Chapter Twenty-Two
Flint noticed the first rider two days after Daisy's birthday.
The man gave every appearance of an ordinary traveler passing through the territory.
He sat on a bay horse near the crossroads south of Nathan's property, fussing with a saddle strap as though that task demanded his full attention.
Flint might've dismissed him entirely if he hadn't seen the same rider later that afternoon occupying nearly the same patch of road with equal determination to appear occupied.
That was what bothered him.
A traveler moved on.
A man who kept circling back had a reason.
One rider meant very little in a place where people crossed paths every day. Cowboys drifted between ranches, freight drivers hauled supplies, merchants chased business, and ranch hands followed work wherever it led.
Three unfamiliar riders appearing over two days painted a different picture.
Flint rested his arms on the barn fence and watched the road through the trees. The rider eventually nudged his horse forward and headed toward town.
The unease stayed behind, settling deep and stubborn in Flint's gut. Someone was searching. Whether that search had anything to do with him remained the question.
A voice carried across the yard. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Watching the horizon like it owes you money."
Flint glanced back toward the road. "I'm watching a road."
"That's the answer of a man watching for trouble."
Nathan stopped beside him and followed his line of sight. A quiet stretch passed while both men studied empty ground.
Then Nathan released a breath. "You spotted somebody."
Flint nodded. "Second time this week."
Nathan's expression flattened. That alone said enough.
The disagreement after Daisy's birthday hadn't solved a thing. If anything, each passing day made the situation harder to ignore. Amos's men were widening their search, asking questions farther from town and covering more ground than before.
Nathan rubbed his jaw. "Strangers have been asking questions."
A cold weight settled low in Flint's gut. "What questions?"
"The careful sort." Nathan's mouth twitched. "Questions asked by men who'd rather people believe they aren't asking any."
A curse slipped from Flint.
Nathan gave a grim nod. "From what I heard, they're looking for an injured cowboy."
Wind moved through the cottonwoods and rattled the leaves overhead. Behind the house, a door opened and closed with a familiar creak.
Daisy's workshop.
The sound hit harder than it should have.
He pictured her inside, without meaning to, hands moving across the wood grain, measuring every surface by touch alone while she worked with the quiet certainty that never failed to amaze him.
The riders were still out there. They were asking questions. And each answer they found brought them one step closer to her.
Nathan's attention shifted toward the workshop, where the faint scrape of tools drifted through an open window. "You know this can't keep going."
Flint rested his forearms against the sill and watched dust dance across the road beyond the yard. He didn't answer because Nathan had already reached the conclusion Flint kept trying to outrun.
The hard part wasn't hearing it. He'd already reached the same conclusion.
Every time he looked toward the workshop and heard Daisy moving inside, every time she smiled at him or reached for his hand, the question returned.
How much danger was he willing to bring into her life before he finally did the thing he should've done weeks ago?
The hard part was admitting he no longer had an answer that satisfied him.
Nathan lingered long enough to make sure the silence had settled where he wanted it, then shook his head. "You always did have a gift for turning misery into a full-time occupation."
"That's rich coming from a doctor."
Nathan barked a laugh. "I charge people for mine."
The attempt at humor faded quickly. Neither man had much appetite for it anymore.
***
The following days found a rhythm Flint disliked all too well.
A wagon would idle near the road longer than necessary while its driver studied neighboring properties with casual interest that felt carefully practiced.
Strangers appeared in town and asked harmless questions that led toward less harmless answers.
Faces Flint had never seen before began showing up often enough that he started recognizing them.
Each incident could've been dismissed on its own.
Taken together, they painted a picture he recognized immediately.
Old habits returned without invitation.
He checked the windows before bed and again after waking.
He memorized riders, horses, clothing, and voices.
He found himself pausing during conversations whenever distant hoofbeats carried across the prairie, measuring direction and distance before forcing himself back into whatever he'd been doing.
