Chapter Eight
By the end of the week, Flint knew the sounds of Daisy’s house almost as well as she must.
The realization unsettled him.
The house itself wasn’t remarkable. It was modest compared to the wide comfort of the Callahan ranch house, smaller rooms, lower ceilings, and narrow hallways that held warmth close during cool spring nights.
But the place felt lived in, quietly, carefully, persistently, and somehow Flint had begun fitting himself into its rhythm without meaning to.
He woke each morning to Daisy grinding herbs in the workshop. Nathan left early some days to see patients and returned smelling of rain, horses, and exhaustion. Daisy moved steadily through every room with practiced confidence.
Flint listened for her constantly and hated himself for it. He noticed when she moved from the workshop to the kitchen. Noticed when she left the house to hang laundry or collect supplies. Noticed when her voice drifted down the hallway while she spoke to Nathan.
Worse, he was beginning to anticipate those sounds.
The realization left him uneasy, because it felt too much like the man he'd once been.
The man who had lingered near the Whitmores' table at church socials, hoping for a conversation. The man who had looked for Daisy first whenever he rode up to the Callahan ranch. The man who had once believed he belonged somewhere.
Flint had buried that man years ago.
He had no business digging him back up now.
He sat propped against the parlor sofa cushions now, stronger than before, though movement still hurt badly enough to make him swear. Bruises stained most of his ribs black and yellow beneath the bandages, and the knife wound along his side burned viciously whenever he twisted wrong.
Still, he could walk short distances now. Barely.
Nathan called his progress “encouraging.”
Flint called it humiliating.
“If you fidget any harder, I'm going to assume you're trying to wear a hole through the floor,” Daisy said.
Flint scowled harder out of principle.
She sat at the small table near the window, trimming dried lavender stems into neat bundles. Afternoon sunlight warmed the room, gold around her hair, though her sightless eyes remained turned slightly toward the sound of his breathing rather than his face.
He'd stopped flinching every time he noticed that.
Mostly.
Flint studied her quietly.
Moments like this had become increasingly dangerous. Easy moments.
Tea shared after supper. Daisy reading labels in her workshop by touch while Flint listened from the doorway. Small arguments about whether he was healed enough to stand unassisted yet. Domestic moments.
The sort of things he hadn't realized he'd gone without until they returned. That realization bothered him. It was one thing to miss a decent meal or a warm bed. Another to find himself looking forward to the sound of Daisy's voice in the next room.
Flint pushed the thought away before it could take root.
Daisy carefully tied off another lavender bundle. “Nathan says you tried carrying firewood this morning.”
“He exaggerates.”
“He said you nearly collapsed into the porch railing.”
Flint scowled. “I corrected myself before collapsing.”
“Ah.” Her smile widened faintly. “An important distinction.”
He shouldn't enjoy making her laugh this much. It weakened his resolve in ways bruises never could.
Flint shifted carefully against the cushions. “Your brother watches me like I’m planning to steal the silver.”
“That's unfair.”
“You sayin’ he ain’t?”
Daisy tilted her head thoughtfully. “He means well.”
“I know.” And that was the problem. Nathan Whitmore had every reason to distrust him. Flint distrusted himself plenty these days, too.
He rubbed a hand slowly across his jaw. “You should probably listen to him.”
Daisy went still. “Why?”
Because I’m not the man you remember anymore. Because Amos Grady owns pieces of my soul, I can’t scrub clean no matter how hard I try. Because men who work for me tend to end up dead.
Flint said roughly, “Because he’s smart.”
Daisy laughed softly. “That's not the same thing.”
Before Flint could answer, the front door opened.
Nathan.
Flint recognized the heavier cadence of his boots immediately.
A second later, the doctor entered the parlor carrying damp gloves and an expression already sharpened by irritation. “You are out of bed again.”
Flint gestured lazily toward the sofa. “This technically counts as furniture.”
“It technically counts as disobeying medical advice.”
Daisy hid a smile behind one hand.
Traitor.
Nathan removed his coat with tired efficiency. “Mrs. Hargrove’s son finally admitted the fever came from drinking contaminated well water instead of witchcraft.”
“That must have disappointed you terribly,” Daisy said solemnly.
“It did. I enjoy fighting witches.”
Flint barked out an actual laugh before pain punished him for it.
Nathan glanced toward him immediately. “And now your stitches hurt again.”
“Worth it.”
Nathan sighed like a deeply burdened man. “I should have left you in the alley.”
Flint’s amusement faded slightly.
The alley.
Even now, the memory came back sharp and ugly if he let himself think about it too long. Mud beneath his cheek. Blood filled his mouth. Boots circling him while Amos’s men decided whether he was worth finishing off properly.
Nathan crossed toward the kitchen, then paused. “Daisy, would you check the salve jars in the workshop? I think one spoiled.”
She frowned slightly. “The comfrey?”
