Page 6 of Highland Steel

“I thought I told ye to leave here,” hissed Callum, his long, white beard moving as he spoke. He had gone missing for years, living like a hermit at one time. People thought he’d died. But Callum had more life in him than most people half his age.

“Nay,” said Logan, resheathing his sword. “Ye told me to get my wolf out of here and I did. I left him out back.”

“Ye owe me a chicken,” spat the old man in a high, gravelly voice. Callum might be older than dirt and as small as a wench, but no one messed with him when he was angry. The man drank Mountain Magic all day long, and the powerful brew made him a little crazy. So when a hatchet came flying at them, Logan figured mayhap it was time to make amends.

“I’ll pay ye for the bluidy chicken,” said Logan, pulling a coin from his sporran and slapping it into Callum’s hand. “And now I’ll pay ye another coin for a bowl of pottage and a tankard of ale.” He repeated the action.

Normally, the MacKeefe Clan wasn’t charged for food or drinks since they were considered family. But in goodwill, Logan figured he’d better pay up or risk losing a finger or two before he left the place.

Callum inspected the coins. Then with a jerk of his head, he motioned to the bouncer at the door to join him. “Make sure these bounce,” he said, handing the man the coins. The man took out a board from under his arm and, one at a time, bounced the coins atop it to make sure they were real. Then he gave them back to Callum and headed back to the door. Callum quickly stuck the coins into the sporran tied at his waist.

“Well . . . what about the table leg yer wolf broke when we were runnin’ around tryin’ to catch it and retrieve my chicken?” asked Callum. “Who’s goin’ to fix that?”

“Aye, and dinna forget about the three goblets and stack of bowls that smashed when the table broke,” added Caleb, ripping off a big piece of bread with his teeth.

“Thanks for remindin’ him,” growled Logan. Caleb tended to run at the mouth too much. Whenever he did, it always meant trouble for Logan, or their other friends, Ethan and Hawke. “I’ll whittle ye a new leg for the table before I leave for the Highlands,” Logan offered. “Now, can I please have some food?”

“Mmph,” mumbled Callum, still shaking his head, watching Logan through narrow-slitted eyes. “I think I’ll need ye to whittle a few bowls and goblets as well to make up for my loss.”

“Fine,” said Logan with a sigh. He really didn’t mind doing it. Since he was good at whittling, it wouldn’t take him long. But right now, all he wanted was food.

“What about them?” asked the old man, nodding at the English entourage sitting at the table. “Have they eaten?”

“Damn,” said Logan under his breath as he fingered his pouch. He didn’t want to spend his entire share of the profits before he even got home. “Caleb, give him some money.”

“Me? Nay,” said Caleb. “I dinna have any to lend.” It was a lie since Logan knew exactly how much he had. Logan personally made sure to split their earnings from the fair equally, giving each of his friends some, and saving most of the money to bring back to the clan. But Caleb was used to getting whatever he could for free, being more tightfisted with his coin than even Old Callum.

“Ye brought them in here, Logan, now ye take care of them,” Callum told him.

“Fine. Give them food,” said Logan, nodding toward Rhoswen and her companions. Rhoswen was comforting her handmaiden with her arm around her. Newell sat across from them, still gripping the hilt of his sword as he eyed everyone suspiciously.

“Why did ye bring Sassenachs in here in the first place?” asked Callum, looking over to the three at the table.

“Why? Are ye sayin’ they arena welcome?” asked Logan. “Because I ken ye welcome the English as well as the Scots into the Horn and Hoof. Ye always have. Yer own family has married English, unless ye’ve forgotten.”

“Of course I havena forgotten, ye simpkin!” snapped the old man. “But these three look like trouble. I can always tell, and I am never wrong.” Callum let out a sigh and raised a hand in the air, calling over a server. “Bring them some soup and ale,” he told the girl.

“Aye,” said the girl. “What about the one in the kitchen? I’m no’ sure he’s in any condition to eat.”

“There’s another one in the kitchen?” Callum looked up at Logan in surprise.

“Aye,” Logan answered, clearing his throat. Somehow, he was hoping Callum wouldn’t notice. “Lady Rhoswen’s faither was attacked and Cuddy is sewin’ him up before he bleeds to death,” Logan explained.

“Blasted all, ye didna put his bluidy arse on my new bread table, did ye?” complained Callum.

Logan shrugged. “It was the only table big enough to fit him. If it’s a problem, I’ll build ye a new table as well.”

Spewing a plethora of ripe oaths, the old man hobbled off to the kitchen as fast as his old legs would carry him.

“Logan, ye’re back,” said Ethan, grasping his tankard in one large hand as he walked across the room to meet him. Ethan was tall with dark hair. He recently married Alana Chisholm, the lass who had at one time left him at the altar.

“We were startin’ to think ye fell in the river and drowned since ye were gone so long,” added Hawke from next to him, raising his drinking vessel to his mouth. Hawke was the son of their chieftain, Storm MacKeefe, and also the great-grandson of Old Callum. He married Phoebe MacNab and inherited her late cousin’s two children, making him an instant father. “Or I suppose I should say it is what we thought before those two arrived and told us ye sent them.” He nodded to the English sitting at the table.

“There are three of them now,” said Caleb, chewing as he spoke. “Actually four, if ye count the dyin’ man on the kitchen table.”

“They were attacked,” explained Logan. “There are six dead English guards on the road that we need to bury.”

“God’s eyes, where did this happen?” asked Ethan. “And are ye sure there are no more survivors?”