Free Isn't It Romantic? by Ron Hansen

skunkbush and dog-wood, and then they went down a hillside steep as stairsteps as Dick named the green ash, basswood, and bur oak trees. Natalie pointed to green herbs in the shaded understory and asked, “What’s that?”
    And Dick told her, “Wood nettle.”
    â€œAnd this?” she asked.
    â€œWild columbine,” he said. “Stops flowering in June.” She shifted in the saddle to look down at a plant near her stirrup and Dick immediately named it, “Jack-in-the-pulpit.”
    She smiled. “Are you a botanist?”
    â€œWell, I’ve lived here all my life. You just naturally like to know who your neighbors are.”
    She faced forward. “Nature is not so interesting to Pierre.”
    Considerately, he said, “Oh, he’s expert in other things, I imagine.”
    She seemed not to approve of those other things.
    Willows colonized the floodplain of another part of Frenchman’s Creek where the pebbled sand was hard-going for the horses, but at a turning they strode at a quicker pace toward a spot they seemed to remember. Shade trees and soft grasses moved in the breeze and creek water pillowed over smooth round stones near the bank. Dick jumped down from Shep and helped Natalie down from her horse. “Go ahead and give me your foot. I’ll try not to get too personal with ya this time.”
    Natalie smiled. “I am not bothered.”
    Dick walked her down to the creek bank with a red picnic blanket that he flung out and let float on the air and softly settle. She sat on it while he squatted beside her, unscrewing a canteen filled with Owen’s wine as he told her, “French trappers used to ship pelts from hereabouts to fur companies back east. One fella’s name was Bernard
    LeBoeuf. Had a rough time of it, I guess, and thought he was a goner. Wandered around like a zombie and fell into the water here. Woke up an hour later halfways healed. Had himself a new lease on life.”
    â€œWhat was his problem?”
    Dick thought about it. “Thirst, for one thing.” He paused. “And I guess a grizzly bear before that. Torn up pretty good. Ever since, this has been called Frenchman’s Creek and tales of its magical powers are still being told.”
    â€œAnd do you believe these tales?”
    â€œWhy I brought ya down here.”
    She held out a plastic cup and he poured wine into it. “Is it you want to make love with me?”
    He hesitated, and then got a plastic cup for himself and filled it. “Well now, I’m a tad bit old-fashioned about that.”
    â€œWhat is it you want then, Mister Tupper?”
    Skiffs of sunshine rocked on the water as he watched it move. “I’ll tell ya what I have. Twelve hundred acres plus farm buildings, machinery, and feeder pens. I have a four-bedroom Victorian house that’s just had itself done over by an interior desecrator named Mitzi. I have five percent of the last Holiday Inn you passed on the highway, nine percent of the largest Chrysler Dodge and Plymouth dealership west of Lincoln, and half a dozen employees that call me Mister Tupper. What I don’t have is a wife.” He paused. “She left me high and dry.”
    â€œShe was stupid,” Natalie said.
    â€œDon’t expect me to argue the matter.” Dick looked sentimentally at her and then was ashamed of his forwardness. “Hell, I’m too old for the hunt anyway.”
    Natalie protested, “ Mais non! You are not old!”
    Dick recited, “‘Cold are the hands of time that creep along relentlessly, destroying slowly but without pity that which yesterday was young. Alone our memories resist this disintegration and grow more lovely with the passing years.’” He smiled with some embarrassment. “I got that from a movie.”
    Natalie was nodding. “But yes! The Palm Beach Story . I like very much the films of Preston Sturges.”
    Dick considered her with