The old barn was gone, true. But the family it had sheltered for generations remained, tempered by crisis into something perhaps even stronger than before. Ma had taken the first step toward seeing me as the man I truly was rather than the boy she feared I'd remain. Pa would recover and rebuild, as McKenzies always had. And Dan... Dan had seen me clearly from the beginning. Not despite my differences, but because of them. He'd recognized strength where others saw limitation, courage where others saw naivety, passion where others saw simplicity.
The ambulance rounded a curve, the motion sending a shaft of pain through my burned back. I grimaced behind the oxygen mask, but kept my eyes on Dan's face, drawing strength from his steady gaze.
"Almost there," the paramedic said, checking Dan's vitals again with practiced efficiency.
The lights of Eugene appeared on the horizon, the hospital waiting to receive us. Soon we'd be separated into different treatment rooms, surrounded by doctors and nurses focused on our individual injuries. But for now, in the confined space of the ambulance, it was just us—two men who had walked through fire, literally and figuratively, and emerged on the other side still holding onto each other.
"I'm not letting go," I said, the words half-promise, half-declaration.
Dan's fingers tightened around mine, his smile tired but real beneath the pain. "Good," he replied simply. "Because neither am I."
As the ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance, its sirens falling silent at last, I held onto that promise. Whatever came next—recovery, rebuilding, the long road back to normal—we would face it together. Not as protector and protected, butas equals. As partners. As two men who had found in each other exactly what they needed , exactly when they needed it most.
And not even fire could burn that away.
Chapter Eighteen
~ Daniel ~
I stared at the ceiling tiles I'd memorized over the past three months. Ninety-six of them in this room, with that one water stain in the corner that kind of looked like Texas if you squinted hard enough.
Three months of surgeries, pain meds, and rehab—long enough that some of the nurses had started calling me by my first name instead of "Deputy." Long enough that I'd started to forget what freedom felt like.
Hospital time moved differently than regular time. Days stretched into weeks that somehow simultaneously dragged and vanished. The routine became mind-numbingly familiar: vitals at 6 AM, breakfast at 7, physical therapy at 10, lunch at noon, doctor rounds sometime in the afternoon, dinner at 5, and then the long, empty evening hours before lights out at 10. Nurses changed shifts, IV bags were replaced, candy stripers delivered mail and magazines I never asked for.
I sighed and shifted on the thin mattress, wincing at the twinge in my chest. Better than it had been, but still a constant reminder of how close I'd come to dying that night at the McKenzie farm. The bullet that had torn through me had done more damage than anyone first realized. A shard of rib bone had broken free and migrated dangerously close to my heart, requiring a second surgery that extended my hospital stay from weeks into months.
Three months away from the job. Away from my life. Away from Harlow.
My apartment was another problem entirely. I'd only seen photos of the destruction Collins' men had left behind—the slashed furniture, broken dishes, spray-painted threats. Sheriff Hardesty said they'd preserved the scene for evidence, whichmeant that somewhere out there, my home was still a crime scene, frozen in time like some twisted museum exhibit. Eventually, I'd have to deal with it: the insurance claims, the cleanup, replacing everything I'd lost.
But I didn't have the energy to think about it now. Didn't even really have the desire to return to that place that no longer felt like mine. They'd violated my space, taken my safety, contaminated the first place in McKenzie River that I'd tried to make my own.
I glanced at the clock—almost eleven. Harlow had texted that he'd be here by now. The weekend visits had been both salvation and torture during these long months. Knox or one of the other brothers would drive him up, and for a few precious hours, the hospital room would feel almost bearable with Harlow's large frame filling the too-small visitor's chair, his deep voice washing away the clinical sterility with stories of barn rebuilding and animal rescues.
But then he'd have to leave, return to the farm where his family needed him, where the new barn was rising from the ashes of the old one. His own injuries—second-degree burns across his back and smoke inhalation—had healed faster than mine. The McKenzies needed every able body for the rebuilding, and Harlow wouldn't shirk his responsibilities, no matter how much he wanted to stay with me.
Phone calls and video chats filled the gaps between visits, but they weren't the same. I couldn't feel the warmth of his hand in mine through a screen. Couldn't smell that mix of soap and outdoors that clung to his clothes. Couldn't watch his expressions shift in real-time as he processed a thought, his face so much more expressive than his sometimes halting words.
My physical therapist said I'd made remarkable progress, especially considering the complications. The bullet wound itself had been straightforward enough—through and through, nomajor arteries hit. But that damn bone fragment had changed everything, requiring delicate surgery to remove it before it could do catastrophic damage. Then came weeks of careful rehabilitation to rebuild my strength without risking the healing surgical sites.
The door opened, pulling me from my thoughts, and suddenly the room felt brighter, warmer, more alive. Harlow filled the doorframe, shoulders nearly brushing both sides, his face breaking into that smile that never failed to make my heart skip.
"Hey," he said, stepping inside with surprising gentleness for a man his size. In his massive hands, he carried a small potted plant with cheerful white and yellow daisies.
"Hey, yourself," I replied, pushing myself up to sitting position with only minimal discomfort. Progress.
Harlow approached the bed, extending the flowerpot toward me. "Brought you these. Thought about regular flowers, but..." He shrugged, a blush creeping up his neck. "Wanted to give you something that would last longer."
I took the pot, our fingers brushing in the exchange, sending a current of electricity up my arm that had nothing to do with my injuries. "They're perfect," I said, meaning it. Somehow, Harlow always knew exactly what I needed, even when I didn't know myself.
He moved closer, until his thigh was pressed against the edge of the hospital bed. "Ma helped pick them out," he admitted, his voice dropping lower. "But it was my idea."
"Hetty helped you buy me flowers?" I asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Harlow's mother had come a long way in accepting our relationship, but active participation was something else entirely.
Harlow nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Said daisies mean loyalty." His eyes met mine, warm and certain. "Seemed right."
Something tightened in my chest that had nothing to do with my healing wounds. Three months, and this man still looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life. Three months, and the sight of him still made my breath catch and my pulse quicken.
