Bran is the first through, face carved from stone. Brodie follows, jaw clenched, eyes sweeping over his wife and daughter like he needs to see them breathing before he can exhale.
Saoirse launches herself at him, arms out. “Daddy!”
He catches her, holding her tight, face burying in her hair for one long second. “Hey, a stór,” he murmurs. “Look at you, still in one piece. Good girl.”
Cotton rises, one hand braced on her belly. “What happened?” she asks, voice low. “Tell me you idiots didn’t go wrestling a bear or something.”
Brodie looks at Saoirse and then at his mother-in-law and Savvi. “Why don’t you go get some hot chocolate started in the kitchen?” he says carefully. “Savvi will help. Saoirse, you go with them, yeah? Extra marshmallows.”
Saoirse pulls back, suspicious. “Is Uncle Bran okay?”
Bran forces a small smile for her benefit. It’s not his usual half-smirk; it’s tight and wrong, but it does the job. “I’m fine, mo chroí,” he says. “Go on. Make mine extra marshmallows too. I want to see if you can sink them all.”
She nods solemnly, like he just gave her a mission. “Okay.” She wriggles down and takes Savvi’s hand. Cotton’s mom pats Brodie’s cheek, eyes shiny but composed, and follows them out.
The air changes.
“What happened?” I ask again. My voice comes out hoarse.
Brodie scrubs a hand over his face. His jaw is tight, eyes harder than I’ve seen them.
“One of the hands,” he says. “Miguel.”
My stomach drops. “The guy who exercised the horses? With the beard?”
Brodie nods once. The motion is short and brutal.
“Is he—” Cotton’s voice breaks. “Brodie.”
“He’s gone, macushla,” he says gently, stepping closer to her. His eyes are still hard, but his hands are careful when he reaches for her. “We found him in the barn. Door ajar, lights on. Looked like he rolled out of his bunk in a hurry. Maybe he heard something, went to check.”
He glances at Bran, something unspoken passing between them, and makes a slicing gesture.
“His throat?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “Like—”
“Enough, Twiggy,” Bran says quietly.
I swallow. “Sorry.”
Brodie nods once. “He didn’t suffer long,” he says, which is the kindest lie anyone ever tells in these scenarios. “But it was…clean. Deliberate.”
The room tilts.
Henry. It has to be Henry. He came onto this property, took a man out in the barn, and left without tripping anything but the alarm.
Guilt claws at my insides.
“If I hadn’t been here—” I start.
Bran cuts me off with a look I’ve only ever seen aimed at men he plans to hurt. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste iron.
Brodie pulls Cotton in, foreheads touching, his big hand splayed over the swell of her stomach. “We’ll call Miguel’s family in the morning,” he says. “Tell them what we can. Kael will take care of the rest on our end. He was under our umbrella. We’ll look after them.”
Under our umbrella. Mob language, not business-speak. Protection has a cost and a promise, and Brodie Gallagher keeps both.
Cotton nods against his chest, tears finally spilling over. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
