Chapter Five
By the fourth morning, Daisy realized Flint had altered the sound of her entire house.
The realization irritated her precisely because it felt dangerously familiar.
Once, long ago, she had known Flint's habits as well as her own.
She had known the sound of his laughter from across a crowded room and the rhythm of his footsteps before he reached her side.
She did not want those instincts returning. Certainly not after only four days.
The house was still small and orderly, still governed by the routines she'd built over the last three years. The clock ticked in the parlor with the same steady rhythm. The floorboards creaked in familiar places. Nathan still rose before dawn and boiled coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
And yet, nothing felt settled anymore. Because Flint breathed in the next room.
Daisy became aware of him constantly, despite every effort not to be.
The rough cough that occasionally escaped him when his ribs pained him. The shifting weight of his body against the sofa cushions. The deeper tone of his voice when Nathan checked his injuries. Even silence seemed shaped around his presence now, heavy and watchful.
The worst part was how comforting she found it.
Daisy hated that most of all.
She stood in her workshop beside the long table near the shelves of cooling candles and pressed both hands flat against the wood until the feeling passed.
Lavender hung drying from hooks overhead. Melted beeswax warmed the air with its rich honey scent while rosemary and cedar oil lingered faintly beneath it. Usually, the room soothed her immediately. Here, everything obeyed the order she'd created herself.
Jars lined shelves by texture and height. Wax molds sat arranged precisely where her fingers expected them. Bundles of herbs were tied with different knots so she could identify each one instantly by touch.
The workshop was the first place she'd learned to trust herself again.
When darkness first swallowed her world, Daisy had believed she would spend the rest of her life dependent on others for every small thing. She remembered the humiliation of reaching for cups she couldn't see. Of misjudging steps. Of hearing pity creep into strangers’ voices.
Then Ruth Callahan had taken her hands gently one afternoon and said, “You still know how to make beautiful things, sweetheart. Your eyes are not the only useful part of you.”
Daisy swallowed hard at the memory. Ruth. The Callahan ranch. Flint. Everything in her life seemed to circle back to him now, whether she wished it to or not.
She reached carefully for the small tin of lavender oil and added several drops to the cooling wax. The scent bloomed instantly.
Once, she'd imagined building this business with Flint beside her.
She used to dream while riding back from town with Clara, both of them balancing baskets across their laps while Wyatt and Flint argued amiably ahead on horseback.
Daisy would picture a little ranch house someday.
A kitchen warmed by morning sunlight. Flint coming inside smelling of horses and wind while she prepared supper.
A future so vivid it'd once felt inevitable.
Then the fever came.
Everything afterward was split into before and after.
Daisy steadied herself against the worktable. Flint hadn’t vanished from her life. She'd pushed him away. And now he was sleeping in her parlor, wounded, carrying bruises she could feel beneath bandages and secrets heavy enough to put tension into Nathan’s voice.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Nathan.
“You skipped breakfast again.”
“I was busy.” Daisy took a deep breath.
“You’ve been in this workshop since dawn.”
Daisy reached for another wick. “I'm working.”
Nathan sighed softly. “You always become stubborn when you’re frightened.”
“I'm not frightened.”
“You nearly poured cedar oil into the lavender candles yesterday.”
That stopped her hands briefly.
Annoying man.
Nathan stepped farther into the workshop. Daisy could hear the fatigue in the careful slowness of his movements. Flint’s injuries had demanded nearly constant attention for days now.
“How is Flint this morning?” she asked despite herself.
Nathan was silent long enough that she regretted the question instantly. “You asked about Flint awfully fast.”
“He’s your patient.”
“Mm.”
“I asked whether your patient was improving.” Daisy cleared her throat.
“You asked whether Flint was improving.”
Heat crept into her cheeks. She turned back toward the wax pots. “Well?”
“He's healing.”
She relaxed before she could stop herself.
Nathan shifted his position. “He's also impatient, reckless, and attempting to stand before his body is ready.”
Despite herself, Daisy almost smiled. “That sounds familiar.”
Nathan didn't return the humor. “He cannot stay here indefinitely.”
The warmth drained from her at once. “He can barely walk.”
“That will change.”
“And when it does?”
Nathan hesitated.
Daisy turned slightly toward his voice. “You’d rather he recover somewhere else?”
“I want you safe.”
“I am safe,” Daisy said, still not looking at Nathan.
“Daisy.”
His tone carried quiet strain now. Fear beneath patience.
She hated hearing it, because it sounded achingly familiar.
Ever since the fever, people had spoken to her that way when they thought she might break.
Carefully. Gently. As though one wrong word might shatter what remained of her.
Nathan wasn't doing that now, not really, but the memory lingered all the same.
Nathan crossed the room slowly. “The men who did this to him may still be searching.”
“I know that.” Daisy sighed.
“He admitted that much himself.”
Daisy’s fingers gripped the stirring spoon. Images she couldn't see still formed vividly in her mind whenever she thought of Flint’s injuries. Blood-soaking cloth beneath her hands. Bruises layered across his ribs. The rough edge in his voice whenever he moved.
Someone had tried very hard to kill him.
“Then we hide him until he heals,” she said firmly.
Nathan exhaled heavily. “You say it as though it's that simple.”
“What would you have us do?” Daisy asked, folding her arms.
“You know what I mean.”
Daisy went still. Of course, she knew. Nathan feared far more than dangerous men finding the house. He feared Flint himself. Not physically. Nathan had never believed Flint would harm her intentionally.
But heartbreak?
That was another matter entirely.
“This isn’t really about Amos, is it?” she said quietly.
Nathan’s silence confirmed it.
Pain flickered through her chest so sharply she nearly dropped the spoon. Nathan wasn't worried about Amos. He was worried about her. About the woman who had spent months grieving a future she'd convinced herself she no longer deserved.
