Chapter Eighteen
Flint had spent the better part of the day feeling like an idiot.
Not because Daisy had confronted him behind the shed.
And not because she'd figured out exactly why he'd been acting strange every time Julian Mercer walked through the front gate.
Those moments had certainly bruised his pride, but the real humiliation came from realizing how badly he'd misread the situation.
Julian wasn't courting Daisy.
The merchant wasn't quietly waiting for an opportunity to sweep her off her feet, nor was he some rival Flint had been too blind to recognize until it was nearly too late.
Julian was exactly what Daisy had said he was: a business partner, a friend, and a man genuinely invested in seeing her succeed.
Meanwhile, Flint had spent days sulking over a battle that existed entirely in his mind.
The memory made him grimace as he carried another armful of split firewood toward the shed.
The sun had begun its slow descent toward the western horizon, bathing the yard in warm gold.
Somewhere near the barn, a collection of chickens argued loudly over a matter of great importance known only to themselves.
After stacking the wood, he wiped the sweat from the back of his neck and glanced toward the workshop.
The door stood open to catch the afternoon breeze.
From where he stood, he could hear Daisy moving around inside.
The sounds had become familiar enough that he now recognized them without effort: the scrape of a chair across the floorboards, the soft clink of glass bottles being sorted onto shelves, the faint hum she often fell into when she was concentrating on her work.
He lingered longer than necessary, listening.
That, more than anything, ought to have concerned him.
Over the past several weeks, nearly everything about Nathan Whitmore's house had become dangerous. Not Amos Grady or the men searching for him. Not even the possibility that someone might eventually discover where he was hiding. Those dangers were simple. Flint understood them.
The real danger was the life unfolding around him.
It was breakfast conversations that stretched longer than they should.
Nathan grumbling over medical journals while Daisy teased him.
It was the smell of fresh coffee in the morning, the sound of laughter drifting from the workshop, and the comfort of knowing exactly who was moving through the house after dark simply by the rhythm of their footsteps.
They were ordinary things. Small things. The kind of things Flint had spent years convincing himself he could live without.
Now he wasn't so sure.
Resting his forearms against the fence, he closed his eyes briefly and let out a slow breath. This arrangement had always been meant to be temporary. Nathan patched him up. He regained his strength. Then he disappeared before Amos could bring trouble to Daisy's doorstep.
The plan had been straightforward from the beginning.
Somewhere along the way, however, leaving had become harder to imagine than staying.
That was a problem.
Daisy deserved stability, honesty, and a future she didn't have to fear losing. She deserved someone who could stand beside her without bringing danger into her life.
Flint wasn't entirely convinced he could be that man.
The memory of their conversation behind the shed drifted back into his thoughts.
I wait for you.
Those four words had lodged themselves somewhere beneath his ribs and refused to leave. Every time he thought he'd managed to put them aside, they resurfaced again, carrying the same dangerous warmth and the same unsettling hope.
Flint pushed away from the fence and scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
He needed air. More than that, he needed distance from the house and from thoughts that seemed determined to circle the same questions without offering any answers.
Without bothering to announce where he was going, he slipped beyond the back of the property and headed toward the open land beyond Nathan's pasture.
He avoided the road automatically. Years of caution had turned habits into instinct, and the fewer people who spotted him wandering around town, the better.
The grass brushed against his boots as he walked.
With every step, the familiar sounds of the Whitmore property faded behind him.
First came the distant noises of town, then the occasional creak of the house and the faint activity around the barn.
Before long, only the wind remained, moving through the cottonwoods with a low rustling whisper.
Flint followed a narrow game trail winding between the trees until the sound of running water reached him. Curious, he continued forward, and a few moments later the trees opened onto a sheltered stretch of creek bank hidden from the surrounding fields.
He slowed.
The place felt almost untouched.
Cottonwoods arched overhead, their branches filtering the late-afternoon sunlight into shifting patches of gold and shadow.
Clear water slipped over smooth stones, filling the air with a steady, soothing murmur.
Wildflowers clustered along the bank, and every passing breeze carried the scent of clover, damp earth, and blooming roses.
Flint simply stood there taking it in.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
It was exactly the sort of place Daisy would love.
Not because of the view, though it was beautiful enough.
Daisy would never care about that. What would matter to her were the things she could experience herself: the fragrance of the flowers, the cool shade beneath the trees, the music of the creek winding through the stones, and the breeze drifting off the water.
Without meaning to, he pictured her sitting beneath the cottonwoods with her face tilted toward the sunlight, listening to the water and smiling the way she did when she forgot anyone was watching.
The image arrived so naturally it caught him off guard.
Flint lowered himself onto a fallen log and studied the clearing more carefully.
Wild roses grew nearby, their scent growing stronger whenever the breeze shifted.
Further down the bank, tall grass swayed gently at the water's edge while birds called to one another somewhere high in the branches overhead.
Peaceful.
That was the word that kept returning to him.
Peaceful.
And lord knew Daisy deserved more peace than she'd been given lately.
His gaze drifted toward the creek.
Tomorrow was Daisy's birthday.
The thought had been lingering in the back of his mind all week, but sitting beside the water brought it into sharper focus. Twenty-six years old.
