Mac (Mountain Men 2)

When we’re dressed and the house set back to rights, I hold her hand.

“Will they be expecting us?” she asks nervously.

“Aye. I texted Tate that we’d be coming up to the house. Tate’s my next older brother. Leith the eldest. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

“Everyone?”

She looks nervous again.

“Probably not my father, he rarely comes downstairs these days.” He takes his meals in bed and conducts minimal business in a makeshift office we’ve prepared in a guest room on the same floor.

“Is he very ill?” she asks with concern.

“Aye, he is, but he’ll be kicking around for a good long while. Too fucking stubborn to do anything less.”

She laughs. “Mac, you’re terrible.”

“Maybe, but I’m just being honest.”

Except when it comes to her.

“Oh, what a gorgeous day it is,” she says, sighing at the view of the mountains from the front porch, as we walk down the steps and head up toward the house.

I think maybe sometimes I take this view for granted. But at the sound of her voice, I pay attention and really, truly look.

The sun rose hours ago, so it's high in the sky with bright rays reflecting on the snow below. From where we stand, we have an excellent view of the mountains. I often like to sit on the porch with a hot cuppa tea, or a cold one in the summer. I like to look out at the mountains. The mountain ranges here are nothing like the Alps of Switzerland. I have a vague memory of traveling there when I was a wee lad, but all I remember is the fierce peaks of the mountains and how those snow-capped peaks were white even in the dead of summer.

“Aye, it’s somethin’, isn’t it?”

“You can see the mountains from where I live, but it’s nothing like this view,” she says softy. “They’re hidden, so it’s more like shadows and silhouettes. And they seem so far away. But here?” Her voice softens, as if she’s almost afraid to say what she feels. “They just seem closer, is all.”

“Never thought of it that way,” I say truthfully. “I think I’ve maybe taken them for granted.”

She shrugs, as we near the front door to the house. “I think it’s something we all do.”

“What?”

She pauses before she answers, still quiet and meditative. “Take things for granted.”

I don’t respond. Are there other things I take for granted as well? My family, maybe. My home. My safety, and the promise of tomorrow.

I’m lost in my thoughts as I open the door to go inside. But I'm quickly jolted out of my thoughts. The clanging of pans in the kitchen, the strong smell of coffee and baking scones, the jovial laughter and voices of my brothers and sisters in the kitchen shake me out of my momentary reverie. I look to Bryn, whose eyes have gone wide and a little fearful.

“Leave it to me,” I tell her. “You said you trusted me.”

“I did,” she says, with a little pout. “But that was before I had to face the entire Cowen Clan.”

I roll my eyes. “Their bark is worse than their bite.”

It’s a lie, though. It isn’t true at all. I know exactly who my family is and exactly what they’re capable of.

The voices die down when we enter the kitchen. We have a large, formal dining room that we often use to dine with guests, especially those of high rank, but we take most of our meals in the kitchen.

The kitchen is one of my favorite places in this entire house, the very heart of our family. We have staff that often cooks here, but my mum frequently makes meals herself. She says she likes preparing things for her family to eat, knowing that she provided this one small thing for us. When we were little, my father never allowed such a thing, but as we got older, he softened a bit. Only a wee bit.

There’s a large, sturdy farm table in the kitchen and a fire burning in the hearth.

“What a nice kitchen,” Bryn says shyly, admiring the copper pans that hang on the wall like rustic works of art, the flames in the fireplace providing warmth. Though it’s spring, the fire helps dispel the slight chill in the air. There are platters of scones, pastries, and the fragrant scent of scotch broth simmering in a huge stock pot on the stove.

Paisley’s standing by the oven, wearing oven mitts, and she freezes, the oven half-opened, when we walk in.

“Since when did you start cooking in here?” I ask.

She blinks rapidly a few times. “You startled me, Mac. Didn’t know you were coming. And I don’t cook, brother, but I have taken to a bit of baking.” I couldn’t tell you the difference.

She removes a muffin tin from the oven, and I walk over to inspect.