For once my underwear matches. I see my Victoria Secret lacy black under-wire bra draped over the wash stand. The matching panties are beside the bed where I hastily threw them. I know it’s still night or perhaps right before dawn, but time has been lost in a world of sensual seconds that felt like hours. The moon can be seen through the open window. The brightness of its Montana fullness softens the stark, bare room. I stretch, arms extended over head, a moan of contentment escapes my lips; and quickly I roll to my side, snuggling deep into my pillow. A sudden cool, crisp breeze ruffles the raised blind against the window seal, and I smell his scent.
I hear his light snore and know that the soft rumbling of his breathing will soon deepen and become a powerful song of long hard hours daily spent on horse back herding cattle. Aching muscles, weary joints, and calloused weathered skin provide the melody to his nightly sonata. I lie still, turned on my side, drawn to this musical seduction. Only moments before, his heavy breathing had been alive with strength and purpose. His limbs and mine quivered with desire, and now he lies still and snores. I know he is tired.
I know, too, that soon I must leave him. I can’t help but wonder what the start of each day will be like without his greeting of “Good morning, Sunshine.” By the time he brings me coffee in bed he has been up for hours. His old felt Stetson is already darkened by sweat, his spurs crusty with mud from the corral, his chaps smeared by the flicking tail of a nervous cow or kick from an anxious horse. How can this man, whose life is so intertwined with the quiet inevitable change of seasons, the purity of the wilderness, the solitude of the mountains, find happiness in the noise of change, the contradictions of knowledge, or the activity of growth? He can’t. Soon, I must leave.
Carefully, as not to awaken him, I shift my position to look into his face. I have learned the language of the cowboy. He speaks silently with subtle movements, a nod of the head, a tug of the reins, a nudge with a spur, a flick of the bull whip. The cowboy hears the call of the mountains, the laughter of the brooks, and the harsh demands of nature. He has chosen his partner in life. The “high timber” will forever hold him in her grasp till his dying day. He was never mine, could never be.
I must leave. I gently stroke the outline of his rugged face. I am filled with wonder and gratitude. His smile will forever warm my coldest days. The memory of his touch will calm my restless nights, and his selfless love will keep me strong. I have felt a cowboy speak.
Linda Harvey Brown is a 70 year old grandmother to six & great-grandmother to four. Over thirty years ago Ms Brown started writing stories for each of her grandchildren. She then went back to college and graduated with honors from the University of Southern Mississippi at the age of fifty. Ms Brown taught school for ten years and then retired so she could devote more of her time to writing.