Page 14 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Chapter Twelve

Webb

T he night had curled in quiet around us, the way it always did out here—soft and dark, with only the firepit crackling between us and the wilderness beyond.

Gabby sat across from me in one of the old camp chairs, knees pulled to her chest, the bottom of her t-shirt tugged over them. She was calm, but it was the kind of calm that came after laughter. The fragile type and the kind that could tip either way.

And I was about to tip it.

The news had been sitting in my chest all afternoon, burning a hole in my ribs. I’d wanted her to have the peace of the bayou, the laughing meltdown over a frog-eating monster, and the silliness of that moment. But it was gone now, banked like the fire.

It was time.

I shifted forward, elbows on my knees. “Matty called again while you were in the cabin earlier.”

Her gaze lifted toward me, a shadow crossing her face.

“He had his guys watching Barris, and they followed him to a meet-up with two guys we hadn’t seen before. They weren't the regular crew. These were more organized and professional, so Matty did some digging.”

Gabby’s arms tightened around her legs.

“They’re connected to one of Maddox’s shell companies. Word is, Barris isn’t just looking for you anymore. He’s passed your name along and outsourced the problem.” I hesitated, then said it plainly. “It looks like Maddox wants you gone permanently. Not just silenced but removed.”

Gabby didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t even flinch. She just stared into the fire, her eyes fixed on the shifting orange glow.

And then I saw it, the tear. It slid down her cheek in the silence, catching the firelight like a falling star, and something in my chest cracked.

“I love my family,” she said quietly. “I also adore my friends, even the ones who drive me crazy.”

I stayed still and didn’t interrupt.

“I thought maybe I’d have a chance to say goodbye if it ever came to that.” Her voice wavered, soft and raw. “But I didn’t think I’d die this young, at least not without warning and a little bit more time. I mean, I’m only twenty-five.”

She sniffled, not dramatically, just like her body was trying to hold everything in and was finally losing the battle.

“I wanted to go to Italy,” she whispered. “I wanted to adopt a Bernese Mountain dog that scared everyone but was secretly a marshmallow. I wanted to wear red lipstick more. I wanted to dance with someone who made me feel like… like I wasn’t just the quiet one who notices everything.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood, crossed to her chair, and gently wrapped my hands under her arms. She looked up at me, startled, but didn’t resist when I lifted her out of the seat and settled her on my lap, arms around her, with my chin brushing her temple.

“You’re not dying,” I said gruffly into her hair. “We’re not letting that happen.”

She clutched the front of my shirt, knuckles white.

“I set traps today,” I told her. “And I’ll set more tomorrow. And coming from my family means some creative, wildly unsafe contraptions that would make MacGyver cry.”

She choked out a laugh—sharp and wet and broken—then buried her face in my shoulder and bawled.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she sobbed. “You’re helping me, and they’ll come for you.”

I tightened my arms around her. “I’ve survived worse. Maddox and his goons don’t scare me, not when it’s you on the line.”

She cried harder, and I just held her—the kind of hold that says I'm not letting go, no matter what. The kind you don’t give unless you mean it.

When she finally quieted, I leaned back just slightly and murmured, “One of the ranch hands is bringing up more gear, including guns and ammo. We’re covered.”

She sniffled, eyes glassy. “You’re gonna teach me to shoot?”

I nodded. “That’s the plan.”

She sat up slightly. “I can already shoot.”

I paused. “Okay… but are you good at it?”

She winced and repeated ambiguously, “I can shoot.”

“Uh, no, that’s not an answer. That’s a warning label.”

“I’ve never accidentally shot anyone,” she added quickly.

“Yet.”

She punched my shoulder lightly, then left her hand there, fingers curling into my t-shirt. Her breath was still unsteady, but she looked at me like she was seeing something new.

I didn’t plan to kiss her, but then she leaned in just enough, and I didn’t lean back, and the fire crackled like it was in on the secret. Her lips were soft, warm, and salted with tears.

