If you’ve just joined us, Rose and I have been talking about how she and Harold first met, an exercise suggested by the editor to whom I pitched my story idea at the recent writers’ conference I attended. It’s turned out to be a rather long, drawn-out story. You can catch up with Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

ROSE: I’m afraid this is taking much longer than you had expected. Shall I go on?

TM: {nods} Please. You had just fainted when you saw the mess on your hands.

ROSE: Yes. I awake stretched out on a hay bale, a horse blanket beneath me to protect me from bits of straw scratching my skin, although the blanket had its own brand of scratchiness. Mare and baby are sleeping comfortably and Harold is raking the last bits of soiled bedding from the stall. I sit, but the world begins to spin, so I quickly lay back down. The rustling draws Harold’s attention to me.

“Back with us, eh? Barely? Maybe you should stay put for a minute?

“I’m not sure you heard me before, so, thank you for your help. As you can see, they’re both doing wonderfully.” About this time, the foal nudges her dam for some well-deserved nourishment. “I’m afraid I… never asked your name?” He looks so bashful now, like a school boy.

“Oh. It’s Rose. Rose Bishop.”

“Well, Miss Bishop, what’s this about your car and my cow.”

I laugh, because earlier I was so angry about the cow, and now it seems so inconsequential. “It was my fault, really,” I admit. “If I’d been going slower down the hill, I could have stopped when the cow came onto the road instead of having to swerve to miss it. I’m afraid my Packard is quite a mess.”

“I can take a look at it in the morning. Too dark tonight, besides, it’s raining.”

I hadn’t noticed the rain, although the gentle patter of drops on the roof now reached my ear.

“I can put you up here if you don’t mind a night alone with a bachelor. Or I can drive you into Ingleside. Dreyer’s probably has a room.

“I should tell you, though; I don’t have a car, just an open wagon. But I have blankets to keep you dry.”

I did sit this time, managing not to swoon when I noticed the stains on my dress. “Here is fine… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sorry, I’m not used to company. Harold McIntyre, at your service.”

“If you’re certain, then, Mr. McIntyre, that I won’t be putting you out? Although I expect you want to spend the night in here and make sure everyone is okay. One favor, if you please? Do you have something I can wear? I need to get this stain taken care of before it sets.”

Well, that’s it. The story of how we met. Of course, a better story is how we came to be married. But I’ve taken up enough of your time for now.

[Sorry, folks. Rose is refusing the spill the beans on the rest of the story, but, I promise, if she lets anything slip, I’ll let you know.]