Page 25 of Old-Fashioned Rancher

Living in a small town afforded me the opportunity to keep my operating costs to a minimum. I grew most of the flowers that I needed. For bigger events—like the Harvest Festival—I ordered the flowers I needed from outside Denver. As I wandered my porch, snipping sprigs of flowers and putting them into a vase, checking for disease, deadheading the spent blooms, this was the part about my business that I always loved the most. Surrounding myself with the colors, scents, textures, the small humble flowers, and the big, showy blossoms.

My gaze landed on a pot of forget-me-nots by the door. My heart squeezed. I trailed my fingers through the flowers, making their little heads bob.

I knew Grady was a busy man. I knew his ranch would take priority more often than not. And yet, I couldn’t help feeling…dismissed…this morning.

Then I began to wonder. Hosting the festival at his ranch was always about making Grady appear to be a generous man, friendly and inviting. What better way to convey that than having a woman on his arm for the evening? Maybe I was a pretty ornament to him and nothing more. Maybe he had no use for me now that the festival was over.

I sighed. My head was starting to hurt from thinking in circles.

Eventually, I would have to face Grady again. For now, I would lick my wounded pride after virtually getting kicked out of his bed unceremoniously.

After my lunch break was over, I gathered the flowers I’d cut, and placed them in a vase by the register. I flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN and pushed Grady firmly out of my thoughts.

The bell over the door chimed, signaling the arrival of a customer. I lifted my head, prepared to speak, and the breath rushed out of me when I saw the figure standing on the threshold.

Grady filled my doorway with his broad shoulders. He removed his hat, looking self-conscious, rough, and out of place amid the delicate lilac and white decor.

A heartbeat of silence settled over the shop.

“May I…help you?” I asked, haltingly.

Grady seemed to snap out of his reverie and started to move, striding toward me at the front counter. He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and smoothed it out.

Were his hands shaking?

No. I must have imagined it. There was no way a stoic, grumpy man like Grady would be nervous enough to have unsteady hands.

“I was hoping you could offer your professional opinion,” he said.

“About what?”

“I need a bouquet. And it has to send the right message.”

Something tugged at the back of my mind, but I brushed it aside and turned to the wall of cut flowers behind me, waiting to be freshly arranged.

“All right,” I said. “Read them to me. Let’s see what I’m working with. I’ll build as we go.”

Grady cleared his throat and started to list flowers.

“Roses, red.”

That was no surprise. Red roses were a classic for a reason. In the language of flowers, they conveyed love, romance, eroticism. Men always wanted to get their girlfriends and wives red roses.

I selected a bundle of velvety red roses and turned to look at Grady, waiting for him to continue.

“Lily-of-the-valley.”

I clucked my tongue in dismay. The tiny little white clusters of bell-shaped flowers weren’t in season. They were spring beauties that held a variety of meanings, from sweetness and humility, to you make my life complete.

I paused as the realization sank in. Despite Grady’s pride, he was capable of humility. I’d seen it before. And he was doing it now by learning the language of flowers that I spoke, even when it was a far cry from the cattle he was used to.

“I’m afraid lily-of-the-valley isn’t in bloom,” I said. “I can order some if you like.”

Grady shook his head.

“That’s a shame. What about the next item on the list? Ivy?”

It sat at the end of the row and I plucked a healthy selection out of the bucket, twining it through the bouquet in my grip. The greenery symbolized wedded love.

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