When we pulled back, both a little breathless, we were still holding on, like maybe letting go would break something we hadn’t named yet.

We both froze as a sound—soft but distinct—crackled through the underbrush. Our heads snapped toward the noise, and there, just beyond the edge of the trees, sat three raccoons in a neat little row. They weren’t moving. Just watching, silent and unblinking, like tiny, judgmental forest gods.

Gabby blinked. “Are they... are they watching us?”

One tilted its head.

“Like little bandit perverts,” I muttered.

Gabby burst out laughing, and for a second, even with the storm coming, it felt like we had the upper hand. Even if we did have to share it with a raccoon audience.

Just after midmorning, the crunch of tires over gravel echoed faintly through the trees.

Gabby and I both turned, squinting toward the sound, eyes straining to see through the dense branches.

Far in the distance, a truck rolled into view—a beat-up old thing that looked like it had lost a fistfight with a mudslide and somehow come out grinning.

“Friend of yours?” Gabby asked, squinting like she expected the truck to explode.

“Yeah,” I confirmed. “Backup.”

From far off, the faint creak of a door echoed across the trees. Gabby winced and muttered, “Someone needs to introduce that truck to WD-40.”

A few minutes passed, the sound of footsteps crunching over leaves and gravel slowly growing closer. Then, through the trees, Eddie emerged—walking the rest of the way with the steady pace of someone who knew how to move through the wild without rushing it.

He was dressed in a camo shirt and cargo pants, his boots caked in something that might’ve once been mud. Or blood. I didn’t ask. His effortless swagger said this wasn’t his first time off-grid. Probably wasn’t even his hundredth.

“Eddie,” I greeted, shaking his hand. “Appreciate you coming up.”

“No problem,” he said, slapping the bag he was carrying with a dusty hand. “Brought the toys, too.”

Gabby peeked inside and blinked. “Holy crap. That’s… that’s a lot of stuff.”

Eddie didn’t say much—just jerked his head and motioned for us to follow him. We trailed after him through the trees and underbrush, ducking under low-hanging branches and stepping over roots until the battered old truck finally came into view again.

He led us around to the back and opened it up with a creak that echoed through the still air.

Crates. He had actual crates. Ammo, gear, a few rifles tucked into soft cases, extra knives, a box of trail rations that looked military-grade, and—because, of course, he did—a big silver satellite phone nestled on top like the cherry on a survivalist sundae.

Gabby let out a low whistle. “You building a bunker or just preparing to take over a small country?”

Eddie just smirked and said, “Preparedness is a lifestyle.” He tossed the satellite phone to me. “Keep that on you, just in case. I’ll be posted about a mile out, and if you call, I promise to haul ass.”

Gabby frowned. “You’re staying out there?”

Eddie grinned. “Yep, figured I’d rough it a bit. There's not much reception, but peace and quiet’s nice.”

Gabby stared at him like he’d grown a third eye. “Are you insane? You could get eaten by a prehistoric fish or swallowed whole by a bayou anaconda!”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Anaconda?”

“I saw one in a documentary once, it was horrifying. I still have dreams about it, so don’t mock me.”

He snorted. “You’re the one worried about being eaten by mythical swamp serpents, and I’m the insane one?”

“She has a vivid imagination,” I added helpfully, trying not to laugh.

“I’m realistic,” Gabby muttered. “Realistic and heavily traumatized by the local ecosystem.”

Eddie just shook his head and went to unload the gear.

Once he was set up—vanishing into the trees like some kind of camo cryptid—I walked Gabby down to the clearing behind the cabin where the ground was firm, visibility was clear, and no raccoons had claimed it as sacred land.

I laid out the rifle first—a simple, bolt-action .22—and set a few tin cans up on the stump line twenty yards out.

“All right,” I said, handing it over, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

Gabby took it confidently, then hesitated and turned to me with a sheepish look. “Okay, technically, I’ve only ever shot at a range with paper targets, and I may or may not have been less than impressive.”

