Tate (Mountain Men 3)

“Aye. I get that, but honest to God, it’s your bed.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll join you tonight.”

So I guess I'll be here another night then.

At the very least, anyway.

We sit in silence while he fries eggs and sausage. He puts some bread in the toaster, and when it pops up, he slathers it with butter. The food up at the main house is delicious, but this looks perfectly fine. "More coffee?" I shake my head. "No, thanks. Too much coffee makes me jittery, and you may have already realized that I'm a little high energy. "

"You don't say."

"Hey!”

He smirks as he slides fried eggs, sausages, and buttered toast onto a plate.

“Here. Eat.”

I take it from him gratefully. “Thank you.”

The food’s delicious. The eggs are cooked perfectly, crispy and buttery on the edges. The sausage is plump and golden brown, the toast thick and hearty.

We eat in comfortable silence.

“More?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I’m full, but thank you. That was delicious. Do you cook down here often?”

He nods. “For breakfast and lunch, aye. Rarely for dinner. Even though we’re all older now, and we’ve got all sorts of obligations and some of my brothers have families of their own, we eat dinner together often. It helps keep the connection, make sure everyone’s abreast of everything.”

I’ve witnessed so many family meals, I've lost count. I've never told anyone, but eating meals with the family is one of my favorite parts of visiting. It isn't just because the food is excellent—and it is, everyone knows that—but I’m a good cook myself. It was a lot more than that. It’s the bond that grows between them, the connection of loyalty and honor and love only a family could have.

Their family is imperfect, and I know that. But they are still family. They love each other. And their loyalty runs deep, deeper than the roots of the gigantic pines outside this chalet. Deeper than the deepest river in Scotland. No matter what happens, they have each other's backs. And I know that.

“What is it?” he asks, before he eats half an egg in one huge bite. The Cowen men are serious about their food, and Tate’s no exception. I shrug, while I watch him put away four eggs and as many sausages.

“You got all serious there for a minute,” he says, reaching for a slice of bread. I watch as he slathers marmalade on the toast, and polishes that off like he hasn’t seen food in a month.

“Nothing.”

He bites the last bit of crust and washes it down with his coffee, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and leans back in his chair. He laces his fingers behind his head, relaxed and content, and I don’t miss the way his muscles effortlessly bunch beneath his shirt, his neck and shoulders imbued with latent energy.

When he speaks, he’s grown serious again. Placated. On task once more.

“Thought I made it clear last night I wouldn’t tolerate any more lying.”

“Am I lying?”

I pick at a bit of toast on my plate.

“Aye. I asked you what was wrong, and you said nothing, yet for a moment there you looked as if someone ran over your cat.”

I shrug. “Sometimes it’s hard to put my thoughts into words is all.” I look away from him, working my lip. “I’m not intentionally hiding anything from you.”

I am, though, and I feel guilty. I don’t mean to lie. Haven’t I learned my lesson at all?

So I let the truth come out before I can polish and refine it. It’s ragged and raw, and it hurts to say it aloud.

“I think sometimes I just get a little jealous. I didn't have what you all have. I think that sometimes you take it for granted."

There's no bitterness in my tone, and I'm not lecturing. I'm just trying to state facts. "You all drive each other crazy, but that's what siblings do. I know that now. I have no siblings, no living father, and I haven’t seen my mother since last Easter, and the only reason I did was because she wanted to borrow money.” I shrug. “You have a mother and father, brothers and sisters, a grandmother…” I sigh. “So sometimes I just wish I had that, too.”

He nods, accepting this. He doesn’t tell me it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be or some other such nonsense, and I realize for the first time that he’s likely aware of the gift of family he has.

“Do you remember the Christmas I spent here?” It’s a memory that I haven't thought of for a long time, but I can’t help thinking about it. I’d been spending the night with the girls, and Islan rallied for me to stay on Christmas Day. It stung that my mum didn’t care and was almost relieved I wouldn’t be home, but the Cowen family made it better.