Chapter Eleven
Daisy balanced a freshly poured candle mold between her palms and set it on the cooling shelf. Lavender hung in the warm air of the workshop, mingling with melted wax and cedar from the old worktables.
Behind her came an exaggerated sigh.
"You've sorted those tins three times," Daisy said with a chuckle.
Flint glanced up from the shelf. "I've sorted them twice."
"You did it once before breakfast."
"I was trying to start the day with purpose." He moved more tins around, making a racket.
Daisy snorted. "You alphabetized candle tins."
"I’m recovering. Nathan said I needed a hobby."
Daisy laughed despite herself. For the better part of an hour, Flint had been inventing reasons to stay in the workshop.
According to him, he was helping. In reality, he'd spent most of the morning relocating perfectly good supplies from one shelf to another and acting as though each move required careful consideration.
The scrape of metal told her he was at it again. "You're rearranging them."
Flint made a noise that suggested he found the accusation unfair. "I'm improving the system."
She shook her head and reached for another mold. "Most people would be resting after nearly getting themselves killed."
"Most people are sensible."
"Finally, something we agree on."
Three years ago, she would have recognized every look that crossed Flint's face. Now she knew him differently. By the cadence of his footsteps. By the rough edge in his voice when he was tired. By the way he fell silent whenever something weighed on him more than he wanted to admit.
She wasn't sure when those observations had become familiar again. She only knew they had.
The workshop had always been hers. A place she could navigate without thinking, where every shelf and tool sat exactly where she expected. Yet Flint had somehow settled into the space without forcing his way in, becoming part of the rhythm of it before she noticed.
A fact she had no intention of sharing.
Not now. Not ever.
She reached for a bundle of trimmed wicks, only to discover another hand reaching for them at the same time.
Their fingers brushed. The contact lasted no more than a moment, but warmth unexpectedly shot up her arm, leaving her strangely aware of him.
Daisy pulled her hand back first.
"No need to be skittish," Flint muttered
"You startled me."
A breath passed. "You knew exactly where I was."
"I absolutely did not."
His low chuckle told her he didn't believe a word of it.
The man was insufferable.
She focused on separating the wicks. Unfortunately, Flint seemed to have abandoned all interest in organizing tins. She could feel him nearby, close enough that the scent of soap and leather drifted toward her whenever he moved.
It made concentrating far more difficult than it should have.
"You've gone quiet."
Daisy hurriedly continued sorting wicks into neat bundles. "I'm working."
"That's not an answer."
"It was the answer I gave."
For a moment, only the faint snip of scissors and the scent of melted beeswax filled the room.
When Flint finally spoke again, amusement threaded through his voice. "I'm admiring your craftsmanship."
She snorted softly. "Flattery won't get you anywhere."
"It might get me another hour in the workshop."
That made her pause. "Why would you want that?"
His answer came so quickly she suspected he'd already thought about it. "It's peaceful here."
She smirked to herself. "You're impossible."
"That's disappointing." His tone turned mournful. "I was aiming for charming."
"You missed by a considerable distance."
"Tragic."
Despite herself, a smile tugged at her mouth.
She ducked her head and reached for another bundle of wicks, hoping he wouldn't hear it in her voice.
Outside, a breeze rattled the workshop window, and somewhere beyond the house a bird called from the fence line.
Silence settled comfortably between them, as natural as breathing. It reminded her of long afternoons years ago, spent side by side without any need to fill the space with words.
That was what unsettled her most. The ease of it. The feeling that, despite everything that had happened between them, they still fit together far too well.
A boot hit the wooden floor.
Daisy's attention sharpened instantly.
She couldn't see Flint move, but she felt the change in the room. The faint scent of leather and soap drifted closer. The warmth of his presence seemed to gather around her until she became acutely aware that he was standing much nearer than he had been a moment ago.
"Daisy."
Something in his voice made her pulse stumble. "What?"
"You've got wax on your cheek."
Her hand lifted automatically. "Oh."
Before she could find it, the air stirred beside her.
Then his thumb brushed lightly across her skin. The touch was brief, no more than a practical gesture, yet it unraveled her concentration with alarming ease.
Heat flooded her face, her breath caught, and the workshop suddenly felt much smaller than it had a moment ago.
Flint's hand lingered for the barest fraction of a second before stilling.
Neither of them moved.
Daisy could hear the quiet crackle of cooling wax, the distant cry of another bird outside, and beneath it all the steady beat of her own heart.
Far too loud.
Far too fast.
"Flint..."
She hadn't meant to say his name aloud.
The word seemed to linger between them.
A fragile silence followed, charged with everything neither of them was saying.
Daisy could hear the subtle change in his breathing and sense his hesitation.
He was close enough that she was acutely aware of him.
The warmth of his presence, the faint scent of leather and soap, the dangerous temptation to turn her head just slightly and discover what might happen if neither of them pulled away.
Then the rumble of wagon wheels shattered the moment.
Both of them froze.
A horse snorted outside, followed by the creak of harness leather and the unmistakable sound of a wagon stopping in front of the house.
Daisy released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and took a small step backward.
Whatever had been building between them vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Beside her, Flint muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.
She nearly laughed.
Nearly.
Instead, she turned her attention toward the front of the house, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach.
Nobody was supposed to be visiting today.
She heard the front gate swing open. The sound sent a fresh ripple of tension through her. Surely it couldn't be…
Weeks ago, she’d written to Clara, asking her to come if she could.
