Tate (Mountain Men 3)

“You’ll stay by my side.”

“Got it.”

He draws in a deep breath, then lets it out again slowly. “You’re in grave danger around my family. Especially my father."

I nod. "I know."

“I’ll have to tell them all the truth eventually, but before I do, I want to make sure that we've done everything we need to do, to lessen whatever danger my family’s in… and you, too.”

My heart thunders at this, and I feel strangely lightheaded. One false move… one wrong word… and my life is forfeit.

It doesn't matter that I'm best friends with his sisters.

It doesn't matter that they've known me for literally decades.

It doesn't matter that I didn't intend to hurt his family. I've been a danger to them, and now I'll pay the price.

Chapter 11

Tate

I don't know how I keep it together. Just hearing her in the shower, knowing she’s naked and in such close proximity… bloody hell, it undid me.

My attraction to Fran grows with every passing minute, an uncontrollable need to touch her, to hold her, to be closer to her.

Abstaining will kill me. Fucking kill me.

I catch up with my Clan brothers.

I haven’t said anything about the writer I’m pursuing, but it won’t take at least one of them long to figure it out. My money’s on Leith. He pays attention to detail better than anyone else.

He cares more, too.

Mac would maybe take it in stride and want answers as to retribution and our plan going forward.

The girls would plead for their friend. I know they would.

But Dad… Dad would kill her on the spot or order a hit I couldn’t stop. Leith might try, but he also might not.

And I’m not taking any bloody chances.

Snow’s falling in thick swaths, but slowly, as we make our way up to the main house.

“How’s your head?”

“Better, I think. I’m just so relieved to be off those bloody pain meds.”

I snort out a laugh. “You were a bloody riot, though.”

She groans.

Nan’s reedy voice comes from behind us.

“Is that my grandson with my favorite friend o’ the family?”

“Aye, Nan,” I say, turning to face her. She’s making her way slowly up the sloping hill that leads to the main lodge, clearly just leaving her own home. She’s wearing a hat, a thick scarf wrapped around her neck, mittens that look like she knitted them herself in 1999, a cloak that goes nearly to the ground, and furry boots. “It’s cold out and icy. You shouldn’t be walking alone up here,” I scold.

“Tsk,” she says, waving the hand at me that isn’t gripping her cane. “They say some cold keeps a woman young, son. And Lord knows I need a wee bit of help in that area.” She winks at Fran.

“We all do, Nan,” Fran says warmly, reaching for Nan’s free hand as she draws closer. “It’s why we lace our tea with the good stuff, aye?”

“Och, aye, lassie,” Nan replies. “See, Tate, now there’s a smart lass for you.”

For you.

Is she using the phrase metaphorically? “Chan eil ann an aois ach àireamh.”

Age is only a number.

“Now, what are you two doing out here in this bitter cold? Coming up for a wee bit of breakfast, are you?”

“We ate at Tate’s,” Fran says, and I stifle a groan. She isn’t supposed to say anything. The way her eyes quickly fly to mine tells me she knows exactly what she fucked up.

She gives me an apologetic grimace.

“Aye, we ate breakfast already. Need to get up to the house for a few more things.”

“Pack of condoms?” she says in a stage whisper to Fran.

“Nan!”

Her eyes twinkle when she looks at me. Fran just giggles. “What?”

“It’s nothing like that.”

She rolls her eyes. The bloody sass.

“Sure, lad. Sure.”

We reach the back door, and it opens when we draw close, Mum standing inside the door. She blinks at us in surprise before she quickly schools her features. If there’s anyone in the entire house I can count on not to ask questions or pry, it's Mum.

“Come in, come in,” she says, ushering us in. “It’s nasty out there.”

“Eh, just a wee bit of snow, the trees just dusting things off as it were. Should be clear soon enough,” Nan says. “A little birdie told me the staff was making Dundee cake today, and you know I don’t miss that, Flora.” Nan has a taste for the dense, fruit-laced concoction.

“Don’t I know it. I asked them to make me two.”

“Ah, good lassie you are, Flora.” Nan gives Fran a wink and Fran gives me a look that plainly says, “See? I love your family.”

She loves some of them, alright.

We enter the house. The kitchen’s bursting with life and energy, the cooks bustling about with aprons and pots and pans, the huge wooden table, crafted by my father’s own hand when he was much younger, filled with my Clan brothers and sisters.