Epilogue #3
“That isn’t the reassurance you think it is.”
He smiled. “I’ll guide you.”
“I know.”
Flint began to move. One step, then another. Daisy followed with careful concentration at first. Her fingers tightened briefly against his shoulder when another couple passed nearby, but Flint turned her smoothly, keeping his body between her and the shifting movement around them.
“You’re thinking too much,” he quietly said.
“I’m trying not to humiliate us both.”
“You couldn’t.”
She smiled. “I could.”
“You won’t.”
Her mouth tilted. “That sounded suspiciously confident.”
“I’m dancing with the prettiest woman here. Confidence seemed appropriate.”
She laughed softly. “You have become shameless since marrying me.”
“It’s been less than three hours.”
“And yet the decline is already obvious.”
He turned her again.
This time, she followed without hesitation.
Her smile changed then. It became less cautious, more open. The breeze stirred the loose strands of hair near her cheek. Candlelight warmed her face. Her dress brushed against his legs as they moved together beneath the wide evening sky.
Flint forgot there were people watching. He forgot the music belonged to anyone else. The world narrowed to Daisy’s hand in his, Daisy’s laughter, Daisy trusting him enough to let him lead without ever surrendering herself.
After a few turns, she stepped on his boot.
She froze.
Flint looked down. “Was that intentional?”
“No.”
“Pity. I was going to admire your accuracy.” He chuckled.
Her shoulders shook with laughter. “Did I hurt you?”
“I may never recover.”
“I’ll ask Nathan to examine you.”
“Then I’m fine.”
She laughed again, and he pulled her a little closer.
Around them, the celebration continued. People talked, clapped along with the music, called encouragement, and teased whenever Wyatt attempted something too ambitious and nearly tripped over Clara’s hem. But Flint barely heard any of it.
Daisy rested her cheek briefly against his chest. “I can hear your heart,” she said.
“That’s because you keep stepping on my foot.”
She pinched his shoulder.
Flint laughed softly and drew her a little closer, settling naturally into the rhythm of the dance.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Once, a silence like this would have unsettled him. He would have searched for the right words, worried that he had said too much or too little, or convinced himself that peace could never last.
Now it simply felt... right.
He could hear the music drifting through the evening air, feel the warmth of Daisy in his arms, and catch the occasional burst of laughter from Wyatt somewhere across the yard.
Around them, the celebration carried on, but for a few precious moments it seemed as though the world had narrowed to the two of them swaying beneath the Wyoming sky.
Flint wished he could hold on to that moment forever.
Eventually, the tune came to an end, and the fiddler launched into something livelier. Guests drifted back toward the tables, where Ruth had already begun insisting that everyone make room for another slice of cake and one more cup of coffee.
Flint smiled to himself.
Leaning close enough that only Daisy could hear him, he murmured, "Come with me."
Her brow lifted. “That sounds ominous.”
“It isn’t.”
He took her hand and guided her away from the gathering.
No one stopped them. Or if anyone noticed, they had enough mercy not to call attention to it. The music and laughter softened behind them as Flint led Daisy across the yard toward the small house standing beyond the main ranch home.
It was not large.
It did not need to be.
A porch faced the open pasture, and beyond it lay a stretch of land where the grass moved silver in the evening light. Fresh curtains hung in the windows. Wildflowers Ruth and Clara had planted lined the path. A lamp burned inside, casting a warm glow through the glass.
Daisy slowed. She knew where they were. Flint could tell by the way her fingers tightened around his.
“Our house?” she asked quietly.
“Our house.”
The words filled him with a kind of wonder he had no defense against.
He opened the door and guided her inside.
Daisy stepped over the threshold with careful attention, one hand still in his, the other reaching slightly as though she could feel the shape of the place through the air itself.
The scent of fresh pine lingered beneath lavender polish and clean linen. Ruth had insisted the house needed to smell welcoming. Clara had agreed and then spent half the morning helping her accomplish it.
Flint waited.
He had faced guns without half this much fear.
Daisy stood very still. “It’s warm,” she said softly.
He looked around the room, trying to see it as she might feel it.
A small sitting room opened before them.
A braided rug lay beneath their feet. Two chairs sat near the hearth.
Shelves lined one wall, already holding a few books, jars, and small things Daisy had brought from Cheyenne.
A table stood beneath the window, positioned where the afternoon sun would fall across it.
“I thought we could change anything you don’t like,” he said quickly. “Nothing has to stay where it is. Ruth and Clara helped some, and Wyatt built the shelves, but I told them you’d decide what belonged where.”
Daisy smiled faintly. “You sound nervous again.”
“I am not nervous.”
Her smile widened.
He guided her slowly through the room, describing things as they went, though not too much. Daisy did not need him to give her every detail. She needed space to discover.
So he gave her his arm and let her hand find the back of the chair, the smooth edge of the table, the cool iron of the stove, the shelves Wyatt had sanded until Ruth declared them suitable.
In the kitchen, Daisy paused when she opened a cupboard and felt inside. “Is this full?”
“Ruth.”
“Of course.”
He laughed. “She said newlyweds cannot be trusted to feed themselves properly for the first month.”
“That sounds like Ruth.”
“She also said I would forget flour.”
He showed her the bedroom only briefly. Her hand brushed across the quilt Ruth had made, lingering over the stitched pattern. She grew quiet there, not with sadness, but with something tender enough that Flint did not try to name it.
Then he led her back toward the hall. “There’s one more room.”
Daisy turned her face toward him. “One more?”
He opened the door. The scent of clean wood, dried herbs, and faint beeswax drifted out. Daisy went still.
Flint’s grip tightened around hers. “I wasn’t sure where you’d want everything.”
She did not move.
He cleared his throat. “Julian said your workroom in Cheyenne was getting too crowded. He said that if I intended to bring you to the ranch and not give you proper space for your business, he would personally haunt me.”
A small sound escaped her.
He could not tell whether it was laughter or tears.
Possibly both.
“So, Wyatt helped me build shelves,” Flint continued, because silence was unbearable.
“There are drying racks along the far wall. A workbench beneath the window, though we can move it if the light warms things too much. Storage for oils and molds. Hooks for cloths. A smaller table in the corner for packaging orders. Julian sent some supplies already, but he said not to let you know that because you’d accuse him of meddling. ”
Daisy stepped forward slowly, her hand slipping from Flint's as she crossed the threshold.
He let her go.
Every instinct urged him to follow immediately, to explain every shelf, every jar, every careful decision that had gone into the room. Instead, he stayed where he was, leaning lightly against the doorframe.
This was her moment.