Flint knew nothing about the letter. Daisy had never mentioned it, partly because she hadn't been certain Clara would be able to make the journey and partly because she hadn't wanted to explain why she'd sent for her in the first place.
Truthfully, she hadn't expected an answer so soon. Clara had a home, a husband, and responsibilities of her own. Daisy had told herself not to hope too much.
Yet as footsteps approached the front door, hope surged anyway
Had she actually come?
The front door opened. "Daisy?"
Joy hit her so hard it stole her breath.
She was already moving before she thought about it, hurrying through the house with a laugh escaping her lips. By the time she reached the entryway, familiar arms were wrapping around her.
For a moment, she could do nothing but hold on. "Clara."
"Oh, Daisy."
Clara hugged her fiercely, and Daisy welcomed every second of it.
Three years seemed to vanish in an instant. The letters, the distance, the missed visits, none of it mattered as Clara clung to her and laughed through what sounded suspiciously like tears.
"I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you, too." Clara's voice wavered with emotion. "The moment your letter arrived, I knew we had to come."
When they finally separated, another pair of footsteps approached.
Wyatt. "Daisy."
Warmth filled his voice, followed almost immediately by confusion.
She smiled. "Hello, Wyatt."
The silence that followed stretched just a little too long.
Understanding settled over her before he spoke again. "Daisy..."
Shock roughened his voice.
He had seen her eyes. Seen that they no longer tracked movement. Realizing the truth, she had carefully avoided putting it into any of her letters.
"Daisy..." The shock in his voice made her chest ache. "You've been living like this?"
She swallowed. "Yes."
"You didn't tell us."
"No."
The single word felt painfully inadequate.
"Is that why you wrote us?" Wyatt asked quietly. "Because of this?"
Daisy knew exactly what he meant. Her blindness.
Before she could answer, something shifted in the room; she felt it immediately.
Wyatt had seen him. "This is about Flint, isn’t it?"
Shock roughened his voice, as though he couldn't quite believe the man standing before him was real.
The warmth that filled the entryway moments earlier vanished so quickly it was almost palpable.
When Wyatt spoke again, his voice had hardened around the name. "Flint?”
No one answered.
Daisy turned slightly toward the silence.
Flint hadn't moved. The house had become so quiet she could hear the faint ticking of the clock in the sitting room. For the first time since Clara and Wyatt arrived, anticipation settled heavily in her stomach.
The brothers were standing in the same room. And neither of them seemed to know what to do with it.
"Darn it, Flint." Wyatt took a step forward. "We've been looking for you for months."
Flint said nothing.
Daisy could almost feel the weight of that silence. It wasn't simple stubbornness. There were years buried inside it.
Until this moment, she hadn't fully realized how long it had been since the brothers had stood face to face.
"Wyatt," Clara said quietly.
"Do you have any idea what you've put Ma and Pa through?" he continued, ignoring Clara’s warning.
Flint's answer didn't come immediately. When it did, his voice sounded rough enough to catch Daisy off guard. "I'm still standing."
Wyatt's jaw tightened. "That's not what I asked."
A long pause followed.
"No," Flint said quietly. Then he swallowed. "It isn't."
The years between them seemed to settle into the room, filling every empty space. Old arguments. Unspoken disappointments. The kind of hurt that had been carried so long it had become part of the person carrying it.
Then Nathan chose exactly the wrong moment to walk out of his office. "Oh, good."
Nobody acknowledged him.
Nathan sighed. "I can already feel this becoming my problem."
The silence that greeted him suggested nobody intended to disagree.
"Right. Kitchen. Everyone. Before one of you does something stupid and I end up treating it."
The fact that both brothers obeyed probably surprised Nathan more than anyone else.
A few minutes later, they were gathered around the kitchen table.
Daisy sat beside Clara, grateful for the familiar comfort of her friend's presence.
Wyatt claimed one side of the table while Flint settled across from him.
Nathan dropped into a chair near the end and looked like a man questioning every decision that had led him to this exact moment.
The conversation lasted less than half a minute before Wyatt picked up precisely where he'd left off. "What happened to you?"
Flint stared down at his clasped hands.
"Flint." When no answer came, Wyatt exhaled sharply. "Darn it."
"Wyatt," Clara warned.
"No." His chair scraped against the floor as he leaned forward. "No, I'm done pretending this is normal."
Frustration roughened his voice, but beneath it, Daisy heard something else. Worry. Hurt.
"We searched for you. Do you understand that? We rode through every town we could think of. Every ranch. Every trail. Ma cries whenever she thinks nobody's looking. Pa keeps acting like you'll walk through the front door tomorrow."
Across the table, Flint went completely still.
"And all this time, nobody knew if you were alive or dead."
Daisy turned her head toward Flint.
She couldn't see his expression, but she could hear the strain in his breathing. The way he held himself, as though any movement might crack open something he'd spent years trying to keep buried.
Flint's silence seemed to fill the room.
Daisy had heard him face danger, pain, and Nathan's sharpest criticisms with less hesitation than this.
Listening to the heavy quiet between the brothers, she wondered if this was the confrontation he'd been dreading all along.
Wyatt seemed to realize it too, because some of the anger gradually drained from his voice.
When he spoke again, the question sounded less like an accusation and more like a plea. "Why didn't you come home, Flint?"
Suddenly, the entire room seemed to narrow around that single question.
Why didn't you come home?
And judging by the length of Flint's silence, it wasn't an answer he knew how to give.