Chapter Nine
Daisy woke to the sound of Flint moving through the parlor before dawn. He wasn’t moving carefully either. He was trying to sneak. She lay still beneath her quilt for a moment, listening to the faint scrape of boots against floorboards and the muttered curse that followed immediately after.
Then came the unmistakable sound of someone catching themselves against furniture before falling.
Daisy sighed into her pillow.
Idiot man.
She pushed back the covers and reached for her robe. The house still carried deep nighttime quiet around it, though rainwater wind brushed softly against the windows. Somewhere upstairs, Nathan remained asleep, for now.
Flint, apparently, had chosen violence against his healing ribs before sunrise. Daisy tied the robe sash and stepped into the hallway.
The parlor smelled faintly of cooling embers and damp wool. Flint stood near the front window, breathing hard enough that she could hear it clearly from the doorway.
“What,” she asked calmly, “are you doing?”
Flint muttered, “Nothing.”
“That sounded suspiciously like something.”
He shifted awkwardly.
Daisy crossed the room carefully toward him, one hand brushing the back of the sofa as she passed. “You should be in bed.”
Flint tested the lock one final time before letting the curtain fall back into place. “I was checking the locks.”
“At five in the morning?” Daisy countered.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“That doesn't explain why you are wandering around half dead.”
Flint chuckled. “I ain’t half dead anymore.”
Daisy stopped close enough now to hear the strain in his breathing properly. “You are hurting.”
“No worse than yesterday.”
“Flint.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. There it was again, that impossible mixture of irritation and reluctant obedience that always surfaced whenever she called him out directly.
Three years had changed many things, but not that.
“I can manage walking across a room,” he muttered.
“You nearly fell into the table.”
“That table attacked me without warning.”
Daisy laughed softly. The sound changed something in the room. Warmth spread beneath the tension between them, fragile and familiar.
Flint went quiet. Daisy could almost feel him watching her.
“You missed me laughing,” she said before thinking.
The silence afterward stretched long enough to make her regret speaking at all.
Then Flint answered quietly, “Yeah.”
The honesty in his voice startled her.
Daisy looked down quickly. She should return to bed.
She reached carefully for his sleeve. “Sit down before Nathan wakes and decides to murder you properly.”
Flint’s arm tightened slightly beneath her hand. “You ordering me around now?”
“I always did.”
“That’s true.”
He allowed her to guide him back toward the sofa, though Daisy heard the stiffness in every step he tried to hide.
Once he lowered himself carefully onto the cushions, she crossed her arms. “You are impossible.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.”
“Yes, but repetition seems necessary.”
Flint’s low laugh stirred something dangerously soft inside her chest.
Daisy hated how much she enjoyed hearing it again.
The days following found a strange sort of rhythm. There was too much history crowded into the house now for anything to feel truly ordinary. Still, they adapted.
Nathan continued tending Flint’s injuries with stern efficiency while pretending not to notice how naturally Daisy and Flint had begun slipping back into old conversational habits. Flint grew stronger daily, though he remained restless enough to make everyone miserable.
Especially Daisy.
Because the stronger he became, the more determined he was to prove he needed no help, which usually ended badly.
“You are not carrying firewood.”
Flint paused halfway across the kitchen with an armful of logs balanced stubbornly against his chest. “I’m already carrying it.”
The movement hadn't been nearly as graceful as he'd intended. Several pieces shifted against one another, and his sharp intake of breath carried across the room.
“You sound like you're wrestling it.”
Flint adjusted the logs against his chest. “I’m fine.”
“That's never reassuring when it comes from you.”
Daisy followed the sound of his footsteps and intercepted him before he could get much farther. “Flint, you should not be hauling half the woodpile through the house.”
“It's six logs.”
“Six logs you have no business carrying.”
He muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” she snapped.
“Nothing.”
“That means it wasn't complimentary.”
Despite himself, Flint felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
Daisy held out a hand. “Give me some of them.”
“You can't carry all these.”
“No,” she agreed. “But I can carry enough that you stop trying to prove a point.”
Flint hesitated. Daisy waited patiently, hand still extended between them.
Finally, with the air of a man making a tremendous sacrifice, he surrendered two logs. “There.”
“Thank you.”
He found himself smiling. “You sound pleased with yourself.”
“I am.”
Flint shook his head and resumed walking toward the stove.
The logs were lighter now.
Annoyingly, so was the ache in his side.
“What about the rest?” he asked, glancing behind himself.
“We will leave those for Nathan.”
Flint let out a low sound halfway between frustration and amusement. “That man already thinks I’m useless.”
