Chapter Eighteen
~ Daniel ~
I stared at the ceiling tiles I'd memorized over the past three months. Ninety-six of them in this room, with that one water stain in the corner that kind of looked like Texas if you squinted hard enough.
Three months of surgeries, pain meds, and rehab—long enough that some of the nurses had started calling me by my first name instead of "Deputy." Long enough that I'd started to forget what freedom felt like.
I sighed and shifted on the thin mattress, wincing at the twinge in my chest. Better than it had been, but still a constant reminder of how close I'd come to dying that night at the McKenzie farm.
The bullet that had torn through me had done more damage than anyone first realized.
A shard of rib bone had broken free and migrated dangerously close to my heart, requiring a second surgery that extended my hospital stay from weeks into months.
Three months away from the job. Away from my life. Away from Harlow.
My apartment was another problem entirely.
I'd only seen photos of the destruction Collins' men had left behind—the slashed furniture, broken dishes, spray-painted threats.
Sheriff Hardesty said they'd preserved the scene for evidence, which meant that somewhere out there, my home was still a crime scene, frozen in time like some twisted museum exhibit.
Eventually, I'd have to deal with it: the insurance claims, the cleanup, replacing everything I'd lost.
But I didn't have the energy to think about it now. Didn't even really have the desire to return to that place that no longer felt like mine. They'd violated my space, taken my safety, contaminated the first place in McKenzie River that I'd tried to make my own.
I glanced at the clock—almost eleven. Harlow had texted that he'd be here by now.
The weekend visits had been both salvation and torture during these long months.
Knox or one of the other brothers would drive him up, and for a few precious hours, the hospital room would feel almost bearable with Harlow's large frame filling the too-small visitor's chair, his deep voice washing away the clinical sterility with stories of barn rebuilding and animal rescues.
But then he'd have to leave, return to the farm where his family needed him, where the new barn was rising from the ashes of the old one.
His own injuries—second-degree burns across his back and smoke inhalation—had healed faster than mine.
The McKenzies needed every able body for the rebuilding, and Harlow wouldn't shirk his responsibilities, no matter how much he wanted to stay with me.
Phone calls and video chats filled the gaps between visits, but they weren't the same.
I couldn't feel the warmth of his hand in mine through a screen.
Couldn't smell that mix of soap and outdoors that clung to his clothes.
Couldn't watch his expressions shift in real-time as he processed a thought, his face so much more expressive than his sometimes halting words.
My physical therapist said I'd made remarkable progress, especially considering the complications.
The bullet wound itself had been straightforward enough—through and through, no major arteries hit.
But that damn bone fragment had changed everything, requiring delicate surgery to remove it before it could do catastrophic damage.
Then came weeks of careful rehabilitation to rebuild my strength without risking the healing surgical sites.
The door opened, pulling me from my thoughts, and suddenly the room felt brighter, warmer, more alive. Harlow filled the doorframe, shoulders nearly brushing both sides, his face breaking into that smile that never failed to make my heart skip.
"Hey," he said, stepping inside with surprising gentleness for a man his size. In his massive hands, he carried a small potted plant with cheerful white and yellow daisies.
"Hey, yourself," I replied, pushing myself up to sitting position with only minimal discomfort. Progress.
Harlow approached the bed, extending the flowerpot toward me. "Brought you these. Thought about regular flowers, but..." He shrugged, a blush creeping up his neck. "Wanted to give you something that would last longer."
I took the pot, our fingers brushing in the exchange, sending a current of electricity up my arm that had nothing to do with my injuries. "They're perfect," I said, meaning it. Somehow, Harlow always knew exactly what I needed, even when I didn't know myself.
He moved closer, until his thigh was pressed against the edge of the hospital bed. "Ma helped pick them out," he admitted, his voice dropping lower. "But it was my idea."
"Hetty helped you buy me flowers?" I asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Harlow's mother had come a long way in accepting our relationship, but active participation was something else entirely.
Harlow nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Said daisies mean loyalty." His eyes met mine, warm and certain. "Seemed right."
Something tightened in my chest that had nothing to do with my healing wounds. Three months, and this man still looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life. Three months, and the sight of him still made my breath catch and my pulse quicken.
He leaned down, bringing his face close to mine, his breath warm against my ear. "Can I get a kiss?" he whispered, the words sending a shiver down my spine. "Been thinking about it the whole drive here."
I set the flowerpot carefully on the bedside table and reached for him without hesitation, my hands finding the soft flannel of his shirt and pulling him closer. "God, yes," I breathed, and then his lips were on mine, warm and certain and perfect.
The kiss was hungry, desperate with three months of separation and longing.
His hand cupped my face with exquisite gentleness while his mouth claimed mine with unmistakable possession.
I held onto his shirt, wishing I could pull him onto the narrow hospital bed with me, wishing we were anywhere but here with its antiseptic smells and uncomfortable furniture.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing harder, his forehead rested against mine. "Missed you," he murmured, the simple words carrying the weight of ninety-two days apart. Weekend visits just weren’t enough.
"Missed you more," I countered, unwilling to release my grip on his shirt, as if he might disappear if I let go.
Harlow straightened slightly, his eyes searching mine with that direct, honest gaze that had disarmed me from our first meeting. "Ready to go home?" he asked, hope and something like nervousness coloring his voice.
"More than ready," I said, glancing around the room that had been my prison for too long. "Already signed the discharge papers. Just waiting for you to show up and spring me from this joint."
