Courage, commitment, and control are no match for~

The Weight of Flowers

Kentucky, 1923. Green rolling pastures studded with thoroughbreds, the hypnotic chorus of crickets singing their promise of good luck—all so seemingly bucolic on the surface. Deceit hangs in the air like poorly kept secrets. That’s where Jamison Jones Davenport grew up. Where she learned her existence had less value than hired field hands. That’s why she chose to never return.

Jamison’s father, the Colonel, was adept at subtle reconstruction. Reality on the stud farm was a manifestation of his will, regardless of merit or truth. He expected everyone to fall in line like no one was capable of thinking for themselves, or recognizing when most of it was a boondoggle. But Jamison wouldn’t do it. Even from a young age, she tried to work around it, first by being a tomboy, believing there was no reason she couldn’t be the son he’d always wanted. Her effort made little difference to him, and nature put an end to that naive deception. As she became a young woman, Jamison realized that her options were less than she had hoped. Being a woman wasn’t the trouble; being a woman in a man’s world was hobbling her.

It was tolerable when the Colonel ignored her, but his own plans destroyed her path to being a free woman. She thought maybe her mother would help, but it was certainly beyond her mother’s artful ruse for survival. In a case like this, any intelligent girl would use the same wiles taught from her father against him.

Jamison

Every night I prayed that I’d wake up as a boy, so they would love me.

God didn’t listen.

Every day I tried to show my parents that I was valuable. They didn’t see.

Every moment I spent with Carrington, I didn’t have to pray or pretend; just being me was enough to inspire his respect and devotion.

I loved Carrington—he was supposed to be mine. But he disappeared after a hunting trip with the Colonel, an event brushed under the rug with suspicious diligence. I refused to let that be my fate.

Carrington

I’m not a complicated man. I thought my life would follow a well-worn path; I’d marry my soul mate, Jamison, the girl I grew up with. I’d be an artist, she’d be a writer, and we’d spend our days raising horses and a few kids of our own—always together, always in love… After my run in with the Colonel, I fled, feeling shame and anger, and the fear that I’d killed a man.

I learned early on, things rarely go as planned, so I don’t look too far ahead of my boots anymore. The problem there is not seeing what’s coming. I’ve had that be both a blessing and a curse plenty of times. I fear most the times the blessing becomes the curse, because my circumstances tend to go that way.

Jon

Every man does things his own way. I make sure that everyone does things my way. That could be an issue for some, but those people don’t interest me. I am very particular; I have very specific needs. The reasons are known to only one other person in whose debt I shall remain until my dying breath.

It had to be fate that brought Jamison into my well-constructed world. I pride myself in being able to read people beyond the superficial—it’s imperative for my security. When she entered the room, heads turned, most likely because she was wearing men’s trousers as she weaved around me to take possession of my private table. It gave me the pleasure to watch her uninterrupted. She was an enigma, a contradiction of confidence and insecurity, ferocity and innocence. I assumed she was as easy to read as a child. I’d eventually find out how much of a mistake that was; there is nothing simple about her, which is precisely why fate delivered her to me.