“I remember what those months did to you,” Nathan said carefully. “I won't stand by and watch it happen again.”
Daisy laughed softly, though it hurt. “That's unfair. Things happened beyond our control.”
Nathan spoke as though Flint had broken her heart deliberately. As though those terrible months had been the result of cruelty rather than silence, fear, and choices neither of them could take back.
“Is that right?”
“Yes.” She faced him fully now. “Flint didn't know about my blindness.”
“But he knew how much you loved him.”
Daisy turned away at once, the moment almost overwhelming.
Flint had known she loved him. That was what made everything so much worse.
She had never given him the truth, only rejection.
Never explained her fear, only disappeared behind it.
Whatever pain had followed, he had endured it without ever understanding why.
Nathan immediately sounded regretful. “Daisy…”
“No.” She swallowed carefully. “No, you don't get to say things like that and then apologize for them.”
The room fell quiet except for the soft bubbling of melted wax.
Finally, Nathan said, “I know why you made the choice you did.”
Sometimes Daisy no longer knew herself. She'd once believed leaving Flint was an act of love. She no longer knew whether leaving had helped either of them.
Nathan stepped closer. “Whatever trouble followed him here hasn’t disappeared.”
Something sharp entered Daisy’s voice before she could soften it. “He's injured.”
“That doesn't erase the life he has clearly been living.”
Daisy flinched inwardly because Nathan wasn't wrong. Flint had changed. Even feverish and wounded, there was hardness in him now. Watchfulness. The instinctive tension of a man accustomed to danger. She heard it every time his voice lowered at unexpected sounds outside the house.
Sometimes at night, she caught him awake in the parlor long after Nathan believed him asleep. Listening. Always listening.
The realization unsettled her more than she wished to admit.
“He was good to us,” Daisy said quietly.
Nathan sighed. “Daisy.”
“The Callahans were good to us,” she corrected softly. “When we first came to Wyoming and knew no one. Clara brought food for half of the first winter. Ruth sat beside me after…” Her voice caught briefly. “After the fever.”
Nathan’s expression softened.
“She taught me how to move around the kitchen again,” Daisy whispered. She moved half the kitchen and then made me learn where she'd put everything.” A sad smile touched her mouth. “I was furious with her for weeks.”
Flint had stood outside her bedroom door, asking to see her while she hid inside, pretending she no longer cared for him.
Daisy pressed the heel of her hand briefly against her chest. “I owe them.”
Nathan looked tired suddenly. “You owe them gratitude. Not your happiness.”
Before Daisy could answer, the front bell rang.
Both of them startled slightly.
Nathan frowned. “Expecting someone?”
“No.”
The bell rang again.
Daisy set the spoon aside carefully and wiped her hands on her apron. “It's likely Julian.”
Julian Mercer visited often enough now. Not courting, exactly. But reliable. Kind. Respectable.
Everything Flint was no longer. The thought irritated her irrationally.
“I will answer it,” she said.
Nathan touched her arm lightly before she passed. “Don't mention Flint.”
“As if I would.” She crossed the hallway carefully, listening to the familiar shape of the house around her. But before she reached the front door, another sound stopped her. Movement in the parlor. Flint. He'd heard voices.
Daisy’s pulse stumbled annoyingly. Irritation followed immediately. Four days ago, she had managed perfectly well without wondering what Flint Callahan thought of every conversation in her house. Now the mere possibility that he'd overheard them was enough to set her nerves on edge.
She opened the door. Rain-damp wind drifted inside along with the scent of expensive tobacco and wet wool.
“Miss Whitmore,” Julian Mercer said warmly.
Daisy relaxed slightly in spite of herself. She knew only one merchant in Cheyenne who smelled consistently of both cedar tobacco and expensive tailoring.
“Good morning, Julian.”
“I brought the cedar oil shipment. And more beeswax from Denver.”
“You are rescuing me from disaster once again.”
“That's becoming a habit.”
She heard the smile in his voice.
A moment later, he stepped inside, careful to close the door firmly against the rain.
“Crate by the wall,” Julian said as he set it down. “Mind your left ankle.”
Removing hat. Setting crate near wall. Two steps left.
Most people either overhelped or pretended her blindness didn't exist at all.
Julian simply adapted.
“How is business?” Daisy asked as she led him toward the workshop.
“Good enough that one hotel near the station now insists on using only your lavender soap.”
A genuine smile touched her mouth. “You’re inventing stories again.”
“I would never exaggerate for dramatic effect.”
“You absolutely would.”
His low laugh filled the hallway warmly.
Julian’s laugh faded quickly enough for Daisy to notice. “What is it?”
A pause. “Nothing.”
“Julian.”
He exhaled softly. “There were men near the railroad district yesterday asking questions.”
A chill moved through her instantly. “What sort of questions?”
“About an injured cowboy.” Julian’s tone turned cautious. “Didn’t look like local ranchers either.”
Daisy tightened her grip on the doorway.
Nathan lingered unusually close during Julian’s visit, answering questions before Daisy could, his tone careful in a way she recognized immediately. He was nervous.
Julian continued carefully, “One mentioned Amos Grady.”
Nathan stepped into the hallway before Julian finished speaking. “You are certain?”
“Yes.”
Daisy felt silence settle through the house like storm clouds.
Nathan spoke first. “Did they mention names?”
“No.” Julian hesitated. “But they were searching systematically.”
Until now, part of Daisy had hoped Flint had exaggerated the danger. Because beneath all the fear and tension and unresolved hurt, one truth remained impossible to ignore: If Flint left this house before he healed, she wasn't entirely certain he would survive long enough to reach another shelter.
And in spite of everything she'd sacrificed to build this quiet, careful life, she couldn't bear the thought of losing him now.