“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, Daniel. It matters.” He leans forward. “Because if you kissed her to make a point, that’s fucked up. But if you kissed her because you’ve been wanting to for weeks and finally had an excuse—that’s something else entirely.”
I don’t answer.
Tom nods slowly as if my silence confirmed his suspicions. “That’s what I thought.”
The kitchen door swings open again, and Miss Maggie bustles in with a basket of eggs and a look that says she’s heard every word.
“Morning, boys.” She sets the basket down and fixes me with sharp eyes. “Daniel, you look like something the barn cat dragged in and decided wasn’t worth eating.”
“Thanks, Miss Maggie.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank whatever demon possessed you to kiss that girl in public without courting her proper first.” She cracks eggs into a bowl with efficient violence. “Your mother would’ve had words.”
“I'm aware.”
“Are you? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve got a woman who’s already been publicly humiliated once in this town, and you just made her the center of attention all over again.” The whisk clangs against the bowl. “Good intentions don’t mean much when the road to hell is paved with ‘em.”
The words hit like a fist to the sternum.
She’s right. I was so focused on defending Delaney that I didn't think about what it would mean for her—being claimed like property in front of everyone.
You made a spectacle of me with that kiss.
I sigh. “I need to fix it.”
“You need toearnit,” Miss Maggie corrects. “There’s a difference. Fixing implies you can undo what’s done. You can’t. But you can show her you’re worth the trouble you caused.”
Tom stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Kitty said she barely slept, but she’s planning to come to work today.Something about not giving anyone the satisfaction of thinking she’s hiding.”
That sounds like Delaney. Stubborn as hell, even when she’s hurting.
I nod, determined to make things right. “I’ve got an idea.”
Delaney shows up at nine sharp.
I’m in the barn when I hear her truck—Havenridge’s old Ford, borrowed from Tom. The engine cuts off. Door slams. Footsteps on gravel, then the creak of the barn door.
I’ve faced enemy fire. Been trapped under rubble with my leg pinned and my lungs full of dust. Watched men die next to me and kept moving because stopping meant dying too.
None of that scared me as much as the thought that she might not show up today.
I keep my back to her, running a brush over the horse’s flank. The gelding’s ears swivel toward the sound, his one good eye tracking movement in the doorway.
“Operations meeting isn’t until ten.” Her voice is professional. Clipped. Cold enough to frost the water trough.
“I know.”
“Then why did your text say to meet you here at nine?”
I set down the brush. Turn to face her.
Shadows lurk under her eyes. Her hair is pulled back in its usual severe ponytail. Her spine is as straight as a fence post. She’s wearing jeans that hug her hips and a flannel shirt buttoned up to her throat like armor.
But her chin is up, and her gaze is steady. The sight of her refusing to break makes me want to cross the barn and kiss her again. Slower this time. Longer. Until she stops looking at me like I’m the enemy.
“I want to show you something.”
