illphated

Her Only Bad Habit is Me
By Illphated

In a dusty corner of West Texas, beneath a sky so wide it made you feel small, there was a woman named Caroline Mae.

She wasn’t like the other cowgirls. Sure, she could ride a fence line and break a wild colt better than most, but she also carried a book in her saddlebag. Caroline loved stories—tales of adventure, philosophy, love, and war. Some nights she’d read by lantern light, her green eyes glowing like prairie fireflies.

Folks around town whispered about her. Not because she was trouble, but because she was different. Quiet. Thoughtful. The type of woman who could rope a steer and recite Whitman in the same afternoon.

I met her one evening at the Dusty Spur diner. She was alone in the corner booth, reading a worn-out book with the corners folded just so. When our eyes met, she tilted her hat back, smiled that knowing smile, and went right on reading.

Days turned into weeks. We talked under starlit skies, rode together past fields of bluebonnets, and argued—friendly-like—about poetry and politics. She had a way of making you feel like the only person on Earth, and yet like you could disappear in a blink if you betrayed her trust.

I remember asking her once, “Caroline, what’s your worst habit?”

She didn’t hesitate. She closed her book, looked up from the pages with those green eyes, and said softly, “You.”

That’s when I knew I was hooked.

See, out here in the West, people talk a lot about loyalty, grit, and code. But sometimes the strongest bond ain’t to land or law—it’s to someone who reads you like a story and loves you anyway.

Her only bad habit is me. And God help me, I aim to make sure she never quits.

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Stories from the edge of Americana, grit, and love.

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