Sleep never came easy the night before the festival began, but Izzy had only dozed for what felt like minutes when the rising sun woke her. A quick, cool shower helped wash the grit from her eyes, and she dressed in a kilt-like skirt, a Highland-branded T-shirt, and blue Converse tennis shoes. Comfort was key.
Her mom was already up, sipping a mug of coffee and flipping through her notes and to-do lists for the day. Dark smudges under her mom’s eyes were a testament to her own battle during the night, but her hair was neatly twisted and pinned up, and she was dressed in black flats, slim-fitting red ankle-length slacks, and a sleeveless white blouse.
In a half hour, the whirl would begin and wouldn’t stop until they fell into bed that night. This was Izzy’s only chance to explore the crater last night’s bombshell had left.
“Have you talked to Gareth?” Izzy asked.
“Not yet. He called and texted a dozen times last night, but I needed to gather my thoughts.” Her mom sounded shockingly calm.
“And have you? Gathered your thoughts, I mean?” Izzy had planned to follow her mom’s lead, which she assumed would mean cutting the Blackmoor men out of their lives. Yes, it was painful, but necessary. Like wart removal.
“Gareth and I need to talk. Yes, he lied about his name, but he loves me. I believe that. Unfortunately, it won’t be enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have Stonehaven and he has Cairndow. We are geographically incompatible,” her mom said simply yet with an underlying sadness.
It was too big a problem for Izzy to tackle at the moment, so she pivoted to Alasdair’s betrayal. “What do you think about Alasdair having his company dig around our finances?”
“He was protecting his uncle. Alasdair didn’t know anything about us yet, but don’t forget, he was aware Gareth had a title and an estate. It sounded like Alasdair very much regretted the events put in motion, and no harm was done. Sterling mitigated any damage.” Her mom’s attitude shocked Izzy.
“Don’t you worry he’ll lie to you again? Hurt you again?” Izzy couldn’t hide her exasperation.
Her mom huffed a sigh, put her to-do list aside, and took both of Izzy’s hands in hers. “Will you allow your mother to give you some love-life advice?”
“If I must.” Izzy girded herself to stave off embarrassment.
“None of us are perfect, darling, and no relationship is either. It’s easier to tally who is right and wrong and hang onto your resentment and turn your back, because forgiveness and understanding are difficult. What you should tally are laughs and kisses and how many times you are made a better person because of your connection. I don’t know if Alasdair is that person for you, but I’ve never seen you this happy. Isn’t it worth exploring to find out?”
As usual, her mom was like a human Pez dispenser filled with nuggets of wisdom. “For all I know, Alasdair is on a plane with his mother on their way home.” Even imagining him gone hurt.
“I wouldn’t worry about that. He doesn’t want to leave you.” Her mom gave Izzy’s hands a squeeze before turning brisk and no-nonsense. “We have important work to do. The Blackmoor gentlemen will have to wait until we have time for their groveling, yes?”
Izzy found her first smile of the day even if it was bittersweet.
The next hours were filled with festival details large and small. Izzy directed vendors to their booths with an ingrained Southern hospitality. Most knew one another from years past and greeted one another like the festival was a family reunion. Small hiccups erupted that she smoothed—a dance troop showing up late for their performance, a vendor forgetting their credit-card reader, a fender bender in the parking area.
She didn’t have time to obsess over Alasdair even as her gaze narrowed on the gathering contestants for the athletic events. Where was he? Contrary to her mom’s confidence, she could picture Alasdair’s mother spiriting him away during the night.
The skies were blue, the puffy white clouds gifting them with temporary shade, but the temperature rose steadily and the crowd grew by the minute. Troops of young dancers competed for ribbons accompanied by traditional Celtic music. The call of the pipes overlay the hum of the people strolling around the festival. The smell of fried food hung heavy in the humid air.
Izzy moved toward the stage to watch Anna’s girls weave and high kick a complicated routine. The crowd whooped and clapped their appreciation. Anna would compete in the adult division the next day along with the pipers.
The loudspeakers set up around the field crackled with an announcement urging spectators to the athletic field for the start of the competitions. Like a school of fish, the crowd moved in that direction, the buzz of excitement buoying them along.
The athletic events were the highlight of the first day, the ribbons awarded before the evening concert. She picked her way through the crowd to where her mom stood making notes on her tablet in a cordoned-off area where the judges, including Dr. Jameson, conferred. Men in kilts gathered at the far end in preparation for the hammer throw.
