Yours Darlin'

Is there anything worse than flying long haul in economy AND in the middle seat? My flight took off from Heathrow just before lunch with two men either side of me that thought my floor space was also theirs. 

When we landed in Chicago O’Hare, I couldn’t have been happier to have a five hour connection that meant I could stretch my legs, even though they were completely seized when I first tried to stand from my seat. Luckily, the connecting flight was just over two hours to Tulsa and I had a window seat.

I thought I would feel something akin to homesickness when I left England, but walking outside of the airport towards the car rental place felt like I’d just gotten home. It’s a pretty big step that I’d just taken, I’d left my cosy, stable life with a job in banking to follow my heart into writing. Sure, I could have written from anywhere but I love a good cowboy romance and what better way to write a cowboy romance than if you’re on the ranch itself.

Don’t be fooled though, I have a folder in my bag with travel itineraries and booking confirmations. I have a medicine bag with everything that I could possibly need… if I was going on a pilgrimage across the desert. I may have made this crazy big decision seemingly quickly, but you can bet I’d been researching it and pondering it for months.

It took me longer than usual to make a decision on where I’d stay once I arrived here in Oklahoma, many tabs were open full of options with their reviews - I’d stuck mostly to ranches as I wanted to write as close to my story as possible. I ended up choosing one on the eastern edge of the state, around two hours away from the airport. The place seemed newer, there were less reviews but almost all of them were positive. I remember there being a couple of reviews that mentioned a grumpy rancher but I flew over those, they didn’t have anything to do with the guest houses themselves.

When I reached out to Lakeview Ranch, I got a response almost instantly from Martha Morgan, co-owner of the place. I explained that I’d wanted a longer stay than usual, the reviews mentioned people staying for a couple of weeks at a time, and Martha was more than happy to accommodate me. She kept in touch with me in the weeks leading up to my arrival, her picture online was a family one. Martha, the older lady with salt and pepper hair, stood next to what I presume is her husband. Two younger boys stand either side of them with wide-brimmed cowboy hats, but only one has a beaming smile. The other boy stands stoically, his mouth set to a serious and thin line.

I wondered if this was the grumpy rancher on the reviews.

Martha had told me that her husband and the two boys had built the guest house around five years ago. Since then, Martha had made it her little project to decorate it and make it feel like a home away from home. When they opened to guests, the place was booked solidly for months.

Martha had sent me many pictures of the place, and it looks stunning. It’s a single floor property with two bedrooms. It’s fully kitted out and has all the amenities you could think of. French sliding doors open onto a large porch at the back of home that overlooks a good chunk of the ranch. In the distance, you can see the sun shining brightly off Buller Lake. It’s beautiful, really. When Martha showed me, I knew I’d picked the perfect spot to write my story.

On the right-hand side of the porch, a hanging egg chair rests in the corner, cushions line the inside with a small table next to it. That’ll be perfect for the summer nights where I can watch the sun go down with a cider. The left of the porch has a corner garden sofa with a coffee table, the whole place is just picturesque.

The journey to the ranch wasn’t too bad either; that was after I got used to driving in the US and remembering that they use the opposite side to us Brits. That was a panicked fifteen minutes, for sure. As I pull off the main road, I pass under the overhead sign for Lakeview Ranch. Windchimes that hang off the sign dance and sing beautifully in the breeze as I make my way up the dirt track road to the main house. On the right, just behind the treeline, sits a vast field. I can see some cows grazing, even potentially a calf too. The main house comes into view after around thirty seconds and it’s much grander than it looks on the photos.

The two-story home is probably closer to a mansion than it is a house, a long porch wraps around three quarters of the house with small warm white lights hanging from the rich cedar beams. The front door is wide and forest green in colour with a stained glass middle. All kinds of colours shine through into the hallway of the house. As I pull up behind what I assume is their truck, I wonder what kind of paradise I’ve stumbled into so far. I climb out of the rental car just as that beautiful green door swings open. A small woman who I immediately recognise to be Martha comes out and pounds down the short steps towards me.

She holds her arms out as she approaches me. “You must be Kate! It’s so lovely to finally meet you in person.”

She embraces me easily, pulling me into a hug that only a mother would know how to do; it’s not a hug I’ve ever received either. She gives me a firm squeeze before letting go once more. I slick a smile onto my face and she pulls back to look at me.

“Hi, Mrs Morgan. Thank you for allowing me to stay.” I greet her kindly. She’s wearing a white linen shirt, her skin is tanned from years of living on a ranch; her eyes however, still look youthful and bright.

“It’s our pleasure, dear… and please, call me Martha.”

When she smiles, her whole face lights up. It’d be hard to be sad with Martha around is my first impression of her.

She motions me into the house and we fall into a comfortable pace as we walk up the stairs and through the front door I’d been admiring only moments earlier. The hallway makes the outside look mid. A wide doorframe opens up into a living space on my left, to my right is a utility cupboard that leads directly into a large kitchen.

Where something really nice is cooking, I think, whatever it is smells divine.

The majority of my view is taken up by a grand staircase. A cream carpet runner ascends with them, the bannisters look similar to the wood outside on the beams of the porch. I wonder whether this house was built by Martha’s husband and their two boys as well.

