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"Mr. Marston," Bonnie greets from her place on the porch steps. Her arms are crossed over her chest, forehead slick with sweat and grime from a days work out in the pasture. She'd probably been mending fences; the tops of her arms were light pink from impending sunburn.
John tips his hat to her, "Miss MacFarlane," and he sweeps his arm out towards the acres of pastures and fields stretching behind him, "I was wonderin' if you'd give me the grace of going for a stroll?"
He'd been beating himself up over asking the woman to spend time with him. All day he'd been wondering what to say, how to say it, where to go, what to do, etc. The flurry of thoughts and worries all melted down when he finally spoke the words.
Bonnie straightens against the wooden beam, and drops her arms to her sides, though her face remains neutral. John watches as her brilliant blue eyes flick out towards acres of dry grass and wheat husks, studying the shadows cast from a setting sun.
"Could use a break," Bonnie finally says. She descends the steps, wood creaking under her boots, and takes the arm John offers to her with a kind smile, "And you could use the fresh air, festerin' in that room all day."
John's wound twitches at her words, dull pain radiating down his shoulder. It never stops reminding him that Bonnie has been sheltering him for a few weeks now, giving him food and water, a bed to rest in, clothes to wear (though they were a bit large) and much needed sleep. Waiting until his damn wound finally heals.
He felt useless, lonely even. Sitting in a cabin, unable to move without pain shooting through his body, there was nothing he could do except sleep. Though, Bonnie visited him frequently through the few weeks he'd been there. She'd always bring books, food, alcohol, cigarettes, cards, anything to keep John from getting bored out of his mind. They drank, played intense poker games (betting with bottlecaps and loose change), joked and laughed and told stories about their pasts.
She was, really, the only thing that had kept John waiting for the next day.
Bonnie leads John through gates and pastures, past sheep and cattle, through dry grass and under fences. They walk in a comfortable silence; neither are known for their words or outgoing personalities. He listens to the crickets, to the birds, to Bonnie's steady breathing as she makes her way down a packed down path.
The air is brisk, the evening blanketing the McFarlane ranch in a relieving coolness. Cows chew their cud, standing close to one another as flies and mosquitos attack their exposed flanks. Horses graze on sparse grass, picking at roots and dried flowers, hooves thudding the ground when they amble along to find more suitable grazing lands
The further they stroll, through trees, down hills, past dried springs, the more relaxed John becomes.
Bonnie was right. John had been festering in that cabin for too long.
She stops at a barbed wire fence, slipping her warm hand from John's arm to rest against a wooden gate, fingers tapping against smooth oak. She stares straight ahead.
John follows her gaze, past the barbed fence, past two large oaks bordering the gate. Bushes line up and down an invisible pathway, green leaves vibrant despite the heat, purple flowers dotting the branches. Bees bumble along, large and lazy, whizzing back and forth between the bushes. The sweet smell is nearly overpowering.
Bonnie, however, takes a deep breath.
"Lilacs are my favourite," Bonnie speaks softly, breaking the silence. She reaches down to a metal latch, flicking it up with a subtle click and opens the gate, allowing John in first.
Lilacs.
That would explain the rows and rows of bushes growing from the dry ground, past the dying grass. Her favourite flower.
The drought caused many of the surrounding foliage to crack and break from lack of water. Fields of dry grass sprawled throughout the country side, husks of corn barely growing past fence lines, wheat bowing over from the heat. However, despite the fact that it hadn't rained in a few months, the lilac bushes remained standing tall.
Bonnie approached a single bush, the one closest to them, and touched the flowers gently. The gate clicks softly behind them.
John supposed that lilacs were pretty. A rich soft purple, vibrant against the dark forest green of the bushes they hung off of, they were just a flower; they left a strong, heady, sweet smell trailing through the air that only got stronger when John approached.
When Bonnie reaches out for one, work-hardened fingers clasping around the stem, she snaps it expertly off the bush and holds it up.
The purple highlights the blonde of her hair, the green in her blue eyes, the flush of her cheeks, heated from the sun. She brings it to her nose and takes a deep breath, eyes closed and relaxed, and when she exhales, all the tension from her body seems to fade away.
Purple, a regal colour, rich and deep. A colour that suits Bonnie all too well.
Beautiful.
John did suppose lilacs were pretty.
"And yours?"
John starts. He sees Bonnie staring expectantly at him, cradling the lilac in her calloused hands.
"Pardon?"
He hates how dumbstruck Bonnie makes him, how a single little thing such as telling John her favourite flower had him dazed.
Bonnie smiles, rolls her eyes, tucking the flower in her breast pocket. It stays there, petals gently swaying back and forth, suiting her clothes, her skin, her features, "What's your favourite flower?"
John stares a few moments, trying to think of a suitable answer. Bonnie waits patiently for him to speak, moving to lean against a nearby tree.
His eyes search the nearby fields, desperate to think of something that wasn't embarrassing-
A flash of yellow catches his eye, a single plant standing straight and tall by Bonnie's feet, sheltered from the heat by the tree.
"Dandelions," John blurts. He regrets talking immediately.
Bonnie looks like she wants to laugh. She crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow up in amusement, "Dandelions?"
Her tone is borderline disbelief; she looks to her right where the dandelion stands true, and reaches down. The yellow flower shivers at her touch as she plucks it from the ground, chunks of dirt clinging to small, string-like roots. John watches as she touches a petal lightly.
"Y'know dandelions are weeds, right?" Bonnie twirls the stem around in her pinched fingers, "They ain't exactly..."
She waves a hand in the air, searching for words, "Welcome 'round here."
Now John is the one waiting for her to elaborate on her reasoning. Bonnie notices.
"They grow fast 'round here. Nuisances are what they are." Bonnie looks down to the dandelion laying in her palm. It's almost a golden in the setting sun, matching her hair, "But it does go well with purple."
Bonnie steps away from the tree, and stops right in front of John. They're close, noses nearly brushing, and from here, John can smell the lilac hanging in her pocket. She reaches up and tucks the dandelion right behind his ear, makes it rest against his head. The petals tickle his temple, the stem clings to his hair.
"Looks good on you," Bonnie smiles, teeth flashing brilliantly, "Brings out your eyes."
John ducks his head. He can't fight the blush that rages across his face. Bonnie's smile grows wider at his red face, and she laughs gently, reaching up to tuck a stray stand of hair behind his other ear.
"I gotcha blushin' like a school girl," Bonnie says, voice low, soft, fluttery. Soft like the flower in her breast pocket, the same flower that made him appreciate the colour purple more.
"Ain't blushin'." John mutters.
Bonnie laughs again, like windchimes in a gentle breeze, and leans forwards, "Sure you ain't."
John is hyper aware of their bodies pressed together, their noses brushing, their lips touching. When Bonnie closes the distance, John nearly melts on the spot.
Her lips are like the rest of her; rough yet soft, warm and alive. John isn't sure where to put his hands until Bonnie takes her own, grabs his wrists and guides them to her sides. They kiss.
They kiss until the sun finally sinks down into the ground, until their lips are puffy and their mouths are sore. Until they forget about their worries, their troubles, their past and future.
John decides he really likes lilacs.