He remembered her twenty-first birthday with surprising clarity.
Wyatt had somehow managed to set part of the cookfire on fire, which was impressive, considering the cookfire was already supposed to be on fire.
Flint still wasn't entirely certain how his brother had accomplished it.
Samuel spent the rest of the evening claiming it was the first time he'd witnessed a man fail at building a fire by creating too much of one.
Daisy had laughed until tears streamed down her face.
The memory settled warmly in his chest before giving way to something heavier.
Three birthdays had passed since then.
Three years lost to silence, distance, and mistakes neither of them could undo. No matter how much he wished otherwise, those years were gone. He couldn't return them to her, couldn't erase the loneliness she'd endured, and couldn't reclaim the future they'd once assumed would be theirs.
Flint rubbed a hand along his jaw and stared across the creek.
The idea arrived so quietly that at first he barely noticed it.
A picnic.
Nothing elaborate. Just a few peaceful hours away from Nathan's house, away from Amos Grady, away from all the fear and uncertainty hanging over their lives.
He rejected the idea almost immediately.
Then he found himself considering it again.
A picnic felt dangerously personal. It wasn't the sort of thing a man arranged for a woman he intended to leave behind. It sounded suspiciously like courting, and that was precisely the problem.
Over the past few weeks, Flint had spent a great deal of energy pretending his feelings for Daisy were temporary. A product of proximity, old memories, and too much time spent under the same roof.
The effort was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.
After her confession behind the shed, after the way she'd looked at him and told him she searched for him whenever she was afraid, denying what he felt seemed less like self-control and more like dishonesty.
The truth was simple, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
He cared about her far more than he should.
The memory of the near kiss on the porch still lingered in ways Flint couldn't escape.
He remembered Daisy's hand against his face, the careful brush of her fingertips over his healing bruise, and the quiet tenderness she'd shown without seeming to realize it. More than that, he remembered standing behind the shed while she told him she looked for him whenever she was afraid.
No matter how often he replayed the conversation, those words struck him with the same force.
A sensible man would've saddled a horse and left days ago.
Unfortunately, Flint had never possessed much talent for sensible decisions.
His gaze wandered across the clearing again. A blanket beneath the trees. A basket of food. Flowers Daisy could recognize by scent alone. The idea continued to take shape despite every effort to dismiss it.
Perhaps it didn't have to mean anything.
Perhaps it could simply be a birthday gift.
A few peaceful hours beside the creek. A chance to forget Amos Grady and the danger hanging over them all. One good memory that belonged entirely to Daisy and wasn't tainted by fear, guilt, or regret.
Yet the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the explanation wasn't entirely honest.
The idea didn't fill him with relief.
It filled him with anticipation.
Because what he wanted wasn't simply to give Daisy a pleasant afternoon. He wanted to see her smile.
Not the polite smile she offered customers and neighbors. Or the determined smile she wore whenever she tried to convince everyone, including herself, that she was perfectly fine.
He wanted the real one.
The unguarded smile that arrived unexpectedly, transforming her entire face. The one that reminded him of summer evenings at the Callahan ranch and all the reasons he'd fallen in love with her in the first place.
The realization settled over him so quietly that he almost missed it.
This wasn't the excitement of a man planning a birthday outing.
This was the excitement of a man who was hopelessly in love.
Flint stared across the water. For weeks, he'd avoided giving a name to what he felt. He'd blamed old memories, proximity, loneliness, and a dozen other convenient excuses. Each one had allowed him to ignore the obvious truth a little longer.
But sitting beside the creek, with Daisy's laughter and voice filling his thoughts, denial finally felt pointless.
He loved her. He loved her despite the years between them. Despite the mistakes they'd both made. Despite every reason he could list for why it was foolish. The worst part was realizing he probably never stopped. The admission should have brought relief. Instead, it carried a sharp edge of fear.
Loving Daisy had never been the difficult part. Believing he deserved her was something else entirely.
The creek continued its steady journey through the trees while a bird landed briefly on a nearby branch before taking flight again.
Eventually, Flint pushed himself to his feet.
The practical details came easily enough.
If he left early, he could gather supplies before breakfast. A blanket.
Food. Perhaps a few flowers from the edge of the creek.
None of that worried him. What unsettled him was how badly he wanted to do it.
How much he wanted to give her something beautiful.
How much he wanted to see her happy. How easily he could imagine them spending an afternoon together and pretending, if only for a little while, that the years apart had never happened.
By the time he started back toward the house, twilight had settled across the land. The first stars were beginning to appear overhead, and a warm glow shone from the workshop windows in the distance.
Daisy was still working. The sight slowed his steps. For a long moment, he stood watching the light spill into the gathering darkness. The feeling that stirred inside him was uncomfortable precisely because it was so familiar.
Home.
Eventually, he forced himself to keep walking.
Tomorrow, he would take Daisy to the creek. He would give her a birthday worth remembering and, for a few precious hours, offer her the peace she deserved.
That was all.
At least, that was what he kept telling himself.
Because sooner or later, he would have to leave.
And if Flint Callahan was honest, the birthday picnic might be the only good thing he had left to give her.