Years working under Amos had trained him well, and years spent escaping him had never managed to undo that training. Every instinct warned him that trouble was moving closer, and before long, his growing distraction became impossible to hide.
By the fourth day, Daisy noticed. "You haven't listened to a single thing I've said."
Daisy sat at the kitchen table sorting candle labels into neat stacks. Her fingertips moved across each label with practiced certainty before placing it beside the correct jar.
"What?"
A smile curved her mouth. "Thank you for proving my point. You definitely weren’t listening."
He rubbed a hand across his face. "Sorry. My head seems to have a mind of its own today."
"That makes six apologies since breakfast."
Daisy tilted her head slightly. The movement always meant she was listening harder. "Something happened."
Her tone left little room for argument. Flint turned back toward the window. Outside, a pair of chickens wandered across the yard with far less interest in his problems than the woman standing behind him.
"Daisy—"
"Flint."
He closed his eyes. Most people watched faces.
Daisy listened. She caught the hesitation hidden between words. She heard changes in breathing, changes in posture, changes in silence. The smallest crack in a person's confidence never escaped her notice.
Especially when that person was him.
A chair scraped against the floor, and a few heartbeats later, Daisy's footsteps moved steadily across the room.
Flint followed the sound of her approach with growing unease, listening as the distance between them disappeared until she stopped at his side, near enough that he could feel her presence even before she spoke.
"What is it?" she asked.
The concern in her voice made answering harder than any lie ever could.
She trusted him.
That truth lingered every time she smiled at him, every time she reached for his hand, every time he remembered the kiss beside the creek and the quiet happiness that had followed.
Lately, happiness felt fragile. Like a lantern flame exposed to wind.
He forced himself to speak. "Nothing."
Daisy released a long breath. The disappointment carried enough weight to transport him straight back to childhood. "You're awful at lying."
A faint smile touched his mouth before he could stop it. "I've never heard that before.”
"Then you've spent time around extremely generous people."
A reluctant chuckle escaped him, and Daisy immediately pointed toward the sound with a satisfied smile. "There he is."
The warmth lingered only briefly before the familiar weight settled back over him. Lately, happiness seemed to arrive in small, unexpected bursts, offering a glimpse of what their future might look like before reality pushed its way back in and demanded attention.
Neither spoke for a while. The quiet stretched between them until Daisy reached toward him, her fingers finding the back of his hand with gentle certainty.
The simple touch deepened the guilt already settling inside him.
Only days earlier, he would've turned his hand beneath hers and woven their fingers together without a thought, yet now fear slipped between instinct and action, holding him still when every part of him wanted to reach back.
The hesitation lasted little more than a heartbeat.
Daisy's hand retreated slowly, and Flint caught the subtle change in her breathing as she tried to conceal the hurt. She couldn't see the expression on his face, but Daisy had never relied on sight to understand people.
The silence likely told her everything she needed to know.
***
Sleep refused to come.
Hours had passed since Nathan headed upstairs, yet Flint still occupied the porch steps with his hat resting beside him and his thoughts circling the same miserable path.
The ranch settled into its nightly rhythm around him while wind stirred the leaves and distant insects filled the darkness with a steady chorus that should've felt peaceful.
Instead, every quiet sound seemed to leave more room for thinking.
His mind returned again and again to the brief hesitation that afternoon… the trust in Daisy's gesture, the instant she'd sensed his reluctance, and the quiet retreat that followed when she pulled her hand back.
The memory lodged beneath his skin and refused to let go.
He'd faced armed men with less discomfort.
Leaning forward, he clasped his hands and stared across the yard, where moonlight washed the grass a pale silver. The workshop stood dark and still, its familiar shape visible beneath the stars, and seeing it only pushed him farther down the road he'd been trying to avoid.
He knew what he had to do, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had to disentangle his heart from Daisy’s and leave. Turn his back on her and her love. It wasn’t because he didn’t love her, because he did without question.
Could he bring himself to do it?
He wasn’t sure.
The kiss hadn't been a mistake.
