Billionaire Flawed 1(155)
MariAnne gasped outright at an ebullient vision that seemed like something out of a dream; a field simply brimming with luminous, golden hued roses that grew in fragrant stands as nurtured and illuminated by the rays of the Texas sun.
“The yellow rose of Texas!” she identified immediately, adding as she rushed forward to get a closer look at the full silken blossoms that distinguished her host’s sun drenched ranch, “I haven’t seen these since I left home—my real home, that is.”
Emulating the moves of her wonderstruck daughter, a jubilant MariAnne ran forward between fragrant rows of gleaming golden blossoms, twirling around and around as her favored florals flew like a twirling kaleidoscope before her admiring eyes.
Finally coming to a stop direct by the side of her laughing host, she gaped as he presented her with a shiny, dew glistened bouquet of her favorite florals.
“Why thank you Clayton,” she told him, voice barely above a whisper as she took the florals in hand and inspected in full their velvety radiance. “I reckon that you’re the first man who has even given me flowers.”
Clayton looked at her for a long moment, then retrieved a nearby hoe as he moved to take his place beside her at the center of the rose bed.
“Well if a simple bouquet of roses is all it takes to bring that beautiful smile to your face,” he told her, “Then rest assured that you will receive at least one bouquet for each and every day that you plan to spend with me.” He paused here, adding as he struck a deep courtly bow before her, “Consider me at your disposal, Madame. I plan to spend every day healing your precious heart—all the while claiming it for my own.”
Finally setting to work at the heart of the rose garden, the couple worked side by side to pull weeds, plant seeds and harvest the richest and most robust blooms; flowers that they would later take to market, to exchange for coins at a fair rate.
Expressing endless appreciation of MariAnne’s spirit and work ethic, Clayton watched with wonder as she took to her duties with a professional, very workmanlike approach; transforming and enhancing the overall look of his field while harvesting its most beautiful blossoms.
“You’re a natural at field work,” he praised her at one point, adding as he inclined his head sharp in her direction, “Where did a pretty little filly like you pick up the skills of a ranch hand?”
MariAnne shrugged.
“Back at home on my family farm, everybody who expected to eat Mama’s supper that night would have to pitch in the day beforehand—being sure that the work got done before we even thought about eating, playing chess, reading the Bible, or listening to Ma tickle the ivories of her beautiful black piano,” she revealed, adding quickly as she released a particularly tough weed with a hard sharp tug, “Now I don’t mean to imply, of course, that my parents were hard and mean.They are in fact wonderful people who raised us in the church—who raised us right!”
Clayton said nothing at first in response to these words; just regarded her for a long quiet moment before returning to his work.
“With all due respect, Ma’am,” he told her over his shoulder, “Why on earth would two loving, wonderful, God-fearing people sell their daughter to a monster?”
MariAnne froze.
“Look, I am certain that Ma and Pa had no idea that their longtime friend was an out and out scoundrel, and perhaps worse,” she insisted, adding as she shook her head from side to side, “Aside from that fact, Clayton, a body can’t really fault desperate people—folks who need a great deal of money, and fast, to keep their ranch.”
Her eyes flew wide then, as her host surged upright at the center of the patch and turned to face her in full.
“I personally do not care if the law came on to your parents’ property and threatened to foreclose it, before sunset that day,” he insisted, adding as he pointed a strong finger straight in her direction, “No woman deserves that brand of horrendous, inhumane treatment. Especially not—“ he paused here, adding as he looked her straight in the eyes, “Especially not you, MariAnne.”
MariAnne thought a moment, then nodded.
“You are right,” she conceded finally, adding as she balled her fists beside her, “I am angry at my husband. I am angry at Ma and Pa. I am angry at any world and society that allows a gal to be treated this way.”
Throwing aside her own hoe, the now enraged woman stomped her feet in the dirt and raised her delicate fists to the sky as she declared, “I am not a cow or a mule, something to be bought and sold to support the family farm. I am not a ranch hand, and I am most certainly not a slave.” She paused here, adding as she pointed an affirming thumb straight in her direction, “No man ever should feel that he has a right to strike me with his fists, or belittle me with his words. Beyond these basic rights, I also feel like I should be taken to dinner once in a while, and at a nice restaurant. And I want to go to a barn dance or a cotillion—I want to dance!”