The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

She would do whatever she wanted.

I had no power, even if I liked to think I did.

The only way to stop her from doing things I didn’t approve of was to cart her back into the forest and keep her tied to a tree. And as much as that idea appealed to me, she had school to finish, a life to grow into, and I had a duty to ensure I made that as easy as I could for her.

No matter how much it destroys me.

Lowering my voice but unable to lower my temper, I seethed, “I was nineteen when I lost my virginity. You have another three years to go.”

She sucked in a breath as if shocked I’d shared something so personal.

Walking past her, I grunted, “You can go out with him in a group. You must be home when you say you will, and if you leave me hanging here like you did a few weeks ago, I’ll spank you so hard you won’t be able to sit down for a month and then I’ll ground you for the rest of your life.”

Her silence shot bullets into my back as I stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

As the stained, chipped mirror reflected my dirty face, I whispered, “Give me a few more years, Della Ribbon. Just a few more before you leave me.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

REN

* * * * * *

2016

SCHOOL FINISHED FOR the holidays, and Della, ever the resourceful, refused to relax like she deserved after studying so hard. Instead, she wanted to contribute to our bills by getting a job.

I was too busy with the milking to argue.

After scoring the job with Nick March, I’d not only been made the head milk harvester but also the overseer for the rest of the staff on his dairy farm.

From figuring out how much protein and fibre to feed versus income per milk quart, to paddock rotation and herd streamlining, my time was booked from the moment I arrived to the second I left.

I loved being in charge and making a difference. I enjoyed working with the seven hundred head of cattle and ensuring happy stock, which in turn, made for ease of milking twice a day.

What I didn’t enjoy were the long hours I had to put in and the time apart from Della.

I often fell asleep earlier due to the brutal wake-ups, and she’d stay up later texting who knew what and watching romantic programs that probably filled her head with ideas of sex and marriage and things I couldn’t protect her from.

I’d wanted her to recharge during the school holidays, but in a way, I was glad she job hunted. It meant she had things to fill her days with, and no idle hands to date boys she shouldn’t be dating.

And because she was intelligent and extremely capable, she landed a job within a few days, helping a local florist make bouquets and other gifts, spending her hours playing with flowers, plaiting ribbon, and turning nature into stunning works of art.

Whenever I’d come home, she’d have some sort of daisy, tulip, or rose waiting for me, tied with a snippet of ribbon on the kitchen table.

I never told her how much I adored the fact that she thought of me while at work. That she still cared enough that I was the one she kissed on the cheek and helped cook dinner with. That I still held enough importance in her life to spend time with, even if it was doing something boring like watching a movie with microwave popcorn and overly sweet cola.

Those nights were my favourite.

I could even pretend we were alone in our tent surrounded by trees instead of buildings if we pulled our curtains tight and huddled together on the couch.

Normally, I was so exhausted, I ended up dozing beside her watching some comedy or drama while she twirled and tangled ribbon, making rosettes and ribbon-flowers for basket decorations at the florist.

It reminded me of the Christmas present Patricia Wilson had given her that first year. Della had loved the colourful ribbon collection. She’d set it safely in our bedroom and never touched them because she didn’t want the colours to get marked with grease and grime like her blue one had.

After a while, the ribbons were just there, seen but unseen in our bedroom until I carved her that wooden horse which then slept on the ribbons for the rest of its existence.

I supposed both gifts the Wilsons had either kept or thrown out when we left. Della hadn’t taken them when she ran away, and I’d had nothing to pack them into.

It helped recalling memories when Della was still young and easily impressed. These days, she smirked rather than smiled, and sometimes I wished I could trade her with the cute little girl I’d raised instead of live another day with a beautiful brutal teen.