.”
She grins and says, “Well, don’t forget that irrigated pasture I’ve got my eye on.”
That brings a smile to my face. “Right. I’ve thought about it, and youwouldget the east pasture if we do this. But there is just one more thing…I don’t have an end date in mind.”
I watch as Bliss’s eyes go wide at my words, but she doesn’t say anything.
“It’s not like I’m asking you to do this for a day and then get divorced. I don’t know what the end goal is. I’m not going to promise you something I can’t keep. I’m sorry.” How ironic. I’m sitting here apologizing to a woman for not having a plan to divorce her.