None of them were Alasdair. An embarrassing sting invaded her sinuses that had nothing to do with allergies. But then, miraculously, the scrum parted and there he was. Relief weakened her knees and made her feel slightly nauseous.
“Alasdair’s still here,” Izzy said.
Her mom didn’t look up, but smiled. “Yep. Five of the competitors dropped out and all the boys looked a little green when they registered. I heard from Dr. Jameson the party got raucous last night. Apparently, Alasdair and Gareth were right in the middle of it.”
“Glad they had fun after stomping all over our feelings last night.”
Her mom glanced up to acknowledge the rampant sarcasm in Izzy’s voice with arched brows. “Dr. Jameson won’t tell me, but something is astir with the competition.”
“In a good or bad way?” While Izzy was partly asking because the success of the athletic events was a measure of how well the day went, she was mostly worried about Alasdair. Despite his Scottish heritage, he was a beginner, and she’d seen experienced competitors get hurt.
“The twinkle in Dr. Jameson’s eyes makes me think good. Or at least, entertaining.”
Izzy stared at Alasdair and huffed. She wasn’t close enough to judge the color of his complexion but the rest of him looked as hale and hearty as ever. He was wearing the black T-shirt with the Scottish flag emblazoned on the front, his new kilt, and his boots.
“Why does he have to look so good in a kilt?” she asked.
Her mom laughed. “I asked myself the same thing about Gareth.”
“You’ve seen him, then?”
“From a distance.” She chucked her chin toward the other side of the field. “He’s with Alasdair’s mother watching the competition. Looks like they’re getting started.”
The first man stepped up to the line holding the hammer, which wasn’t a hammer at all. It was a twenty-two pound iron ball fitted to a rattan handle the length of a broomstick and was thrown for distance. The competitor’s feet had to stay planted, and it required a huge windup before it was released. The hammer could easily fly astray in inexperienced hands.
The first two men threw their hammers respectable distances, but nothing close to where the top competitors like Holt would reach.
Alasdair stepped up and gripped the hammer’s handle. Her mom clasped her tablet to her chest and shielded her eyes from the sun. Izzy fought nerves even though she wasn’t the one competing.
She put a hand over her eyes, but peeked through her fingers. “I don’t want to watch.”
Alasdair wound the hammer up and let go. It bested the distance of the first two men. Holt was next and, having seen him compete before, Izzy was sure he would beat Alasdair’s distance easily. Except, he only matched Alasdair’s effort.
A call about a defective potty had her retreating before the next event. It was a half hour before she made her way back to the athletic field and found her mom in almost the same spot.
“I missed the stone toss?” Izzy asked. The stone toss was like the Olympic shotput except the stones varied in size and weight from sixteen to twenty pounds.
“Yes and Alasdair is in the top three.” Her mom shook her head, but was smiling.
“That’s impossible. Is he a prodigy? Or is it genetic or something?”
“Honestly, Holt should have bested his distance based on his performance last year. All I can figure is the boys are hungover,” her mom said thoughtfully. “I’ll make the rounds so you can stay a watch. I’ll call you if I need backup.”
Izzy gave her mom an absentminded wave, her focus on the field. Being hungover didn’t explain the surprising standings, but she knew who could explain it. Dr. Jameson, clad in a Christmassy red and green kilt, white button-down, and sporran, was the official stat keeper. His jaunty red bow tie added a Southern touch to his ensemble.
The competition progressed to the weight toss, which involved throwing a sixteen- to twenty-five-pound weight dangling from a chain attached to a metal handle. She could easily imagine a group of bored Scots standing in a field hundreds of years ago challenging one another to throw various objects. The simplicity of the events and playground quality of the smack talk lent a fun vibe that carried through the crowd.
Again, Alasdair overperformed. After the last man took his turn, Izzy met Dr. Jameson at the table he’d set up on the edge of the field. “What are the standings?” she asked.
“MacGregor was in the lead, but he tripped on the weight toss. Not quite sure what happened. That leaves Alasdair Blackmoor as the current leader with Holt a close second.” Dr. Jameson didn’t meet her eyes.
“I don’t believe it.” She snatched the e-tablet Dr. Jameson used to track the scores and scrolled through. “Alasdair isn’t embarrassing himself, but he should be in the middle of the pack at best. The distances the other men are putting up are frankly pathetic. What happened last night?”
Dr. Jameson’s gaze dropped to his feet, skidded toward the woods, and finally settled on something over her shoulder. “The boys had a bit too much fun last night.”
