Page 38

“Glad ye made it back,” Callan murmurs, his eyes steady with a depth of gratitude that doesn’t need explaining.

I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Yer letter was convincing enough.”

Callan huffs a quiet breath, something like a smirk flickering across his face, but the look in his eyes holds steady—relieved, and maybe even a little surprised.

A throat clears behind me, drawing our attention.

“Who’s that?” Callan asks, voice low and guarded, as he nods toward the figure looming just behind.

“Right,” I say, steadying my voice, though a flicker of tension tightens my chest.

Casey’s eyes spark with interest, and Callan raises a questioning brow as the tall, broad-shouldered man steps forward, his confident stride as unmistakable as his American drawl.

“This is Bran,” I introduce, clapping a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “He’s been a tolerable friend to me these past few years. Couldnae leave him behind—not that he gave me much choice.”

Bran, wearing his usual roguish grin, nods in greeting, his eyes glinting with curiosity as he sizes up Casey and Callan.

Recognition dawns on both of their faces, but Callan speaks the question aloud. “Alex’s son?”

“Aye, that’s my old man.”

“Our father speaks highly of him. It’s a pleasure to meet half of the illustrious Mumford father and son duo,” Casey says with a playful edge.

“Pleasure’s mine,” Bran retorts, voice warm but edged with a playfulness of his own as he extends his hand to Casey first. “Finn’s told me plenty about you both.”

Casey laughs, shaking Bran’s hand enthusiastically. “Aye, well, I hope he spared some of the more scandalous tales. Not sure I could live down some things you might’ve heard.”

Bran chuckles, shooting me a playful glance. “Don’t worry. Finn was mostly diplomatic.”

Then he turns to Callan, offering a respectful nod while clearly sizing up the man’s quiet intensity. “He’s spoken highly of you… Callan, I presume? Said you were one to beat in a fight.”

Callan’s mouth quirks, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. There’s a glint of appreciation in his eyes—but also scrutiny.

“Aye, well,” he says, stepping forward and clapping Bran on the arm, the force deliberate. “Clever of ye—to lead with flattery while scoping out the competition.” His gaze sharpens just enough to make the point. “Suppose that means you’re not entirely daft.”

Bran’s grin only deepens. “Flattery’s just honesty with a smile, isn’t it?” he quips, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to let the mischief settle in. “Figured I’d win more ground by working out which of you bites back the hardest.”

Casey barks a laugh, clapping Bran on the back. “My coin’s on you. Might not be so hard to put Callan down these days. Our sister—”

“Casey,” Callan cuts in sharply, his tone low and warning. “Shut yer mouth and drop it.”

Casey tries to suppress his amusement but fails miserably, laughter spilling out despite Callan’s glare. “Aye, aye, fine,” Casey says, holding up his hands in mock surrender, though his grin remains firmly in place. “Consider it dropped.”

My gaze slides to Callan, curiosity flickering to life as I silently ask the question.

Callan meets my eyes with a look that says don’t even think about it. Whatever Casey was about to say, Callan’s not sharing—and if I so much as breathe a question, he’ll make himself scarce faster than a shadow at sunrise.

The corner of my mouth twitches, amusement threatening to rise. I know better than to press, but I also know it’ll come out—most likely when Casey decides the time is ripe to stir the pot, as he always does.

The four of us fall into laughter—the easy kind, worn in like an old coat. Camaraderie blooms in the way only old ties allow—jabs and jests tossed like stones across a quiet loch.

But when the mirth fades, I catch the edge of something in Callan’s sidelong glance. Subtle—but heavy. A flicker of what still lingers beneath the surface. A reminder of why I’ve come back.

As Casey leads Bran off toward the stables, his voice animated as he regales Bran with some undoubtedly exaggerated tale, Callan steps closer to me. His hand lightly grips my arm, his voice dropping low enough that only I can hear.

“I’m glad ye’re home.”

He hesitates, and I see the vulnerability in his eyes, a crack in the armour he wears so well. “I’d wondered if my letter had gone unanswered,” he continues, his words slower now, deliberate. “If maybe—” He pauses, the unspoken possibility hanging heavy between us.