Happiness on the Ranch

By Ree Drummond, Pawhuska, Oklahoma

As appeared in

I grew up on the seventh fairway of a golf course in an oil town in Oklahoma. The daughter of an orthopedic surgeon, I spent the school year submerging myself in classical ballet…and the summertime submerging myself in the chlorinated water of the country-club pool. My mother and I had season tickets to the opera in a neighboring city, and thanks to theater trips to New York, I knew every Broadway song ever written. I was a bona fide city girl.

When it came time for college, I thought my town of 35,000 was a little small for my liking. I enrolled at the University of Southern California and moved into a dorm room with a clear view (on smog-free days) of the Hollywood sign. I loved Los Angeles and vowed never again to live in a place with a population of less than five million people. I loved the pulse, the excitement, the pace. Finally, I felt like I was where I truly belonged, where I was meant to be.

After college, I decided to move to Chicago. My brother lived there, as did some good friends. So I returned home to Oklahoma for a short time to pack, refine my résumé and search for Chicago-area apartments. One night just before Christmas, a group of childhood friends invited me out for a glass of wine and some reminiscing. So I temporarily set aside my Chicago planning, threw on some comfortable jeans and met my friends.

That’s when I saw him—the cowboy—across the room. He was tall, striking, dressed in Wranglers. He was unlike anyone I’d ever seen in my hometown. Before I knew it, we were talking. My knees were weak the whole time. I’m not sure how I remained standing. Then, just like that, the cowboy left. He and his brother had to cook some Christmas turkeys for a shelter in his small town (He’s nice too, I told myself) and he was already late. I watched as he and his Wranglers walked out of the bar and, I assumed, out of my life.

One night of conversation with a cute cowboy, however, wasn’t about to derail my Chicago plans. By April, I’d made a deposit on a Chicago apartment. I planned to stay home through my brother’s wedding to one of our hometown friends later that month, then I’d be off. I was ready. I missed the gourmet coffee shops, the city, the culture.

The evening after the wedding, my phone rang. It was the cowboy. He’d gotten my number from an acquaintance and was calling on his way home from working a herd of cattle. I wasn’t sure why I was hearing from him after four months—all I knew was that as soon as I heard his voice my knees went weak again. He asked if I’d like to go to dinner the following night.

He picked me up the next evening wearing jeans, a starched denim shirt and cowboy boots. He was a vision. I was wearing clothes appropriate for a night out in Chicago, complete with spiked black boots and plenty of lip gloss. We didn’t exactly look like we belonged together. It doesn’t matter, though, I told myself. I’ll be gone soon anyway.

I don’t even remember eating dinner that night. We talked the entire time—about his family, about my family, about his ranch, about my time in Los Angeles, about his brother Todd, who’d died in an accident years earlier, and about my brother Mike, who was developmentally disabled. And all the time I found myself increasingly lost in his icy blue eyes, his gentle manner and his work-honed confidence. He was like no one I’d ever met before.