My thoughts are interrupted by Martha, she side-eyes me with a knowing smile. As she turns and opens a drawer from the dresser to her right, she fills the silence happily.

“Yeah, that colour is hard to maintain given we live on a ranch… but I just love it!” She gushes. She stares longingly at them before returning her attention to rummaging in the drawer, she eventually pulls out a set of keys. A small keyring is attached to them, and when I look closer, I can see a small photo of two boys.

The two boys from Martha’s online photo. Her sons.

Martha holds them out to me, and as I take them - she runs me through how to get to the guest house and any other things I might need.

“...so, that should be everything.” Martha says with a flourish.

“Thank you, truly. I think this will be a very nice three months here.” I say softly, Martha beams at me and I wonder if this is what a fraction of a mother’s love could feel like.

Then she remembers. “You must come for dinner this evening too.”

I freeze. I was anticipating warm hospitality, but I wasn’t expecting to be fed. To be honest, I was going to dump my stuff inside and gorge on crisps until I can get to a shop.

“Oh, I, um, I-I wouldn’t want to impose.” I stammer.

Martha waves me off. “Nonsense. You’re practically family now.”

The sentiment sends a warmth around my body, originating in my heart. Martha must be the kindest woman in all of Oklahoma.

As I’m leaving, she waits at the door. She leans against the doorway happily and waves at me as I depart. I’m just driving past the front of the porch when she calls out.

“Remember, 7pm!” She shouts out.

I nod and smile as I drive away, secretly happy that I don’t have to have a meal of a packet of quavers from the bottom of my bag.

It’s only a two minute drive down a little side road before I come across the guest house to my left. As I’m obviously the only one at this house, I park right outside the front door - that way, there’s less distance to do while I unload the car of my crap.

Martha had let me know that she’d kept the back doors open to freshen the place up. I appreciated it because I severely underestimated the temperatures here. It’s a balmy May day but in England, I’d be dressed up in a hoodie there unless we had some freak heatwave; a day in May in Oklahoma has me shedding layers left, right and centre. Martha had helpfully labelled the various keys for me so I didn’t have to fumble around to find the right one.

She’s a woman after my own heart, really.

The door swings open and I realise quickly how little justice the photos that Martha sent me did for the sheer beauty of the place. The door opens into an open-plan kitchen/living room. On my left, a fully equipped kitchen is set-up ready to go and on my right, a large loveseat that’s covered in blankets faces the french doors that are open and bringing a breeze in. I can see three internal doors which I assume are the two bedrooms and the bathroom. A small desk, but obviously handcrafted, sits perfectly in the top-right hand part of the room. I’d told Martha that I’d wanted to do some writing with my three months here, and she’d left a note on the desk that said ’I hope this helps with the writing. M.x’ - she’s so sweet.

I pushed through to the master bedroom, which I knew was the one on the left from the photos. A four-poster bed with ceiling to floor windows is showcased to me as I open the door, the breath expels from my lungs with a whoosh as I take in the beauty that I get to call home for the next three months.

A clock above the bed tells me I only have forty minutes until 7pm, and I wouldn’t want to be late for Martha. I only bring in my cases before jumping in the shower, after a long day of travel - I don’t want to turn up there looking like I’ve just been dragged through a bush.

Besides, I can unpack tomorrow.

It feels like a blink before I’m parking back outside the main house, only this time - another truck is there too. A slightly older Ford but a perfect burgundy-brown colour. As I jump out, I don’t get the reception of Martha like I did before but it’s kind of nice to have the calm. It’s pretty quiet as we’re a little off the beaten track here, so all I can hear is the gentle sound of the breeze wafting through trees and the birds that sing within them.

I two-step up the porch before stopping in front of the green door, there’s no doorbell. Or a knocker. I’d only just lifted my arm to knock with my hand when a voice sounded behind me.

“Is this your first door call, sweetheart?”

The voice is low, almost like he growls his words. It doesn’t change the fact it made me scream like I was about to be killed. As I attempted to recover from my cardiac event, I spun around to be greeted with a tall, broad shouldered, bearded man. A black cowboy hat sits perfectly on his head, small brown locks of hair flick out. He’s wearing tinted sunglasses, but when he drops them - he has piercing blue/grey eyes that make my pulse quicken. He wears a dark grey shirt, the top two buttons loose, deep blue jeans cover his legs. They don’t hide how muscular this man is, if anything, it hugs him in ALL the right places. The shirt is rolled, showcasing his wide forearms and big hands. They’re tanned like Martha’s, but there’s evidence he’s been working physically.

The man raises an eyebrow at me as I’ve only screamed, turned and stared at him. I must look like a clown.

“S-sorry…” I stammer before turning to look at the door. “Martha invited me.”

Like I’d summoned her, the door flies open and Martha jumps out with a pan in her hand. The man jumps forward to stop her.

“Mom! It’s me.” He says urgently, the words tumble from his mouth quickly.

Martha looks the man in the eye before her steely look turns into the mother’s gaze I saw earlier.

“Oh, hi honey. You’ve met Kate?” She gestures to me and the man turns around to me, those clear blue/grey eyes burning into my own. I can’t quite work him out, he’s borderline glaring at me when he doesn’t even know me.

To my surprise, the man’s hand reached out and he introduced himself.

“Zac Morgan.” C