Chapter Ten
~ Daniel ~
I clutched the wildflowers in one hand, the picnic basket in the other, and tried to ignore how my heart was hammering against my ribs like it wanted to break free. The McKenzie farmhouse stood in the distance, white and imposing against the backdrop of rolling hills and timber.
I'd faced down armed suspects with less anxiety than I felt staring at that house, knowing what—and who—waited inside. But Harlow was worth it. Worth every second of the uncomfortable conversation ahead.
After our encounter with Ransom last night, there was no more hiding. No more stolen moments by the river or whispered conversations in alleyways behind Rosie's Bakery. The secret was out—or at least, part of the McKenzie family knew. And soon, the rest would, too.
I shifted the picnic basket to my other hand, wiping my palm against my jeans.
The morning dew still clung to the grass, dampening my boots as I took that first step onto McKenzie property.
My truck was parked just off the main road, deliberately visible.
No sneaking around today. No more pretending.
Ransom's words from the night before echoed in my head. After the initial shock of finding Harlow and me hand-in-hand by the river, his reaction had surprised us both.
"About damn time," he'd said, the corner of his mouth lifting in what might have been a smile. "Wondered how long it'd take you two to figure it out."
When Harlow had stammered out a question about whether Ransom would tell Ma, his brother had shrugged those broad tattooed shoulders.
"Not my secret to tell," he'd said. "But if you're serious about this—" his eyes had moved from Harlow to me, assessing and unexpectedly shrewd, "—then you'll man up and tell her yourselves. Soon."
The "soon" had become "now" in my mind. No point in dragging it out, in giving Harlow more time to worry or Hetty more opportunity to build barriers between us. The flowers had been an impulse purchase at the farm stand on my way over—a peace offering, maybe, or just something to occupy my hands.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the clean country air that smelled of freshly turned soil and growing things. Ahead, the long gravel driveway stretched toward the farmhouse, each step bringing me closer to the confrontation I'd been rehearsing in my head since dawn.
What would I say to Hetty McKenzie? How could I make her understand that her son—her beautiful, gentle, underestimated son—was a grown man capable of making his own choices? That what we felt for each other was genuine and adult and real?
"Mrs. McKenzie," I practiced under my breath, "I respect your concern for Harlow, but—" No. Too defensive from the start.
"I care deeply about your son—" Too vague.
"Harlow and I have developed feelings for each other—" Too clinical.
I adjusted my collar with my free hand, the wildflowers trembling slightly with the movement. My sheriff's department polo felt too casual suddenly, but a uniform would have seemed intimidating, and a suit too formal.
Nothing seemed right for telling a mother you were in love with her son—especially when that mother had spent years convincing herself and everyone else that her son couldn't possibly understand such emotions.
The gravel crunched beneath my boots, announcing my approach with each step. A few chickens scattered at my presence, clucking indignantly as they raced for the safety of their coop. The sound would alert anyone in the house to a visitor.
No turning back now.
What if she refused to listen? What if she asked me to leave, forbade Harlow from seeing me? What if she called Sheriff Hardesty and complained about me? My career in law enforcement was solid, but small towns had ways of making life difficult for those who didn't conform.
I transferred the picnic basket back to my left hand, the muscles in my arm aching slightly from the constant shifting.
The basket contained a simple lunch—fresh bread from Rosie's, cheese from the dairy outside town, sliced ham, and two pieces of cherry pie carefully wrapped in wax paper.
A picnic for Harlow and me after the conversation with his mother.
An optimistic gesture, assuming we'd have something to celebrate.
Or maybe just wishful thinking.
As I neared the halfway point of the driveway, I caught sight of movement in the vegetable garden to the left of the house. A large figure bent among the rows of young plants, broad shoulders easily identifiable even at this distance.
Harlow.
My step faltered momentarily, the tightness in my chest easing just from seeing him.
This was why I was here. Not to placate Hetty McKenzie or earn the town's approval, but because that man—with his gentle hands and quiet wisdom and heart too big for his massive chest—had somehow become essential to me.