“Yes.”
Flint recognized the tactic instantly. Nathan wanted Daisy out of the room. Apparently, Daisy recognized it too.
“You are both behaving suspiciously,” she informed them calmly, but she did as they asked. Still, she did cock her head toward them, hoping to catch bits of conversation, though none came. They were too careful around her for that.
Three years ago, he might have enjoyed watching her argue with her brother. Might have teased her afterward about how easily she saw through people.
Nathan looked entirely unapologetic. “Humor me.”
Daisy sighed dramatically as she rose. “If you start punching each other while I'm gone, I shall be very annoyed.”
Flint watched her disappear down the hallway.
Nathan waited until her footsteps faded fully before speaking. “I know about Amos Grady.”
Flint’s attention snapped back sharply.
“Julian asked questions in town,” he continued quietly. “Not enough to endanger anyone. Enough to learn Amos controls most gambling and freight rackets near the railroad district.”
Flint leaned back slowly against the sofa cushions. “Julian talks too much.”
“No. You talk too little.”
For once, the quiet between them didn’t feel sharp.
Nathan’s expression hardened. “What exactly have you gotten involved in?”
Flint looked toward the window. Rain clouds drifted low across the afternoon sky, leaving the world washed gray beyond the glass.
“I worked cattle at first,” he said at last. “Freight escorts sometimes. Amos paid better than ranch work.”
“And eventually?”
Flint laughed humorlessly. “Eventually, a man gets used to ugly things if they keep him fed.”
Nathan said nothing.
That silence made Flint continue when he probably shouldn't have.
“Debt collection. Intimidation.” Shame burned bitterly in his throat. “Standing nearby while worse men did worse things.”
Nathan’s jaw clenched visibly.
Flint expected disgust. He deserved it.
Nathan asked quietly, “Why stay?”
Flint found himself without an immediate answer. How was he supposed to explain it?
That somewhere along the way, he'd stopped caring what happened to him. That after Daisy left, every good thing in his life had started feeling temporary. That Amos Grady had recognized a weakness Flint himself hadn't understood and used it without mercy.
Flint stared at his hands. “I was good at surviving.”
Nathan looked suddenly tired, rather than angry. “That's not the same thing as living.”
No. It wasn’t.
Nathan crossed the room slowly and lowered himself into the chair Daisy had occupied earlier. “How did you end up here?”
Flint frowned slightly.
“One of my patients found you,” Nathan explained. “Old Mr. Pierce. He recognized you from the Callahan ranch years ago.” Nathan’s voice flattened. “He nearly panicked when he realized whose men were probably involved.”
Flint closed his eyes briefly.
Pierce. He remembered hauling fence posts for the old rancher one summer nearly a decade ago.
“You should’ve turned me away,” Flint muttered.
“And let you die?”
“Would've saved you a great deal of trouble,” he said quietly.
Nathan’s voice sharpened instantly. “Don't insult my profession because you have decided your life lacks value.”
Flint looked at him in surprise.
Nathan leaned forward slightly. “You think I don't see it? The way you speak about yourself?”
Silence. Because Flint had no defense against the truth.
Nathan exhaled heavily. “Daisy hasn’t given up on you nearly as much as you think.”
Pain moved sharply through Flint’s chest. “She should.”
“Perhaps.” Nathan held his gaze steadily. “But she hasn’t.”
Flint looked away.
The workshop door opened down the hall.
Nathan lowered his voice immediately. “Whatever happened between you two years ago…” He paused carefully. “Don't reopen wounds you cannot heal.”
He agreed with Nathan. He wasn’t the same man from three years ago. He was dangerous now and no good for Daisy.
He wanted to tell Nathan that the wound had reopened the moment Daisy whispered his name beside the sofa while he drifted half-dead through fever. Every day he spent under her roof made it easier to remember the man he'd once wanted to be.
And every day made him more aware of how little that man resembled the one sitting in her parlor.
Nathan was right to worry. Flint worried too.
Daisy’s footsteps approached slowly through the hallway. Nathan stood at once, expression smoothing carefully back into ordinary irritation.
“The salve is fine,” Daisy announced as she returned. “You only wanted me gone.”
Nathan looked unashamed. “Correct.”
Flint watched her smile despite herself, and suddenly, memory struck him so vividly it hurt.
Daisy beside him on the porch, Daisy laughing at harvest dances, Daisy reaching for his hand without thinking.
Loving Daisy had become such a permanent part of him that he no longer knew how to separate himself from it.
Flint felt some of the bitterness drain out of him before he could stop it.
Daisy settled carefully back into her chair. “You both look guilty.”
“Nathan was threatening my life again.”
“I was threatening your recovery.”
“See? Violent tendencies.”
She laughed quietly.
For the first time in years, Flint stopped thinking about what had been lost long enough to enjoy the sound of her laughing beside him.