Chapter Four
Flint woke to the smell of coffee and rain.
For one disoriented moment, he didn't know where he was.
The ceiling above him was pale with morning light. Rain tapped steadily against nearby windows. Somewhere close, wood crackled softly in a stove. The house carried warm scents beneath the lingering bitterness of medicine, beeswax, lavender, and bread rising somewhere in the kitchen.
The scents felt safe enough to sharpen his instincts before memory fully returned. Then his ribs reminded him exactly where he was.
Not the blinding agony of the first night. This was worse in another way, deeper, clearer. Every bruise and broken rib protested when he breathed.
Flint shut his eyes briefly and swore under his breath.
“About time,” Nathan muttered.
The doctor sat in the chair beside the sofa with a ledger balanced on one knee. He looked as though he hadn't properly slept in days.
Flint tried to push himself upright. A violent bolt of pain shot through his side hard enough to steal the air from his chest. His arm buckled instantly.
Nathan caught his shoulder before he hit the cushions again. “Easy, darn you.”
Flint shoved weakly at his hand. “I’m fine.”
Nathan snorted. “You nearly died three nights ago.”
Flint stared at him. “Three nights?”
“You’ve been unconscious on and off since they brought you here,” Nathan continued. “Mostly unconscious.”
Flint stared at the ceiling again, as his mind raced.
Three days. Three days trapped in Daisy Whitmore’s home while Amos Grady’s men combed Cheyenne looking for him. He forced himself to try sitting again, slower this time.
Nathan let him struggle for exactly three seconds before gripping his arm and hauling him partially upright against the cushions. Humiliation burned hotter than pain.
Flint hated weakness. Hated needing help. Hated Nathan Whitmore, seeing him like this, most of all.
Nathan’s grip on his arm brought back an old memory Flint would rather not revisit: standing on the Callahan porch rehearsing how he might someday ask permission to marry Daisy. Now Nathan had to haul him upright like a drunk who’d picked the wrong fight.
“You look sick enough to faint,” Nathan observed.
“Appreciate the concern.”
“You shouldn’t.”
Flint almost smiled despite himself, then instantly regretted it when his ribs protested.
Nathan reached for the cup on the table beside him. “Drink.”
Flint accepted it reluctantly.
His hands felt unsteady. He disliked that too.
The water was cool and clean, and it tasted faintly of tin. He drank greedily before exhaustion forced him to stop.
Nathan watched him carefully. “Any dizziness?”
“Only when I’m unfortunate enough to wake up.”
“That would be the blood loss.”
Flint lowered the cup. “I need to leave.”
Nathan’s expression didn't change. “No.”
“Your opinion on the matter ain’t especially relevant.”
“It becomes relevant when standing would likely split your stitches open.”
Flint ground his teeth together.
Nathan leaned back slightly in the chair. “You aren’t leaving today.”
“There are men looking for me.”
He seemed unmoved by the news.
“You don’t understand.”
“No,” Nathan said quietly. “I understand perfectly well that dangerous men tend to attract more danger.”
The meaning beneath the words landed cleanly enough. Don't bring violence into Daisy’s home. Flint looked away.
Rain drummed harder against the windows now, steady and cold. Somewhere deeper in the house, glass jars clinked softly together. Daisy was awake. Even the thought of her made his body throb.
Nathan followed his gaze toward the hallway. “She’s in the workshop.”
Flint said nothing.
“You should know,” Nathan continued carefully, “that Daisy insisted on helping care for you.”
A strange ache moved through Flint before bitterness smothered it. “She was always too soft-hearted for her own good.”
Nathan studied him for a long moment. “You think she feels nothing for you.”
Flint laughed once. “Ain’t much evidence otherwise.”
“She hid her blindness from nearly everyone outside this house for months.”
That caught Flint’s attention immediately.
Nathan continued before Flint could speak. “After the fever, she barely left her room. Wouldn’t see visitors. Half the time, she wouldn’t even speak to Clara.”
Flint stared down at the blanket covering his legs. He pictured Daisy as he'd last seen her before she disappeared, laughing beside the Callahans’ fence line, sunlight in her hair, one hand pressed against the brim of her hat while Wyoming wind tugged at her skirts.
Then he pictured her blind and alone in this house while he spent those same years drinking too much whiskey and working for Amos Grady. The thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
Nathan leaned forward slightly. “Who exactly is hunting you?”
Flint met his gaze. And saw the doctor already calculating risks. Risks to Daisy. To the house. To every carefully ordered thing Nathan had spent years protecting. Flint couldn't blame him.
Still, he said only, “Men I used to work for.”
Nathan stared at him. “That sounds reassuring.”
“It ain’t meant to.”
Nathan’s expression cooled noticeably. “You’re in no condition to be stubborn.”
“I’m always in condition to be stubborn.”
Flint shrugged faintly, then regretted that too. Pain rolled through him sharp enough to make his vision blur briefly.
Nathan noticed at once. “Lie back before you collapse.”
Nathan stood before Flint could protest and adjusted the pillows behind him with brisk efficiency. Flint endured it in silence because there was little dignity left to salvage anyway.
When Nathan reached for the edge of the bandage at his side, Flint caught his wrist by reflex.
Nathan’s eyes lifted.
“You touch the stitches carefully,” Flint said.
“I'm a doctor, not a butcher.”
“That knife had rust on it.” Flint winced.
“I noticed.”
Their gazes held briefly.
Then Nathan said quietly, “Whoever did this intended to hurt you slowly.”
Flint released his wrist. Amos probably hadn’t done it himself. Amos rarely dirtied his own hands anymore.
But one of his men, certainly.
Flint still remembered the sound of the boot slamming into his ribs while another held him down in the alley.
You should’ve stayed loyal.
