Leith (Mountain Men 1)

But Leith saved my life.

I blink when I realize Leith is talking to me.

“What are you called, lass?”

I shake my head. I would actually tell him my name if I could speak. A part of me would like to hear him say Cairstina in that rich, velvety voice of his. The accent’s a little thicker than you typically hear in town. So I’ve deduced at least one thing about them: these men are from the north. Highlanders, even, like the men of old. Rumor has it around here that no one lives there anymore, that the highlands are uninhabited, but that’s exactly where we’re pointed.

For some reason, that makes a little thrill of excitement shiver straight down my spine.

I realize suddenly that everyone in the car’s silent, and all eyes are on me. Even the driver’s eyes are on mine in the rearview mirror.

“Name,” Leith snaps, and this time he rests his hand on my knee and gives me a none-too-gentle squeeze. The man to my left stares down as well, both of us looking at the large, strong hand resting on my faded trousers. I haven’t gotten new clothes in ages, and for some reason, the realization I’m wearing clothes best suited for rags makes me intensely self-conscious. These men might be my enemies, but they’re good-looking enemies, goddammit.

I shake my head and don’t respond.

I blink in sudden surprise when the grip on my knee becomes painful, his voice no longer just stern but angry. “You’re coming with us as our prisoner. You’ve seen things you shouldn’t, and we’ll make certain you don’t tattle.”

“Should fucking do away with her,” the man in the front passenger seat mutters. Does he mean kill me?

The driver rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “That’s not our way, Mac, for the love of Jesus, you think we’re the bloody Aitkens or Wrights?” He shakes his head.

I tally my mental notes. Surly man in the front, Mac. And they’re not the Aitkens, but whoever the Aitkens are, they’re not someone these blokes here respect. Maybe they even hate them. The Aitkens are the Inverness mob, the bad guys. And these men deny they’ve anything to do with them.

The large man to my left is squashed up against the door, I realize, as if he doesn’t want to taint himself by touching me. He’s staring out the window, but when he speaks, I realize he’s speaking to me. “You know we could hurt you, lass?” His voice is almost a whisper. “In fact, there’s no way we won’t.”

A spike of fear knifes through me, but I don’t respond, and quickly contain my anxiety. I’m used to being threatened. Hell, I’m used to being beaten. There comes a point where you can detach mentally from brutality when you’re face to face with it on the regular.

I grip Bailey more tightly in my lap and bury my nose in his fur, as my belly dips and my heart falters. I’ve known from the very beginning these men were not good men, but a sick part of me, the part that hopes for a scrap from a table like a beggar, was momentarily relieved I wouldn’t have to go home to my brother’s fury and fists tonight, even if these men are no better.

But I watched them in the graveyard. I heard the few words they spoke, and knew they were here as retribution for the wrongs done against Father MacGowen. And if they’re here to defend him, they can’t be all bad.

Can they?

It isn’t the realization that I’m in danger that deflates me, though, but something altogether different.

I’m familiar with how this always goes.

“What are you called?”

Could be someone at the shops, a friendly child, a new librarian at the library who hasn’t yet heard my story. The most common form of greeting, and I can’t help but fuck it up. It’s the first sign that I’m abnormal to others.

You can see someone in a wheelchair. You can even tell when someone’s blind. But the terrible irony of being mute is how it makes you not only silent but invisible.

Sometimes, people look away when they realize that I won’t reply. Some get embarrassed, as if it’s their own fault for not knowing I won’t answer, or they regret the show of friendliness. Still others respond in anger, muttering to themselves about rudeness and courtesy and the like. And some just walk away.

They all walk away in time. Everyone but Father MacGowen and Bailey. One because he’s tender and kind, the other out of loyalty and understanding. It’s sad that my only allies in the entire world are a celibate man of God and a mutt.

“If she won’t bloody tell you her name, you’ve got a more stubborn bitch on your hands than you thought,” says the man sitting in the passenger seat, the one they call Mac.