I remember the name from Brody’s lawbreaking antics yesterday.
Nan runs a hand over her face, eyes gleaming with fresh tears. “So, it’s come to this, Brody Boy?”
He walks over to her and places his arms around her from behind.
“My friends,” she murmurs, listing off a few feminine names. “Like sisters, cousins.”
“It’s my hope,” his tone is veiled in consolation, “the women and children will arrive by other means.”
“Mam, I’m sorry.” Camdyn’s Scottish brogue returns, laced in emotion. Silently, he watches his mother moved by tears before exiting the kitchen.
Emotions bubble up inside of me. This all became real. This isn’t a romantic suspense where actors grab their paychecks and learn new lines. Lives aren’t dispensable.
“I’ve nae choice, lass.” Big Brody runs his hands along her chunky arms. “Ye will stay here with the lassies and our weans then.”
“Nae!” She slams a hand on the table. “Jamie.” She glares at her son. I hadn’t seen the boys around the entrance until now. All four of them are there. Each one has their chin up, but Jamie.
At the sound of his name, he comes alive. “Yes, Mom?”
The tension underneath her tone is impossible to ignore. “Ye will need to have confidence like Camdyn told ye, son.”
“Nan.” From behind, Brody’s hands buckle over her arms, holding her tighter.
“Nae. He will need to be a fecking MacKenzie today, not . . .” Her words fall off the edge of the earth, and her head drops.
My eyes widen as Big Brody quietly speaks into her ear. Camdyn growls, “Mom, I’ll stay with them.”
For all the torment he put his brother through, Camdyn hasn’t shown much emotion until this moment.
Nan shakes her head. “Nae, we need all-hands-on-deck. Nae useless weans.”
Mr. MacKenzie starts to haul her away. Nan’s glaring at Jamie while his angular tan face pales, and he bites back his own tears.
“Nan, I said stop.” Big Brody’s hands clamp onto her shoulders, and he turns her around.
Eyebrows stitched together, I’m astonished by the peculiar way she’s treating the son who’s the closest to her. I do not have much time to contemplate it because tiny footsteps come down the hall. Mia jumps into the room.
“Aye, ye wee baw-baw . . .aw, wit is it, Jake?”
“It’s bawbag,” the little guy mutters, standing still.
“Oh, bawbags. Aye, ye wee bawbags, I’m here! Surprise!” She grins. The tot’s wiser than her years but developmentally unable to read the room.
Chevelle enters. “Mia, I’ve asked you not to say—”
Leith’s behind her. “Do ya need your bottom spanked, aye?”
Chevelle hugs Lachlan, and he whispers the soap opera-worthy drama in her ear. Leith heads over to his mother.
“Mam,” he says.
“Aye, Leith.” Big Brody takes Nan’s hand and places it into Leith’s. “Talk to yer mam. She’s off her fecking heid. A pure mess. The way she talked to Jamie.”
“Oh, Nan.” Chevelle sighs. I run my fingertip over an imaginary spot on the wood countertop, though still focused on the family drama.
“Mam,” Leith grumbles, pulling her into his arms.
Nan squares her shoulders, seemingly untouched by anyone’s attempts. “I’m going with ye, Brody.”