A flicker of anger moved through him. Not because they beat him; because Amos thought fear still owned him.
Nathan finished checking the bandage. “The wound is clean enough for now.”
“For now? That sounds encouraging.”
“It means I have not decided whether you are stubborn enough to survive.”
Flint huffed faint amusement through his nose. The motion hurt. Everything hurt.
Nathan gathered the medical supplies back into his bag. “You need food.”
“I need a horse.”
The moment Nathan disappeared down the hallway, Flint let his head fall back against the cushions and shut his eyes briefly.
The house creaked softly around him. Rain whispered beyond the windows. And somewhere deeper in the home, Daisy moved through rooms she knew without sight. He could hear it now that he understood. It wasn’t helplessness Flint heard in her movements. It was a habit. Precision, born from repetition.
A hand brushing lightly along a doorway for orientation. Footsteps counting distances automatically. Glass jars were identified by touch and scent. A woman who'd shaped darkness into routine through sheer stubborn determination.
Flint swallowed hard.
Three years.
Three years blind. And he'd never known. The realization unsettled him more deeply than he wanted to admit. Because he knew Daisy. Or he'd once believed he did.
Daisy had loved riding at dawn with Clara. Loved reading novels aloud beside Ruth’s fire. Loved sketching wildflowers badly enough to make Wyatt tease her mercilessly.
She'd once told Flint she feared nothing more than becoming trapped in a small life. Now she moved through darkness with quiet confidence while he'd spent those same years making one bad decision after another. The thought sat ugly inside his chest.
He heard Daisy before she entered the room. The faint rustle of skirts. The soft scent of lavender and rosemary. The careful balance of a tray carried steadily in practiced hands.
Flint opened his eyes as she crossed the threshold. She wore a pale dress today, sleeves rolled neatly past her wrists. Her hair was pinned loosely back, though rain-damp curls had escaped near her temples.
Beautiful.
The word struck him instantly and unwillingly. Daisy stopped by the table beside the sofa and carefully lowered the tray. Steam drifted upward from a bowl.
“You should eat,” she said.
Flint watched her fingers lightly touch the edge of the table before releasing them. She was orienting herself. No, not orienting. Confirming. Like a rancher checking reins already securely tied.
“Nathan let you carry that?”
Daisy stilled slightly. “Yes.”
“I figured Nathan would insist on doing everything.”
A faint line appeared between her brows. “I'm capable of carrying broth across my own house.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” he said, his voice warbling just a bit. "That wasn't what I meant."
But perhaps he'd implied it. Flint cursed himself inwardly.
Daisy reached for the bowl. “Nathan said you should sit up more while eating.”
“I’m beginning to suspect your brother enjoys seeing me suffer.”
“He’s a doctor. He enjoys bossing people around.”
That startled an actual laugh out of Flint. Pain answered immediately from his ribs, but the sound had already escaped.
Daisy went quiet.
For one brief moment, the years between them seemed thinner. For one dangerous second, it felt too much like years ago, when she would tease him across Ruth Callahan’s supper table while Wyatt groaned theatrically at both of them.
Flint looked away first.
Daisy stepped closer with the bowl. “Careful.”
He reached automatically and nearly dropped it. His arm shook so hard it sloshed broth over the rim. Humiliation burned through him. Before he could curse, Daisy steadied the bowl smoothly with one hand. Her fingers brushed his.
Flint looked at her sharply. Daisy’s gaze rested somewhere near his shoulder rather than directly at his face, but her movements were calm and practiced.
“You’ve gotten used to it,” Flint realized aloud.
She withdrew her hand slowly. “What?”
“Move around like nothing’s changed.” Flint tried to ignore the pain.
Daisy’s expression shuttered instantly. The defensiveness vanished from her voice, replaced by something far more difficult to hear. “A great deal changed.”
Her voice was almost stern, a sense of confidence seeping into the words.
Flint wished immediately he could take the words back. But another part of him, the wounded, bitter part still carrying three years of unanswered hurt, needed to understand.
“When did you learn?” Flint asked softly.
“Learn what?”
“To hide it so well.”
At last, Daisy said, “When people think you are helpless, they stop listening to what you actually need.”
The quiet honesty of that struck him unexpectedly hard.
Flint looked down at the broth in his hands. He knew something about people deciding who you were before bothering to ask. Orphans learned that lesson young.
Dangerous men learned it too.
“You ain’t helpless,” he muttered.
Daisy went still. “No. I'm not.”
Tension bloomed through the room. Flint remembered kissing her behind the barn while her fingers curled into his shirt. He remembered promising her things he'd truly meant. A house. Children. Forever.
Then he remembered standing outside Nathan’s office three years ago while Nathan told him Daisy didn't wish to see him.
Anger rose again, tangled helplessly with grief.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.
Daisy adjusted the tray between them before saying, “You should eat before the broth gets cold.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“The way you change the subject whenever something matters.”
Her chin lifted slightly. “You are a guest in my home, Flint.”
Flint swallowed bitterness hard enough to hurt. “Right,” he said roughly.
Daisy turned then, clearly intending to leave.
Panic moved through him unexpectedly fast.
“Daisy.”
She stopped near the doorway.
“I didn’t mean...” He broke off, frustrated. “Darn.”
The silence between them thickened.
Finally, Daisy said softly, “You should rest.”
Then she left the room. Flint stared after her long after her footsteps faded. Outside, thunder rumbled faintly beyond the rain. He looked down at the untouched broth cooling slowly in his hands and felt something dangerous settling inside him.
A realization came to him instead. Because the more he watched Daisy move through this house, confident, capable, stubbornly independent, the more certain he became of one thing: The truth finally became impossible to ignore: Daisy hadn’t run from him.
She’d run from what she thought she would become.
And somehow that realization hurt even worse than rejection ever had.