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If an ox can be a gentle diplomat with a devilish sense of humor, that was Chuck, the circle boss. Standing next to each other, I am so tiny, we looked like we were from different species. The top of my head reached just above his elbow. One of my thighs was smaller than one of his forearms. He called me Peewee.

We first met at Badger Camp, a cow camp in the high cold Nevada desert, sixty miles from the nearest town. The rancher (who owned the cattle), Chuck, about seven cowboys and I stayed at camp for about ten days, riding thirty- or forty-mile circles, rounding up cattle from the open range. The camp was built into the side of a hill that protected it from the wind, had a kitchen and a bunkhouse for the men and a spring with cold, clear water just outside the kitchen door. On the flat below was a barn and a big fenced-in pasture for the many horses we needed. That country was rough, and after one of those long days, a horse needed a two-day rest.

I rode with that crew for three years. The first year, I barely knew how to ride AND I was a foreigner from Massachusetts. These people knew everyone, their parents and grandparents. Chuck could have been mean, but he set an example for his longtime crew by choosing to be kind and funny.

One day, we came across a tree trunk that would be in the way of the oncoming herd of cattle. Eager to prove myself, I quickly dismounted and lifted it out of the way. “Peewee, pound for pound, I wish I had your strength. Problem is, there’s not enough of you.”

Another day, we were herding the couple hundred cattle we’d gathered back to camp. A couple of the younger cowboys broke up the boredom by putting a stick under my horse’s tail, which made him buck. I laughed and rode out the craziness. After we stopped clowning around, Chuck rode alongside me. “There’s not many gals who would come out here and ride these long cold days and put up with a crew like us. Peewee, you’re good help.”

Good help. The highest praise a person could get.

“Winter’s coming, you gonna stay in these parts?” he asked.

“Dunno. It’s kind of lonely.”

We rode at a walk for quite a while. Then he said, “I’m officially inviting you to my daughter’s wedding.”

That meant almost as much as being called good help. The women back in town did not trust a young, single woman from back East and I had never been invited to the weddings, funerals and church suppers they organized.

The wedding reception was in a community room that would have felt sparse if not for the laughter, music and dancing. When Chuck introduced me to Sam, a young cowboy friend of his, I understood that because Sam was single and about my age, he could possibly make me less lonely.

Sam and I sat together on the metal folding chairs that lined the wall, watching the others dance and laugh. I’m a good talker, but like a lot of these young cowboys, Sam was better with horses than women and barely said a word.

Finally, I said “Nice to meet you,” and went back to hang out with the cowboys I knew, guys who would never be the reason I’d stay.

Six months later, I moved to San Francisco for the summer to edit a documentary that I’d been filming about these cowboys. Within a few weeks, I met Kenji, a film editor who talked, joked, danced and made a hell of a lot of fun out of whatever life offered. I tried vigorously to get him to become a cowboy, something he was never, ever going to do. I married him anyway and never lived in the ranching county again.