Isn't It Romantic?

“Oh, Opal,” Mrs. Christiansen said. “She’ll enjoy it! And he’s a perfect gentleman. Aren’t you, Dick Tupper.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.”

She turned to Natalie. “You go ahead, dear. We’ll manage the cooking.”

With irritation, Opal reminded the widow, “Many hands make light work.”

Mrs. Christiansen softly flicked at her friend’s wrist and said to Dick, “She’ll be right out.”

The Reverend jumped down from the glider. “You go change. I have to schmooze with the lucky guy.”

She thought, What is schmooze? But she told him, “I have enjoyed talking with you.”

And Dante was already skipping down the steps as he said, “Natch.”

She went upstairs to get into bluejeans, sneakers, and a soft white shirt. When she came out the cattleman was beaming at the foot of the front porch stairs, and she blushed at his happiness.

“What’d the Reverend have to say?” Dick asked.

“I have no idea.”

“He’s a New Yorker,” Dick said, as if much, in such a manner, was explained. Warily looking into the house, he confessed, “I get real skittish around Mrs. Christiansen. She puts me back into high school whenever I’m around her.”

On cue Mrs. Christiansen called, “You be careful with her, Dick Tupper!”

And he was no more than fourteen years old when he called, “Yes, ma’am!”

14

Holding onto the horses’ bridles, Dick escorted a saddled paint-colored mare and sorrel stallion from the cool darkness of his red stables and into the stark August sunshine. Natalie was standing up on the first white board of the paddock fence and was scanning his groomed and handsome ranch property with fascination. Dick just stared at Natalie’s beauty until she turned.

“You can ride Ida and I’ll ride Shep,” he told her. “Shep’s got strict opinions about things.”

She smiled and hopped down to the earth and he helped her fit a sneaker into the saddle’s iron stirrup.

“I’ll just give you a little boost,” he said, but his hand accidentally wound up on her fine behind and he blushed, just as she did. “Oops,” he said, and smiled bashfully for a few seconds before he got serious again. “Don’t let go of Ida’s reins or she just might take ya shopping.”

She hunted the irregular verb in her memory before saying, “I have ridden a horse before.”

“Oh, I could tell. You have that equestrian poise.”

They rode out into the countryside through high rustling foxtail weeds that almost reached the cinches. Angus cattle were tearing up hanks of grass and blandly chewing in the sunshine, and some were full enough to lie down on their bellies and ruminate and stare.

Dick glanced over his shoulder. “You about got the hang of that horse?”

“Yes. She is very . . . docile.”

“Placid too,” he said. He considered the shifting herd. “You know what we call those cows?”

“Angus?”

“And here I took you for a greenhorn.”

“I have read all about the West.”

“I used to read about the Count of Monte Cristo. Joan of Arc was my heart-throb when I was a boy.”

“Have you ever been to France?”