Tate (Mountain Men 3)

We baked mince pies in the large, spacious kitchen, and put a large slab of it aside for Santa.

“We went to midnight mass in town,” I say, remembering. “Father MacGowen was long-winded, and your dad was ready to leave halfway through.”

Tate grins. “And Mum persuaded him to stay because she wanted to hear the carols.”

“Aye. Leith fell asleep midway through, and Tavish tickled him with a sprig of holly.”

“Oh, Lord,” Tate says, chuckling. “He damn near jumped right out of his seat, and if Mum hadn’t wrangled him, he’d have decked Tavish straight across the altar.”

I laugh along with him. “But there were so many people half drunk, singing their hearts out, no one even noticed.”

He laughs out loud, his face splitting wide in a rare grin. His eyes dance with the memory, and I can’t help but laugh as well.

“And then Islan and I snuck into the kitchen when everyone was asleep to get a late-night snack…”

He snorts. “The turkey was in a brine, wasn’t it? You knocked it straight to the floor and the dogs got it. We had roast chicken and ham on Christmas Day.”

“Oh my God, I forgot about that. Thought I’d never be welcome in your home again after that.”

“Ah, Fran,” he says wistfully. “You’ve always had a place here.” Then he sobers, all traces of amusement gone from his handsome, rugged face. “And if I have anything to do about it, you still will.”

It’s a vivid reminder of what's at stake. I know that if he wanted to, he could've killed me. I'm still not out of danger. I'm not sure his brothers feel the same sense of allegiance that he does. I'm not even sure if it's allegiance that he feels…or something else.

Something they definitely don’t feel.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, both of us likely trapped in a world of memories. Back to a simpler time, when we were children, and our only worries were whether or not Santa would bring us everything on our wish list. Back then, I didn't know what his family did. I'm not sure even he did.

He gets up quietly and reaches for my plate. He bends to take it, and brushes a quick, gentle kiss to my forehead. Tears prick my eyes. I wonder if he’s saying goodbye to what we had, the innocence and purity of youth. Or is he christening what could be?

I don’t know.

“I’ll help you,” I tell him, and he nods silently.

I tie the bread and place it on the counter beside another loaf and put the butter in the fridge while he rinses the dishes and places them in the dishwasher. I put the marmalade away, and he rinses the coffee pot. We work in silent, amicable harmony, until the kitchen sparkles.

“I need to get clothes, Tate.”

“Aye. We’ll do that at the main house.”

I look down at myself, flushing pink. “Can’t walk up there wearing nothing but your AC/DC tee.”

A corner of his lip twitches. "You're right. It's too cold out today."

I roll my eyes and head to his bedroom.

“I asked Paisley to drop an outfit off earlier.”

My belly drops. “Paisley knows I spent the night here, then. Why her instead of Islan?”

“Islan spent the night writing a paper and fell asleep facedown at her desk, Mum said. Didn’t want to bother her.”

I nod.

Paisley’s the more sensitive of the two sisters, the youngest of all of us.

I sigh.

“Aye, but don’t trouble yourself about it too much. She won’t ask questions.”

“She won’t ask you questions. Me, I’m fucked.” But when I check my phone, there are no messages from either of his sisters.

He retrieves the bag and comes in a minute later with an armful of clothes. “Here. She left you a note, too.”

There’s a white envelope on top of the small stack of clothes. I take both from him, slide the clothes onto his bed, then open the little envelope. The message is short, written in Paisley’s sloped script.

I didn’t want to text and pry, and felt anything I texted you, my brother could see.

Don’t let him read this. After you read it, toss it in his fire.

I’m not going to ask if you hooked up with my brother, because I REALLY am okay NOT knowing.

I just want to make sure you’re safe.

I just want to make sure my brothers don’t have reasons for hurting you.

I know who they are. I know what they are capable of, and I WILL interfere if I need to.

So when I see you… give me a signal. Shake your head from side to side if you’re in trouble, nod if you’re not.

Or send me a text. “All good” if you’re fine, just “good” if you’re not.

I’ll see you soon.

Tate’s busying himself making the bed and tidying up. I like that he’s a tidy sort.