Chapter Ten
Flint barely slept after finding Daisy crying over his jacket. Not because of pain. Though pain remained constant enough now that he almost stopped noticing it unless he moved too quickly.
No, what kept him awake was the memory of her voice breaking softly in the dim parlor while she confessed she remembered how he smelled.
It undid him in ways he didn't know how to survive.
Because for years Flint had convinced himself Daisy left cleanly. Deliberately. That whatever love once existed between them had mattered more to him than it ever had to her.
But a woman didn't weep into a man’s coat three years later if she'd forgotten him, and lord help him, that knowledge felt dangerously close to hope, which meant it was probably fatal.
He lay awake on the sofa listening to the house settle around him.
Nathan’s heavy footsteps upstairs.
The quiet rustle of Daisy moving through her bedroom before sleep finally claimed her.
Rain beginning again sometime after midnight.
Home.
The thought slipped through him so suddenly that it almost hurt. This house, with its lavender scent, careful order, and soft domestic sounds, felt more like home than anywhere Flint had slept in years.
Amos Grady’s boarding rooms had never felt like home. Neither had the saloons or freight camps or cramped spaces above gambling halls where Flint spent too many nights drinking enough whiskey to silence memory.
But here Daisy handed him tea while scolding him for overworking himself. Here, Nathan grumbled over bandages like an irritated older brother instead of a doctor merely tolerating him. Here, someone noticed when he laughed.
That was the danger.
Not Amos. Not knives, guns, or men searching alleys. Comfort. Belonging. The terrible temptation to stay.
Flint scrubbed a hand over his face and stared into the darkness.
You don’t deserve this.
The thought came hard and immediate.
Because the truth remained ugly, no matter how soft Daisy’s voice became around him lately.
He worked for Amos Grady. Maybe not willingly by the end. Maybe not proudly. But he'd still stood beside cruel men long enough for their violence to stain him too. And now those same men were searching Cheyenne.
For him.
***
Morning arrived gray and cold.
Flint woke to the sound of raised voices in the kitchen, so tense that he sat upright immediately despite the pull in his ribs.
“…asking near the stockyards again,” Julian was saying quietly.
Flint went still.
The kitchen fell silent for half a second.
Then Nathan asked carefully, “Specific descriptions?”
“No. But they’re working their way through town piece by piece now.”
Flint swung his legs slowly off the sofa. Pain flared instantly, but he ignored it.
He crossed the parlor more steadily these days, though stiffness still pulled sharply through his side with every step. By the time he reached the hallway, the conversation in the kitchen had dropped lower.
The voices drifting from the kitchen were pitched too low to make out clearly, but Flint had spent enough time around cautious men to recognize the sound of a conversation that wasn't meant to be overheard.
That alone told him plenty.
Nathan was hiding something from Daisy.
Flint crossed the hallway quietly and paused in the kitchen doorway. The room smelled of coffee and damp wool, but beneath it all, a tension lingered that seemed to pull at every person gathered around the table.
Julian sat nearest the window with his hat resting beside him, rainwater still darkening the shoulders of his coat. Nathan stood by the stove, one hand braced against the counter, his jaw set in the particular way Flint had come to recognize as anger held tightly in check.
Only Daisy appeared occupied.
She was pouring coffee, or at least pretending to. Her movements had grown noticeably more careful over the past few moments, as though she were concentrating too hard on a simple task.
She knew something was wrong, too.
Nathan noticed Flint first. “You should still be resting.”
Flint stepped fully into the room. “And you should stop talking like I ain't standing right here.”
Julian offered a polite nod. “Mr. Callahan.”
Flint acknowledged him with a brief glance before turning back to Nathan. “What happened?”
Nathan's expression hardened almost immediately. “Nothing immediate.”
Which, in Flint's experience, usually meant something immediate was coming.
He folded his arms carefully, trying not to let the pull in his ribs show. “Nathan.”
The doctor held his gaze for a moment before relenting. “Men connected to Amos have been questioning workers near the railroad district again.”
The room seemed to grow quieter.
Beside the stove, Daisy stopped moving altogether.
Julian broke the silence. “They seem convinced someone helped you disappear.”
Flint looked toward the rain-streaked window.
Outside, wagons rolled through the drizzle, ordinary people going about ordinary business, completely unaware of the danger slowly drawing closer to this house.
Amos wouldn't stop. Not after what Flint knew.
“You need to leave town,” Julian said quietly.
Daisy's breath caught.
Nathan's expression darkened. “He can barely stay in the saddle for more than an hour.”
“That won't matter much if Grady's men find him first.”
Daisy set the coffee pot down with unusual care. The soft click against the table sounded far too loud. “What exactly do they want from Flint?”
Nobody answered.
The silence stretched just long enough for understanding to settle over her.