“He thinks you are stubborn.”
“Same thing.”
Daisy smiled. Flint noticed. She knew because his breathing changed slightly, the subtle pause that always happened when he looked at her too long.
It still affected her embarrassingly fast.
He surrendered the logs at last with exaggerated reluctance. “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”
“I enjoy being right.”
Flint laughed quietly.
The sound did things to her heart that felt dangerous.
Especially now. Because every passing day made it easier to imagine this strange domestic peace continuing indefinitely.
Flint drinking coffee at her kitchen table while arguing with Nathan. Flint sitting in the workshop doorway listening while she described candle scents. Flint teasing her into laughter again.
It frightened her how natural it felt. As though some part of her had been waiting all along for him to come home.
Julian visited often now, too. More often than before, perhaps because business genuinely had improved, or perhaps because he sensed tension beneath the calm walls of the house and wished to help however he could.
Daisy appreciated his kindness deeply.
Even Flint’s strange moods whenever Julian arrived had become oddly familiar.
Whenever Julian left, Flint remained restless.
Checking windows again. Pausing near the front door at every passing wagon. Listening too carefully whenever unfamiliar voices drifted from the street.
Fear bloomed beneath Daisy’s ribs while listening to him move methodically through the house.
Because Flint never fully relaxed anymore. Not really. Even laughter seemed temporary now. Like a man borrowing peace he didn't expect to keep.
That night, Daisy gathered laundry after supper while Nathan finished paperwork upstairs. The house smelled warmly of woodsmoke, soap, and rain-damp air drifting through cracked windows. She moved through the parlor, carefully collecting folded linens from the drying chair near the stove.
Then her fingers brushed against rough wool, and Daisy froze.
Flint's jacket.
The heavy coat had been draped across the arm of the sofa, probably left there after Nathan changed Flint's bandages. For a moment, she only stood there with her hand resting on the fabric. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she gathered the coat into her arms.
The familiar scent rose immediately from the worn wool.
Leather. Wind. Cedar smoke. The faint trace of horse sweat worked deep into fabric that had seen years of hard use.
Flint.
The realization stole her breath.
She closed her eyes instinctively, though it made no difference, and held the jacket a little closer. The scent wrapped around her, achingly familiar after all these years, and with it came a rush of memories she hadn't been prepared for.
Suddenly, she was back at the Callahan ranch, standing beside him beneath the cottonwoods while summer wind stirred the leaves overhead. She could hear Wyatt laughing somewhere in the distance, Clara calling from the porch, and Flint's voice low beside her as though no time at all had passed.
Pain grew so swiftly it felt physical.
Daisy pressed the jacket briefly against her face before she could stop herself. She'd missed him with the terrible aching loneliness of someone who spent years pretending half her heart hadn't gone missing. And now he was here again, breathing beneath her roof, close enough to touch.
She heard the familiar hitch in Flint's breathing before he spoke. Daisy froze.
Flint’s voice came quietly from the doorway. “Daisy?”
Mortification swept through her instantly. She lowered the jacket too quickly, fingers trembling.
“I was folding laundry.”
The excuse sounded ridiculous the moment it left her mouth.
Flint didn't answer immediately. “You're crying.”
Daisy lifted a hand to her face and found dampness on her cheek.
Wonderful.
She turned away before he could hear any more of her embarrassment in her voice. “I'm tired.”
The lie hung between them.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then she heard him move, slow and careful, crossing the room with the caution his injuries still demanded.
“Daisy.”
The gentleness in his voice made her throat ache.
She gripped the jacket more tightly. “I used to know exactly how you smelled.”
The confession seemed to steal all the air from the room. Heat rushed into her face. She wished she could gather the words back the instant they left her mouth, but it was too late now.
“You'd come back from riding,” she continued, her voice wavering, “and everything smelled like leather and wind and horses. Sometimes, after you left the ranch, your coat would still smell like you for days.”
Flint drew a sharp breath. The sound only made her more aware of what she'd revealed.
“I didn't mean to say that.” Her fingers twisted helplessly in the fabric. “I just—”
She broke off. Strong fingers closed gently around her wrist. The touch sent warmth racing through her before she could guard against it.
“Daisy.” His voice was low now. “Don't apologize for that.”
She couldn't speak or move. She couldn't even pull her hand away. Because standing there with Flint's hand around her wrist and his jacket still clutched against her chest, the truth felt impossible to escape.
She had spent three years convincing herself she was moving forward.
Yet one familiar scent had been enough to unravel her.
And that frightened her far more than the tears ever could.