Tate (Mountain Men 3)

And now…

“Oh, Tate,” she says, all misty-eyed, her voice soft in wonder. “It’s bloody gorgeous.”

I forget for a minute why we’re here. I forget for a minute that she put my Clan in danger and then tried to escape. I forget that I’ve been told to find the writer and to make them pay.

For one brief moment in time, it’s just the two of us. Coming home.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Built it myself.”

For one moment, I see it all from the eyes of a stranger.

A small, rustic cabin in the heart of the woods, my home is surrounded by tall pines frosted with snow and ice. Evergreens never lose their color, but when the snow melts, they frame my house in beauty. Behind us lie the snowcapped mountains, visible from the back windows, especially the large window in the kitchen. There’s a porch swing by the entrance, and a pile of neatly stacked wood I chopped myself by the door.

She hasn’t even seen the inside yet.

This chalet was designed after one found in the Swiss Alps, seasoned dark wood with overhanging eaves. Icicles hang like nature-spun crystals, glittering and melting from the beams of sunlight. Soon, the sun will settle into the mountains, bringing the cool night air and the bluish haze of dusk.

I open the door. For a simple home, I’ve made mine intensely high security, for obvious reasons. It used to be that no one knew where we lived. It used to be that we were the safest place in Scotland, highly reclusive, hidden from everyone. But in recent years, all locations have become known to at least a few people. We've had trespassers, and I like my privacy.

So while Leith has maximum security at the house, he leaves the small chalets to ourselves. I have bodyguards, but I take extra precautionary measures with high security locks on the doors and windows.

It keeps me feeling safe. But the plus side is, she won’t be able to get away.

The interior’s my retreat, well-furnished with simple but sturdy furniture, designed for tranquility. My job drains me, sometimes taking all of my energy. I recharge when I come home.

There isn’t a television on the premises. I do like to watch shows sometimes, but I use my iPad. Islan helped me decorate and told me we’d keep the walls bare and clean, “intentionally decorated with a cool, natural palette with pastels and shades of brown.” I liked what she planned.

The door we enter brings us into the living room, featuring a double-sided wood burning stove that heats the living room and bedroom in an open-plan arrangement. I love just enjoying a quiet dinner alone, a steaming mug of tea, the large windows overlooking the smoky, blue-tinged mountains outside and a padded window seat that welcomes rest and relaxation.

There’s a king-sized bed that faces a brick-lined fireplace, an ensuite with a clawfoot bath and shower, and what Islan called “a sit-out-erie,” a little patio built specifically for me to go from my bedroom to the outdoors with a book. Outdoors, there’s a fire pit and barbecue.

It feels secluded without being totally isolated, surrounded by nature. I can’t see the main lodge from here, only the vast outdoors, the tall, fragrant Scotch pines, and the steep peak of mountains with wispy clouds. A quick walk down the stone pathway takes me to a nature trail that encircles our land. The air is clear up here, unhindered by the heat and pollution of the city.

With a full deck in the back and a garden that wraps around the perimeter, I spend as much time outside as I do inside.

“My God," she says. "Look at that fireplace.” You can see the large, brick-lined fireplace in my bedroom from here. “It looks like you need a huge dog laying in front of it, and on that little rug. I can imagine you sitting over there, maybe reading a book or something? I don't know, maybe reading the stock market? What would you guys like to do in your free time? You don't really look like a video game sort.”

"What does the video game sort look like? Lots of my mates play video games, and they all look different.”

"I don't know," she says. "A little less mature than you." I cringe. Is that supposed to be a compliment? That I look mature?

"It's not an insult," she says, reading my expression. “Just an observation.”

“And I’d like to make the bloody observation that you talk too much.” Has she forgotten why we’re here?

She blusters. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

I take a firm grip on her upper arm and march her into the center of the room. I point to the floor. “You stay right there.”

She frowns. “Not sure where the bloody hell I’d go.”

“You had plans to take off not ten minutes ago. Where the hell were you going?”