“Define less than impressive.”

“I once hit the ceiling of an indoor range.”

I blinked. “The ceiling?”

“In my defense, I panicked. There was a spider on my foot.”

I sighed and adjusted her grip. “Okay, you little chaos gremlin—safety first. Keep your eyes forward and take a deep breath. You’re not fighting spiders, you’re keeping your aim on the target. Control the weapon, don’t let the nerves do it for you.”

She nodded seriously, did as I'd outlined, and took her shot.

It hit the can square on.

Her jaw dropped, and she squealed, “Did you see that?”

I grinned, her excitement infectious. “Try it again.”

We spent the next two hours shooting and laughing, and she got better with every shot. Much to my embarrassment, I was half-distracted by the way her smile kept breaking through the worry in her eyes. She looked lighter out here as if the weight was lifting, piece by piece.

Afterward, we got to work on the traps.

Now, when I say “traps,” I don’t mean normal ones.

I mean Townsend-Rossi special editions—the kind that involves fishing lines, noisemakers, and a lot of questionable ingenuity.

We had trip alarms, tin cans full of nails, one old motion-triggered sprinkler rigged to spray anyone who got too close to the back trail, and Gabby’s favorite: a cat toy rigged to a string that would jingle whenever someone stepped past it.

These were efficient but tame in comparison to the ones I'd set when she wasn't with me.

“You warned Eddie, right?” she asked, eyes wide as we tested the trip line on the eastern side.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Three times.”

“Good. I’d hate to accidentally tangle him in fishing line and drop a bucket of marbles on his head.” She paused. “Wait, do we have marbles?”

“No.”

“Damn, that's a total missed opportunity.”

I glanced over at her—cheeks smudged with dirt, hair in a messy braid, and her t-shirt sticking slightly with sweat. She was flushed, exhausted, and still a little sore from the day before, but she was fighting.

She was trying.

As the sun started its slow slide behind the trees, tinting everything gold, I realized something: she wasn’t just surviving. She was learning how to win.

Gabby was crouched a few yards ahead of me, tying one end of a trip wire to a low tree branch with her tongue poking out in concentration. The other end led to a set of tin cans filled with nails and pebbles, ready to rattle like an angry ghost if anyone so much as breathed on it.

Her traps were smart and effective, but in the grand scheme of things, they were tame.

She’d insisted on helping as we set up more of them. She said that if she was going to stay, she needed to do more than just cry on people and scream at frogs.

I couldn’t argue with that.

But as she worked, stringing up the fishing line, I knew the real deterrents were happening just beyond her view where Eddie was setting up the serious traps.

The kind you don’t walk away from with a bruised shin and a funny story.

The kind that hurt and that stopped someone who came creeping too close.

Concealed steel-wire snags that’d tear up a boot if stepped on wrong.

Barbed throw traps that released if someone ducked under a line too fast. And the flares—we’d rigged three of them.

These ones needed to be tripped with force, so a wandering raccoon wouldn’t set one off, but anything heavier, anything two-legged and sneaking? They’d light up the sky and let everyone in a five-mile radius know we weren’t alone anymore.

With the newest intel from Matty and Marcus, we were past the point of hoping this would blow over. This was the line, and I wasn’t letting anything happen to her.

Not on my watch.

Not while she was out here, with dirt on her hands, her braid falling apart, her t-shirt soaked from humidity and determination, and setting booby traps with bottle caps and duct tape like she was MacGyver’s awkward cousin.

She looked over her shoulder then, brow furrowed. “Webb?”

I blinked and straightened, looking at her blankly.

“You zoned out. What’s next?”

I nodded toward the back trail. “Motion sensor’s ready. We just need to angle the reflector for a wider field.”

She gave me a little salute and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. “You know, I don’t love that I now know the difference between a warning trap and a bone-shattering one.”

I didn’t smile. Not really. But I reached for the wire coil beside me and pointed at the next location. “Welcome to the front lines, chaos cupcake.”