The Prince Charming List. Kathryn Springer

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      She frowned. Apparently she had.

      “You’ll have to wear my boots.” She dug into the hall closet and tossed her red cowboy boots at me. I’d worn them before as a fashion statement but suddenly I was beginning to get suspicious about what Bree Penny considered relaxing.

      “Come on. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

      And it was waiting in the barn.

      I’d ridden before. Once. With Bree. Her horse, Buckshot, was an equine skyscraper, but riding him hadn’t seemed so scary when I was with someone who knew which end of a horse was which.

      “Her name is Rose. Don’t ask me why, but the Cabotts like to name their horses after flowers.” Bree opened the stall and Rose stepped out quite daintily for something the size of a Neon. “Riley brought her over this afternoon. He said we can keep her here all summer for you to ride.”

      Rose stretched out her neck and blew on my hand, parting the hair all the way up my arm.

      “She likes you.” Bree grinned. “Here, take her out in the yard while I saddle up Buck.”

      “We’re going riding now?” I think I needed more time to get used to the idea. Like two or three years.

      “Sure. You’re going to love it. This is the best time of year to ride. Before the flies get too bad.” Bree gave Rose a gentle swat on the behind and she accompanied me agreeably to the door. She seemed harmless enough.

      Until I was looking at how far away the ground was a few minutes later.

      This can’t be any more complicated than riding a bike, I reasoned. Pull on the left rein, she goes left. Pull on the right rein, she goes right.

      “Loosen your reins a bit. Sit back in the saddle. Drop your heels,” Bree instructed as soon as she saw me.

      At the same time? So maybe it was a bit more difficult than riding a bike! I gave Rose’s neck a comforting pat in return for her patience.

      “We’ll take the dirt road to the Cabotts’ place,” Bree said. “Riley wants to meet up with us there, if that’s okay.”

      “Is Riley part of my recovery program or yours?” I teased.

      “He’s a nice way to end the day.” Bree shrugged but she couldn’t quite hide her smile.

      If I had to pick a word to describe Riley Cabott, it would have been steady. When it comes to guys, there are two kinds of steady—steady and boring or steady and intriguing. Riley was definitely in category two. He and Bree had come to the wedding together but I’d noticed he’d given her a lot of space. Bree was so independent I had a feeling she’d shake off any guy who made it hard for her to breathe. Riley must have known that, too, and that’s what put him in the steady and intriguing column. A guy who paid attention.

      I tried not to envy the easy way they laughed together. I’d never had a serious boyfriend, but it’s not because I didn’t want one. I just want the right one. Occasionally I’d go to a movie or have lunch with one of the guys in my YAC group. YAC was an acronym for the Young Adult Class, which met for Bible study before the worship service on Sunday mornings.

      I’d attended the same church all my life, so even though all the YAC guys were working full-time or were in college now, I still had a hard time moving past certain memories. Like all the years I’d been forced to listen to the obnoxious noises they loved to make. And the way they acted out Bible stories like David and Goliath by collapsing on the floor and letting red Kool-Aid dribble down their chins. Not exactly the kind of visuals conducive to a romantic date.

      Maybe with the Lord’s help I could have gotten past all that, but there was something else. And that something was The List. When I was a freshman in high school, the girls in my Wednesday night Bible study went on a weekend retreat—one of those camping experiences that put a dozen teenage girls in a dorm with one bathroom. The weekends are designed to promote friendship and bonding but instead they become a battle over who gets to plug her blow-dryer into the one outlet first.

      The guest speaker talked about issues like modesty and respecting yourself and we politely yawned our way through her Friday night message. Most of us at the retreat were raised in Christian homes and we’d heard so many variations of her speech over the years we could have written our own.

      On Saturday morning, though, she handed out paper and pens, sat on the arm of the couch, which I’d never seen a guest speaker do, and told us to write down all the qualities we’d like to see in our future husband.

      A guest speaker that was telling us to think about guys? This was something new. She didn’t say a word while we giggled over descriptions like great looking and drives a Porsche. When we finished our assignment, she told us to read through the list again and turn it into a prayer request.

      A prayer request?

      There was an uncomfortable silence. I looked at my list and immediately crossed off two things and added three more. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the girl sitting across from me crinkle hers up into a ball and start over. There were no more giggles as we tackled our lists again with the intense concentration we’d use to take our SATs.

      The really strange thing was that none of us shared our revised list after that. I didn’t. I tucked it in my Bible in the Song of Songs, which was an appropriate place not only because it’s all about love and romance but also because I figured no one who accidentally grabbed my Bible to look something up would look up something there. I’d blushed my way through that particular book a few years ago and can understand why pastors don’t quote verses from it with the same enthusiasm they do from 1 Corinthians 13.

      After that, I started silently comparing any guys I’d meet to The List. It got a little discouraging. It wasn’t like I was in a hurry to get married or anything, but couldn’t I meet someone who hit at least one or two out of my Top Five? Was my list unrealistic? Even though I’d changed the great looking (yes, that was me) to attractive, maybe my expectations were still too high. But I’d comforted friends who’d lowered their standards to warm and breathing just so they wouldn’t sit alone on the weekends. If God was presently molding a man to meet my specifications, all I had to do was wait patiently until He was finished. And obviously it was taking a while. But I was still convinced that waiting for Mr. Right was better than settling for Mr. Right Now.

      “Still thinking about Mrs. Kirkwood?” Bree’s voice floated over her shoulder, muffled by the soft thud of Buck’s hooves against the road.

      Rose had taken advantage of my momentary split with reality. When I snapped back to attention, she’d also taken a little side trip and was busy nibbling at the grass along the ditch.

      “No, just decompressing after a horrible, no-good, very bad day.” I tugged on the reins and Rose ignored me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard her laugh.

      Bree twisted around in the saddle and saw my dilemma. “Give her a little kick with your heels. She’s testing you.”

      And she gets an A plus.

      I obeyed and exhaled in relief when Rose trotted to catch up to Buckshot. I didn’t want Bree to think I wasn’t a natural at this, even though my tailbone was wearing away like erosion on a riverbank every time it connected with the saddle.

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