If fate offered him another chance at that afternoon beside the creek, he'd walk straight into it and kiss her again without the slightest doubt.
What frightened him was everything that came with it
Love invited hope, and hope had a dangerous habit of convincing a man he could keep things that were never truly his to keep. Love invited hope, and hope had a dangerous habit of convincing a man he could keep things that were slipping farther out of reach with every passing day.
Reality looked different.
It looked like unfamiliar riders lingering near crossroads and strangers asking careful questions in town. It looked like Amos's reach was extending farther every day, closing the distance Flint had spent years trying to create.
Most troubling of all, it looked as though Daisy was within reach because he couldn't bear the thought of walking away from her.
He closed his eyes, and the memories came anyway. Water moving over stone. Daisy's laughter on the breeze. The quiet courage in her voice when she'd admitted her feelings. The warmth of her hand. The way she'd kissed him without fear or hesitation.
Every memory felt precious.
And precious things were the easiest to lose.
The porch door eased open behind him. Footsteps crossed the boards, light and familiar. She came to a stop beside him. "What are you doing out here?"
He smiled. "I'm sitting on the steps."
Daisy tilted her head. "You're brooding on the steps."
She crossed the porch and lowered herself beside him with easy confidence, leaving only a narrow space between them. The familiar scent of lavender drifted toward him, and the simple closeness nearly undid the fragile resolve he'd spent days constructing.
"You know," Daisy continued, "Nathan says you're impossible when you get stuck inside your own head."
Flint let out a quiet breath. "Nathan says plenty of things."
"He does. That's one of his more charming flaws."
A comfortable silence settled between them. Daisy tipped her face toward the night air, listening to sounds most people ignored.
"You've been pulling away,” she finally said.
Flint rubbed a hand across his jaw. The accusation landed because he'd heard it coming for days. "I don't think that's fair."
"Fair?" She turned her face toward him, and he hated how easily she found him even when she couldn't see him. "You spend half your time staring out windows. The other half, you're busy convincing yourself I won't notice."
"That's not—"
"No. You keep doing that." Her voice remained calm, though the patience he'd relied on had begun to wear thin. "Every time I ask what's wrong, you give me half an answer and expect me to leave it alone."
Flint looked across the yard. Moonlight silvered the grass, and wind stirred the cottonwoods overhead. The road beyond the fence remained empty. "I don't know what you want me to say."
That earned another short laugh. "You're a terrible liar."
"Daisy, I just…"
"You hear that?" She tipped her head slightly. "That's the voice you use when you're hoping I'll change the subject."
His shoulders sagged.
"Was the kiss a mistake?"
Flint turned toward her so quickly that the question seemed to strike him physically. "No."
Daisy released a slow breath. "Then stop treating it like one."
Flint turned his attention toward the yard, following the fence line to the road beyond it. Moonlight washed across the barn roof, and the cottonwoods swayed gently in the darkness.
Daisy had the wrong idea.
"I'm trying to be realistic."
Even as the words left his mouth, they sounded weak.
Daisy folded her arms. "That's the same answer you've been giving me all week."
"Because it's the truth."
"No." Her voice sharpened. "It's the answer you're hiding behind. You think I can't hear it?"
His gaze drifted back to her. "Hear what?"
"The distance." She swallowed. "You hesitate before you touch me now. You leave conversations early. Half the time, it feels like you've already packed your bags and ridden away."
"No, I—"
"You don't get to decide what happens to me."
The conviction in her voice reminded him of the argument she'd had with Nathan days earlier. "This isn't about what you can handle."
"Then tell me what it's about."
How could he explain that loving her had become tangled with the fear of losing her? How could he admit that every rider asking questions made him wonder whether staying would eventually cost her more than leaving ever could?
The silence answered for him.
Daisy drew a long breath and rose from the step. "That's what I thought."
And as the silence lingered, Flint began to wonder whether protecting her from danger might ultimately wound her in a way Amos never could.