There was more to this than they had told her.
Much more.
Nathan drew a slow breath. “Daisy...”
“No.” She faced the sound of his voice directly now. “You both stop speaking around me as though I'm not standing here.”
Flint’s chest ached. He hated it when people did that to her, too.
Nathan exhaled slowly. “We don't know enough yet.”
“That's not true.”
Julian shifted uncomfortably.
Daisy’s voice sharpened slightly. “Someone tried to kill Flint. Men are searching the city for him. Nathan looks ready to start carrying a pistol indoors.” Her chin lifted. “And all of you keep deciding what information I can handle.”
Flint almost smiled despite the situation. There was the Daisy he remembered. Fierce when cornered.
Nathan rubbed tiredly at his forehead. “Grady controls enough people in town that rumors spread quickly.”
“About what?”
Nathan looked toward Flint.
Your choice, the look said.
Flint stared at the floorboards briefly. “I know things Amos don’t want repeated.”
Daisy fell quiet. “What things?”
Flint shook his head once. “Not your concern.”
“That's not your decision.”
“It becomes my decision when men are willing to hurt anyone standing too close to me.”
Daisy’s expression changed slightly then, not fear exactly. Hurt. Flint recognized it immediately and hated himself for causing it.
Julian stood carefully. “I should go before anyone notices my horse outside too long.”
Nathan nodded once.
Flint watched Daisy wrap her arms around herself as Julian collected his coat and left quietly through the front door.
The moment it shut behind him, the tension in the room sharpened painfully.
Nathan spoke first. “You cannot stay much longer.”
Daisy turned sharply toward him. “Nathan...”
“He's right.” Nathan’s voice remained calm but firm. “If Grady’s men are expanding their search...”
“They won’t find him here.”
Flint closed his eyes briefly. That certainty in her voice nearly destroyed him. Because she trusted him. Still. Despite everything.
“Daisy.” Nathan gentled slightly. “Listen to me.”
“No. You listen to me.” Her voice trembled now beneath the anger. “He's injured.”
“And healing.”
“Not enough!” Daisy said, her hand coming to her throat.
The fear beneath her words finally surfaced.
Flint felt it like a knife under his ribs.
Nathan’s expression softened sadly. “You are becoming attached again.”
Daisy looked stricken.
Flint felt something inside him crack painfully open. Because Nathan was right. And worse, so was Flint.
He'd begun listening for Daisy’s footsteps every morning. Listening for her laugh. Watching the way she tilted her face toward the sunlight she could no longer see.
He'd started imagining impossible things again.
A future. Peace. Belonging.
Dangerous, stupid things.
Flint pushed away from the doorway before either Whitmore could speak again. Pain flared sharply through his side, but he welcomed it. Easier to manage than the pressure building in his chest.
“Flint...” Daisy started softly.
He kept walking into the parlor. Distance suddenly felt necessary before he did something unforgivably selfish like ask her to keep him.
He braced both hands against the windowsill and stared out at the wet street beyond the glass.
Three days ago, this room had felt safe. Now it felt temporary again. Like every other good thing he touched.
Footsteps approached slowly behind him.
Daisy.
Of course.
“You shouldn't move that quickly when you’re upset,” she said quietly.
Flint let out a rough laugh. “That advice sounds familiar.”
She stopped beside him. Close enough that lavender drifted around him softly. “I'm not frightened of helping you.”
Flint shut his eyes briefly. “That’s the problem.”
Daisy frowned slightly. “I don't understand.”
He turned toward her then. Looked at the brave lift of her chin despite uncertainty. At the sightless blue eyes that still somehow held more warmth than any place Flint had known in years.
“You deserve peace,” he said roughly.
Emotion flickered across her face. “And you think you cannot give it?”
“I know I can’t.”
Daisy’s breathing softened.
Flint forced himself to continue before weakness stopped him. “Men like Amos don’t let people walk away clean.” His voice lowered. “Anybody near me becomes leverage eventually.”
Daisy’s fingers tightened against her skirt. “Flint...”
“I should’ve left the moment I could stand.”
The words hurt to say, because they were true, and because some part of him no longer wanted them to be.
Daisy stepped closer. Near enough now that he could feel warmth radiating softly from her body. “You are not responsible for every cruel thing other men choose to do.”
Flint laughed bitterly. “Ain’t I?”
He remembered a debtor begging while Amos’s men broke fingers one by one. Railroad workers were threatened into silence. Flint, standing nearby, convincing himself that survival required ugliness.
He looked down at Daisy.
“At some point,” he said quietly, “a man stops getting to pretend he’s separate from the things he helps happen.”
“You are not beyond saving.”
The simple certainty in her voice nearly undid him, because Daisy still saw the man he'd once been.
Flint no longer knew whether that man existed.