As necessary as air.
I squared my shoulders and continued walking.
Whatever happened next, I needed Hetty to understand one fundamental truth: her son was not a child.
He was a man with a man's desires and a man's capacity for love.
A man who deserved the chance to choose his own path, make his own mistakes, find his own happiness.
Even if that happiness was with me—an outsider with a badge, a man with his own jagged edges and complicated past.
The farmhouse grew larger with each step, the porch swing moving gently in the morning breeze.
A basket of laundry sat near the door, waiting to be hung on the clothesline.
Everything about the place spoke of order, tradition, family roots that ran deep as the old oak trees surrounding the property.
I was the disruption to that order. The complication. The threat. But I was also the one who saw Harlow for who he truly was, who recognized the depth of intelligence behind those thoughtful eyes, who valued the strength of character that had nothing to do with his physical power.
I reached the end of the driveway, pausing where it opened into the yard proper.
The wildflowers in my hand had wilted slightly in my grip, but their colors remained bright against the green backdrop of the garden.
I loosened my hold, letting the stems breathe, and took one final steadying breath of my own.
Hetty McKenzie might not want me here. She might not understand or approve of what was growing between her son and me. But I wasn't leaving without making her see that Harlow deserved the chance to make this choice for himself.
Some things were worth fighting for. And I'd never backed down from a fight in my life.
I veered off the main path toward the vegetable garden where Harlow knelt between rows of young plants.
My breath caught at the sight of him—all that power and strength focused on tasks requiring the most delicate touch.
His massive hands moved with surprising gentleness over fragile seedlings, carefully pressing soil around their tender stems.
Something about the contrast made my chest ache, a physical pain that was somehow also pleasure.
He didn't look up immediately, absorbed in his work, murmuring something I couldn't quite catch to the plants as if they could hear and understand him. Knowing Harlow, maybe they could. He had that way about him—connecting with living things on a level most people couldn't access.
I stood watching him for a moment, reluctant to break the spell. The morning sun caught in his dark hair, highlighting the few silver strands at his temples. His brow furrowed in concentration as he measured the space between two seedlings, adjusting one slightly to give it more room to grow.
Then, as if he'd suddenly sensed my presence, his head came up. Our eyes met across the neat rows of vegetables, and his entire face transformed. The smile that broke across his features was like sunrise after the longest night—brilliant, warm, full of promise.
It stole my breath all over again.
Harlow rose to his feet in one fluid motion that belied his size. He wiped his soil-covered hands against his jeans, leaving dark smudges on the worn denim, and took a half-step toward me before hesitating. His eyes darted toward the house, and the smile dimmed slightly.
"Deputy Dan," he said, his deep voice pitched low. The formal title made me wince—a reminder of the barriers still between us.
"Just Dan," I corrected gently, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps. "I'm not here as a deputy today."
Harlow nodded, his eyes dropping to the wildflowers in my hand, then to the picnic basket, before returning to my face. "Ma's inside," he warned, the two simple words carrying layers of meaning and concern.
"I know." I shifted the basket to my other hand, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in my stomach. "That's partly why I'm here. I need to talk to both of you."
His eyes widened slightly. "Both of us? About...?" He trailed off, though we both knew what he meant.
"About us," I confirmed, holding his gaze steadily. "About what's happening between us."
A flush spread across his cheeks, disappearing into his beard. "Ransom didn't say anything," he offered quickly. "I asked him not to, and he promised—"
"I know he didn't," I assured him. "This isn't because of Ransom. It's because I don't want to hide, Harlow. I don't want you to have to lie to your family about where you're going or who you're meeting. I don't want to sneak around like we're doing something wrong."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing above the collar of his flannel shirt. "Ma won't understand."
"Maybe not at first," I acknowledged. "But she loves you. And if she sees how important this is to you—to both of us—she'll come around eventually."
His expression suggested he wasn't nearly as confident about that as I was trying to sound. But something else flickered in his eyes too—a determination I was coming to recognize and respect.