I put it on the very bottom of my stack and moved on.
; That afternoon, I couldn't get out of work quickly enough. Clint and I had agreed to meet pretty early, five-thirty if we could both make it, because ranch men kept early hours. It was easier to move the work schedule up than to work late, his hands would mutiny if they didn't get to go home to their own wives and girlfriends so that their boss could see his.
I made myself work until 4:50 and then I packed up my stuff and eyed the clock. Could I get away with sneaking out now?
No, I decided. It was always better to err on the side of caution with your bosses.
I sat down and flipped through the stack of paperwork I'd left myself for the next day, to see if there was anything I could check off in ten minutes to make myself feel virtuous leaving.
There wasn't. At the bottom of the stack, I saw that form again, the one I hadn't put in the stack. It bothered me. Did Herman put it in here? If not, who else had been in my office, looking through my paperwork, putting in something that I knew wasn't supposed to be there?
The problem gave me plenty to think about as I kept an eye on my phone.
At 5:01, I joined the exodus of my coworkers and headed out to the parking lot.
The drive was uneventful, and I rolled up to the diner that Clint had directed me to just after 5:30.
I was pleased to see that Clint's truck was already there. After he stood me up, he had been excruciatingly careful about being on time to our dates, or sending me a message promptly.
There had been no repeat of that miserable evening of waiting and worrying and wondering if he was hurt or had forgotten me.
I turned the engine off and slipped my phone and keys into my pockets. I grabbed my purse, although I knew I didn't truly need to. Clint had old-fashioned ideas about who should pay for dates - him, always him.
When I walked through the doors, I saw Clint sitting at a booth by a window, with two glasses of water in front of him.
"Hope I haven't kept you," I said, sitting down across from him and taking the nearer water, drinking a long draft of it as I smiled at him.
"I've been here about five minutes," he said. "I always like getting to sit a spell after a long day. Looks like you rushed out here."
"I've been nervous," I said.
He looked a little chagrined.
"I didn't mean to scare you, with that let's-talk-in-person thing. I just wanted to see your face, I thought what you were saying was important."
Clint reached out and took my free hand, stroking my knuckles with his calloused thumb.
"I wanted to touch you," he said. "Talking about that on the phone, I was afraid that you were mad at me."
I smiled at him and took a deep breath, enjoying just looking at his face. "No," I said. “Not mad. Just… confused. Frightened.”
He squeezed my hand.
“What do you have to be afraid of?” he asked.
“I’m afraid that we’re about to talk about getting married, and I am afraid that you don’t want to marry me,” I said. “I’m afraid because I used to know what I wanted, and I don’t any more.”
“What did you want?” he asked.
The waitress came up then, a middle-aged woman in a dress and apron.
“Hon, you need a menu, or you know what you want?” she asked me.
I grinned.
“Uh, for once, I think I do,” I said. “You have pancakes?”