“The boys always have too much fun at the whisky tasting, and they always pull it together to compete the next day. I want the truth.”
“I know nothing.” Dr. Jameson’s denial was weak at best. “Sheaf toss is next. I need to confirm the height.”
Dr. Jameson scurried to the far end where rigging was being set up to lift an adjustable bar. After the caber toss, the sheaf toss was the most archaic of the events. Competitors would use an actual “storm the castle” pitchfork to toss a sixteen- to twenty-pound bag of hay or straw over the bar.
Performing a quick turn around the festival grounds to identify potential fires and put them out, Izzy circled to flank the competitor section of the field, hoping to catch Holt by himself.
He was busy giving Alasdair tips in tossing a sheaf. How could the two have become so chummy overnight? She waited, making sure to stay out of their line of sight until she caught Holt’s eye and gestured him over.
In spite of his good-natured grin, he looked like he’d been hung out to dry. His eyes were shadowed and bloodshot, and he retained the faint aroma of whisky. “Hey, Dizzy Izzy.”
The hated nickname had stopped bothering her. Was that a result of tougher skin or the shedding her adolescence skin? “Can you tell me what in Hades is going on?”
“Can I? Yes. Will I? Absolutely not.”
“How come you and Alasdair are all of a sudden besties?”
“We bonded over hair-care products.” Holt rubbed a hand over his short blond hair and winked.
“You look like crap, by the way. How much did you guys drink last night?”
“Enough to bury the hatchet. And not in anyone’s back either.” His grin slipped into a quizzical quirk of the lips. “Listen, whatever happens, I hope you know that I’ll always be your friend. Just a friend, I promise. But, if you need to talk or whatever, I’m here.”
While she couldn’t imagine laying out her confusion and heartache for Holt Pierson to clumsily pick through like bolls of cotton, the sentiment touched her. “Thanks, Holt. I appreciate that. I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything.”
“Make sure Alasdair doesn’t get injured in the caber toss, will you? It’s the one event he wasn’t able to practice.”
“I’ll do my best, but it’s man against tree out there when the time comes.” The wrinkle of worry between his brows in turn worried her. He gave her a two-fingered wave over his head as he jogged back to the milling men.
Izzy could only throw up her hands and wonder at men and their machinations. She wasn’t an idiot. It was clear now that Alasdair was going for Laird of the Games, and Holt was helping him and even cheering him on. Was Alasdair trying to prove something to himself or to her?
Alasdair’s muscles screamed. Why are you doing this to me? lamented his biceps. What have I ever done to you? cried his quads. He lay spread-eagle in the grass, too sore and hungover and exhausted to even scratch his sweaty, itchy beard.
Holt blocked the sun, and Alasdair was grateful for small favors. “Do you want to practice the sheaf toss a couple more times?”
“My head says yes; my arms have mutinied.”
“Save your strength for one good toss then.” Holt lay down and propped himself up on his elbows, his ankles crossed. “Izzy cornered me.”
Alasdair squinted. “Obviously, she wanted to know how I am anywhere near the lead.”
“Among other things.” The sun glinted off of Holt’s hair and the stubble along his jaw. He was so quintessentially all-American he should be handing out baseballs and apple pies to foreigners as they alighted from airplanes.
“Did you mention how my amazing athletic prowess burgeoned overnight?” Alasdair asked.
“She’s no dummy. She didn’t ask outright, but she suspects you’re getting some inside help. I don’t think she understands why though.”
“Isn’t it obvious it’s for her?”
“It’s not exactly a straight-line correlation between winning Laird of the Games and a declaration of your intentions.”
“A grand gesture made sense last night.”
Holt chuckled. “Everything makes sense after that much whisky. Hell, Andrew thought he’d cracked the mysteries of time travel.”
The amount of whisky he’d pickled himself in last night had been an embarrassment, but the other men had matched him drink for drink. It was no surprise when the number of competitors had shrunk the next morning. Alasdair had woken up feeling like his mouth had been stuffed with decaying cotton balls.
“If I was sticking around, no doubt, we’d all become mates,” Alasdair said.
Holt pushed up and waved a hand around. “I thought the point of this farce was for you and Izzy to live happily ever after in Highland.”
Alasdair hadn’t thought beyond getting Isabel to forgive him. The future loomed indistinct, but it was starting to come into focus. Unfortunately, it was Cairndow’s towers taking shape and not the woods or flowers of Stonehaven. He didn’t know what that meant for him and Isabel.
