Tate (Mountain Men 3)

“And he didn’t tell you about this.”

Leith snorts. He’s forgiven me, but I know I can’t lose my mind like that again.

“I’m not Dad, Tate.” Truer words were never spoken. “You know I would’ve told you everything if I knew it.”

We don’t lie to each other. We may rough each other up and give each other crap like no one else, but we all know we’d give our lives for the men of our Clan, and the only way for us to maintain the loyalty and trust necessary for such vows is with brutal honesty.

“Aye.”

“How long have they given you before you answer?”

“One week. End of the month.”

Fuck.

I run a hand through my hair, and my voice sounds as if it doesn’t even belong to me when I tell him, “I’ll handle this. Let me handle this.”

I have to do this, I know I do. Leith has to manage the Clan. Mac has a wife now, and a family of his own as well.

This is my duty. My responsibility. And I have the tools to do what I have to.

Fran knows things. She has connections and spies. I will find a way out of this. I will find a way to save my sisters, save my family.

We join the others, but my mind’s preoccupied with what he told me. Still, I breathe more easily when I take my seat beside Fran.

She’s still here. No one’s hurt her.

Hell, not only is she still here, she’s regaling my family with a tale about a customer in the bookstore they call “the biscuit bandit,” someone who nicks biscuits from the little shop and leaves a trail of crumbs in the books.

“Told my manager if she left a trail to a gingerbread house, I’d feed her to the damn witch myself.”

“Fran!” Islan says, snorting with laughter.

“What? She ruined a perfectly gorgeous copy of Brown’s poetry, and you know how I feel about such things.”

Islan sobers. “Aye. Fair point.”

The staff refills teacups, and I tug on Fran’s hand. We have to go.

“She’ll be staying with us for a few days, won’t she?” Islan asks. I texted her earlier this morning, and she hasn’t asked many more questions. My heart thrums in my chest.

Four million quid or one of the girls.

I’ll kill them. I’ll fucking kill them all.

“Aye.”

“Good. We’ll get her what she needs.”

Fran sniffs. “As if your bloody size zero clothes would fit the likes of me.”

Islan grimaces. We can’t go back into town, not again. We have work to do, investigations and the like to pursue.

Bryn enters the room on Mac’s arm. “What are we looking for, girls?”

“I need to borrow some clothes, and I haven’t fit anything in Islan or Paisley’s size since I was about ten years old.”

Nan snickers. “For me, I was three years old, so I’m impressed, lass.” She empties her teacup.

“I’ve got plenty you could use,” Bryn says. “Come upstairs with me?”

Fran makes a move to get up, but I shake my head. “Not yet. We’ll get them later.” We don’t have time. I’ll have one of them drop clothes off later.

There’s an awkward silence, but Nan quickly fills it.

“Anyone finish the last Clan Chronicles yet?”

Honestly, Nan.

That didn’t help.

I feel Fran tense beside me, but she doesn’t look at them. Her eyes are focused on the platter of pastries in front of her. She selects a golden brown croissant, and eases it onto her plate.

“Well, I for sure haven’t,” she mutters under her breath. I don’t look at her but keep drinking my tea. “I mean, I haven’t read it.” I give her a sidelong glance. She's acting as if she doesn't want to tell a lie, but she's not really sure how to get out of this now.

The girls discuss the book for a bit, and Cairstina looks a little uncomfortable. She shifts on her seat and catches Leith’s gaze. He only nods at her.

“Was bloody good,” Islan mutters, stifling a yawn.

“Did you finish the paper?” I ask her.

“Paper?” Paisley snorts, but Islan elbows her hard, and Paisley shoves a pastry in her mouth and quickly chews, as if to stop herself from saying anything more. Mum looks at them curiously.

“Weren’t you working on schoolwork last night?” she asks. Islan flushes a light shade of pink. What the bloody hell is that?

“Mum,” Leith asks, his deep voice drawing the attention of everyone. “Do you know anything about Dad’s connections in Wales?”

Fran looks up, and her eyes widen. Islan goes perfectly still.

Something’s going on, and Fran owes me. I’ll get the truth out of her.

Mum places her mug on the table thoughtfully. Her eyebrows knit together, but she doesn't speak yet. This is her way, though. She always thinks before she speaks, unlike my sisters. Unlike me.

“I know that the McCarthy Clan in Ireland had a run-in with them a few years back. I know that they are brutal, that they hold a grudge, and when they make up their minds to seek revenge, decades could pass before they let it go. They let old wounds fester.”