The smile that spread across his face was like sunrise breaking over the mountains—warm and bright and full of promise. "Then let's go," he said, squeezing my hand gently. "Time to get you home."
Home. The word hung between us, complicated by my destroyed apartment and uncertain future. But looking at Harlow's face, I realized home might not be a place at all. Maybe it was a person. Maybe it had been all along.
Harlow moved with unexpected purpose, grabbing my duffel bag from the end of the bed with one hand and my hand with the other.
No hesitation, no awkward shuffling or questions about whether I needed help.
Just that quiet confidence that had first drawn me to him, now directed at getting me the hell out of this hospital room.
It was sexy as all get-out, and I found myself following his lead without a second thought.
"Let's go," he said, his deep voice brooking no argument as he tugged me toward the door. "Sooner we leave, sooner you're free."
A nurse appeared in the doorway, wheelchair in tow, her expression that practiced mix of friendliness and authority that medical professionals perfect. "Deputy Latham, hospital policy requires—"
"No wheelchair," I interrupted, squeezing Harlow's hand. "I've been walking laps around this floor for weeks. I'm fully capable of making it to the parking lot on my own two feet."
She looked like she wanted to argue, glancing between us with a furrowed brow. Her eyes landed on our joined hands, and something in her expression softened.
"Well, technically you're already discharged," she conceded. "Just be careful with those stitches, and remember to schedule your follow-up with Dr. Brenner."
"Already done," I assured her, eager to escape before she changed her mind.
Harlow nodded his thanks to her as we slipped past, his large frame somehow making me feel both protected and exposed at the same time.
My thumb traced circles on the back of his hand as we walked down the corridor, past the nurses' station where several staff members waved goodbye, past rooms with patients who hadn't yet earned their freedom.
The elevator ride to the ground floor was quiet, just the two of us and an elderly woman who smiled at our joined hands with knowing eyes.
Outside, summer sunshine hit me like a physical force after months under fluorescent lighting.
I stopped for a moment, closing my eyes and tilting my face up to absorb the warmth.
Freedom tasted like fresh air and possibility.
"Feels good, huh?" Harlow asked, his voice gentle.
"You have no idea," I breathed, opening my eyes to find him watching me with a tenderness that made my throat tight.
He tugged me forward again, leading me across the parking lot to a truck I didn't recognize. It was a Ford F-150, maybe ten years old, dark blue with a few dings in the passenger door and a small dent in the rear quarter panel. Not new by any stretch, but solid-looking and clean.
"You drove?" I asked, confused. In all his hospital visits, Harlow had always been driven by one of his brothers, usually Knox. He'd mentioned something about not being comfortable driving in city traffic, preferring the familiar roads around McKenzie River.
"Knox drove me," he explained, stopping beside the truck. "Newt followed in their truck. They already headed back to the farm." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, which he tossed to me in a gentle arc.
I caught them reflexively, frowning in confusion. "What's this?"
Harlow nodded toward the truck. "Yours."
"Mine?" I repeated stupidly, looking from the keys to the truck and back again. "What do you mean, mine?"
"Yours," he said again, moving to the passenger side and opening the door. "Get in. I'll explain."
Still bewildered, I circled to the driver's side and climbed in, settling behind the wheel.
The interior was clean but showed signs of wear—a small tear in the leather of the driver's seat, a scratch on the dashboard.
I inserted the key, and the engine roared to life immediately, settling into a steady purr that spoke of good maintenance despite its age.
"Harlow," I said slowly, "whose truck is this?"
"Told you. Yours." He adjusted his large frame in the passenger seat, looking pleased with himself. "Pa says he and Quaid can fix those dents easy. And you can pick whatever color you want when they repaint it."
I stared at him, the implications finally sinking in. "Are you telling me that your father bought me a truck?"
"Pa and me," Harlow corrected, his expression open and earnest. "Your insurance claim is still processing, but you need wheels now, not whenever some office worker gets around to your paperwork."
A rush of complicated emotions hit me all at once—gratitude, embarrassment, a touch of pride that wanted to refuse such a generous gift, and underneath it all, a warmth that spread through my chest at the thought of Harlow and his father shopping for a vehicle for me.
"Harlow, I can't—you shouldn't have—"
"Yes, we should," he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. "Your truck got totaled saving me and my family. This is just making things right."
I ran my hand along the steering wheel, taking in the worn but serviceable vehicle. It wasn't flashy or new, but it was exactly what I needed—practical, reliable transportation to get back on my feet.
"I don't know what to say," I admitted, emotion making my voice rougher than I intended.
Harlow's large hand covered mine on the gearshift, warm and steady. "Say thank you," he suggested with a smile. "Then drive us home."
Home. There was that word again, hanging between us with all its complicated meanings. But the way Harlow said it made it sound simple, like there was no question where we were headed or where I belonged.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. "Not just for the truck. For everything."
He squeezed my hand. "You saved us all that night, Dan. You took a bullet protecting my family." His eyes, earnest and direct, held mine. "Least we could do is make sure you have transportation."
I put the truck in drive, still adjusting to the idea that this vehicle—this unexpected gift—was now mine. As we pulled out of the hospital parking lot, Harlow's hand found mine again, his palm warm against my fingers.
"Where to?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Home," he said simply. "McKenzie River. Where you belong."
I nodded, pointing the truck toward the highway that would take us back to the town that had somehow, against all odds, become the place I wanted to be. The place where Harlow was. And for now, that was enough of a destination.