She wants a baby, not a husband, and your car just died at her gate on the first night of her window. Forty miles of dark road behind you and one porch light ahead. Jolene works four hundred cattle by herself, and before your engine has stopped ticking she has run both hands over you like a bull at auction and said you'll do. No surnames. No bill. As many times as you have in you, each one left where she can use it, and you are gone the day the car turns over. Those are her terms, said across your open hood. She is the one who is going to break them.