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“I was hoping that wasn’t necessary,” he butts in.
“With the troubles we had with the MC?—”
“Colt told you?” His shoulders sag in relief. “Thank God. I didn’t know if he had. He’s been cagey about some shit since you joined the marshals.”
I’d noticed that too. Maybe Colt was more aware of the legalities Callan had been toying with than I initially suspected?
Family first.Didn’t they know I lived by that creed, dammit?
“Did Colt tell me they were growing weed on McAllister land and then showed up to warn us off?” I arch a brow at him. “Didn’t even have to drag that out of him. He’s not as pigheaded as you think.”
His lips twist. “Says you.”
Smirking, I assure him, “Marshals will protect the refuge too. I want eyes on the bunkhouses 24/7.” Together, we walk into the tack room once his inspection’s over and after he passes Levi, his horse, a carrot. “I’m going to have men drive by on rotation too. Just to be on the safe side.”
With the bare minimum imparted, and knowing that I’ll have satisfied his concerns enough that his inner control freak can relax, I don’t tell him the extents I’ll be going to to secure our properties.
Not just for the women who have found sanctuary here, but for my family too.
Clyde’s arrest has brought us under an exorbitant amount of scrutiny, never mind the security threats we already know about. Not only is this Mum’s home, it’s Zee and Tee’s.
If it costs half a million a month to keep them safe, I’ll drop it in a heartbeat. Not like Colt can’t afford it.
“What are you thinking?” Callan drags his saddle from its compartment. This place has his name written all over it—literally. Every compartment is bagged, tagged, and labeled. “You look angry.”
“Uncle Clay used to say a man’s home was his castle,” I mutter.
“How very medieval of him.”
Callan was young when Clay died. He didn’t get to learn any of his mantras other than secondhand from us. Colt and I aren’t exactly loquacious about our uncle.
My lips twitch. “Is he wrong?”
“No.”
“Well, then.”
Callan gives me the side-eye. “What’s with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been acting weird for days. Jumpy around Tee. She’s like a cat on a hot-tin roof whenever your name comes up. What happened?”
“I fucked up.”
“How can you fuck up? You barely talk.”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “I’m Butch Cassidy.”
“And?”
“What do you mean,and?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to come out and admit it. She found out too?”
“Wait—you knew my call name? I barely used it around here.”
“Barely’s an understatement. To use it around home, one has tobehome, which you haven’t been. I think in the past ten years, before you retired, you spent twenty days at the ranch. Total. You’re worse than Cole.” His tone’s flat. Which means I hurt him too.