It stole my breath all over again.
Harlow rose to his feet in one fluid motion that belied his size. He wiped his soil-covered hands against his jeans, leaving dark smudges on the worn denim, and took a half-step toward me before hesitating. His eyes darted toward the house, and the smile dimmed slightly.
"Deputy Dan," he said, his deep voice pitched low. The formal title made me wince—a reminder of the barriers still between us.
"Just Dan," I corrected gently, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps. "I'm not here as a deputy today."
Harlow nodded, his eyes dropping to the wildflowers in my hand, then to the picnic basket, before returning to my face. "Ma's inside," he warned, the two simple words carrying layers of meaning and concern.
"I know." I shifted the basket to my other hand, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in my stomach. "That's partly why I'm here. I need to talk to both of you."
His eyes widened slightly. "Both of us? About...?" He trailed off, though we both knew what he meant.
"About us," I confirmed, holding his gaze steadily. "About what's happening between us."
A flush spread across his cheeks, disappearing into his beard. "Ransom didn't say anything," he offered quickly. "I asked him not to, and he promised—"
"I know he didn't," I assured him. "This isn't because of Ransom. It's because I don't want to hide, Harlow. I don't want you to have to lie to your family about where you're going or who you're meeting. I don't want to sneak around like we're doing something wrong."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing above the collar of his flannel shirt. "Ma won't understand."
"Maybe not at first," I acknowledged. "But she loves you. And if she sees how important this is to you—to both of us—she'll come around eventually."
His expression suggested he wasn't nearly as confident about that as I was trying to sound. But something else flickered in his eyes too—a determination I was coming to recognize and respect.
"These are for you," I said, holding out the wildflowers. They looked almost comically small against Harlow's large frame, but I refused to feel foolish about the gesture. "I picked them up at the stand by the crossroads."
Harlow stared at the flowers for a long moment before reaching out with those careful, soil-stained hands to take them. He held them delicately, as if afraid his strength might crush the delicate stems, and brought them to his face to inhale their scent.
When he looked back at me, his eyes were suspiciously bright. "Nobody's ever given me flowers before," he admitted, his voice rough around the edges.
Something fierce and protective surged through me at his words. How was it possible that no one had ever seen what I saw in him? That no one had thought to give him something beautiful, just because?
"Well," I said, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead, "I plan to give you lots of things no one's given you before."
The double meaning wasn't lost on him. His flush deepened, but he held my gaze, something like wonder in his eyes. "I'd like that," he said simply.
We stood there for a moment, surrounded by growing things, the morning sun warm on our shoulders. Despite what lay ahead—the difficult conversation, the potential conflict—I felt strangely at peace. Whatever happened with Hetty McKenzie, this was right. We were right.
Harlow carefully tucked the flowers into the pocket of his flannel shirt, positioning them so they wouldn't be crushed. The bright blooms looked incongruous against the faded plaid, and somehow perfect.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice pitched low. "Ma can be... stubborn. And she thinks she knows what's best for me, always has."
"I'm sure about you," I answered truthfully. "The rest we'll figure out together."
He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Together," he repeated, like he was testing the word, seeing how it felt on his tongue.
I set the picnic basket down on the edge of the garden and took a step closer to him. This close, I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, a reversal of my usual position of authority that I found oddly thrilling rather than uncomfortable.
"After we talk to your mother," I said, nudging the basket with my boot, "I thought we could have lunch. Just the two of us."
Harlow's eyes brightened. "I know a good spot," he offered. "Up by the creek where it widens. Trees give good shade, and the water's clear enough to see the trout."
"Sounds perfect," I said, meaning it.
For a moment, we just looked at each other, savoring the quiet connection before the storm we both knew was coming. I wanted to touch him—to take his hand, to straighten the collar of his shirt, to brush my thumb across his lower lip. But we were in full view of the house, and this wasn't how I wanted Hetty to discover us.
Instead, I picked up the picnic basket again and gestured toward the farmhouse. "Ready?"