“Blackmoor! You’re up!” Dr. Jameson’s stood at the ready.
Saved from having to answer Holt, but sentenced to compete, Alasdair staggered to his feet. His shirt was sweat-stained and ripped at the shoulder seam. His knees had dirt and grass stuck to them and one of his socks had lost its elastic and refused to stay up. He eyed the caber laying to the side of the field and dread squat in his stomach.
Even if he managed to fork the sheaf over the bar, he wasn’t sure whether he could even lift the caber at this point. But, dammit, he would try. Not only for Isabel, but because a connection to his ancestors grew like roots in fertile ground, and he wanted more.
Alasdair took up a pitchfork and rammed it into the burlap-wrapped sheaf of hay. He had three tries to get the blasted thing over the bar. While it was only twenty pounds, it registered twice that by his sore back and arms.
Swinging the fork for momentum, he released too soon and the sheaf went straight up with a good height, but not over the bar. His next attempt was better but still missed the mark. If he didn’t make the toss, then he would get a zero for the event and his chances of winning the overall title would be nil.
Holt watched him along with two of the other men who had promised to help the night before. Alasdair rammed the forks home again.
“You’ve got the forks too deep. Get it more on top.” One of the men said in a Southern accent so thick, Alasdair had a difficult time deciphering his instructions.
Alasdair glanced over at them and saw Holt nod. He worked the forks out and slid the forks higher and gripped the shaft.
The other man said, “Take a wider grip on the handle.”
Alasdair slid one hand close to the forks and the other near the end. “Better?”
“That’ll do. Now swing at least half a dozen times and fling her over. You can do it.”
Alasdair couldn’t help but smile a little at their encouragement. He did as he was told, building up an explosive energy in his body, and flung the sheaf with a guttural yell. It sailed up and over the bar with inches to spare.
Alasdair heaved in a breath of the thick, humid air and made his way over to Holt and the other men for pats on the back and congratulations.
Holt was last to compete and he put very little effort in his failure to reach the bar. When he returned to Alasdair’s side, he said, “Caber is next.”
“I appreciate your help. You’ve been a good friend.” He offered Holt his hand.
Holt barked a laugh, but took Alasdair’s hand in a shake. “That’s what I am: a good friend. It’s what I’ve always been. Especially to women. Friend-zoned. Why is that, do you think?”
Alasdair shook his head at a loss. “Familiarity maybe? You and Isabel have known each other since kindergarten, right? Maybe you need to meet someone new.”
“Easier said than done in Highland.”
An announcement came over a loudspeaker encouraging everyone to gather for the caber toss. Alasdair would have preferred no witnesses, but a sea of humanity gathered behind the ropes.
“You’re on your own for the caber toss.” Holt slapped him on the back. “As long as you manage to turn it, you should lock up Laird of the Games.”
The contestants gathered around Dr. Jameson, who explained the rules. Alasdair would have to lift the caber, make a run, and flip it end over end. The goal was to keep the caber in the straight twelve-o’clock position. Points were deducted accordingly the farther away from twelve it landed.
A slightly hysterical laugh snuck out of Alasdair. They would have to run—bloody well run—whilst balancing the trunk of a tree in their arms. It was wild and dangerous and crazy. In other words, the perfect sport to represent Scotland.
Even knowing failure was probable, Alasdair studied the technique of the men who went before him. Faces turned red and sweaty with effort. Arm and leg muscles bulged. Four men didn’t successfully turn the caber. One limped off the field holding his hamstring. Another sprained his ankle and had to be helped off by Dr. Jameson.
Had anyone died due to caber impalement? Alasdair mused all the ways he could get hurt and came up with twenty on the long walk onto the field for his attempt. Was the effort worth it?
The nerve endings on the back of his neck tingled. Was that impending doom he sensed? His gaze darted to the sideline. Isabel watched him. She looked adorable in blue trainers and a skirt, her hair pulled back with wisps escaping to frame her face. No matter how hot it was or how hard she’d been working, she looked fresh and alluring. It took a tremendous amount of willpower not to crawl to her and beg forgiveness.
Two helpers stood the ready, balancing the caber with the heavy end resting on the ground. He knew what to do, but didn’t know if he could do it. Alasdair didn’t care where it landed. He would be happy if it turned at all.
He shook out his arms in an attempt to shed his nerves. Taking several huffing breaths to get himself pumped up, he hugged the caber and linked his hands, ratcheting himself downward until he cupped the end and lifted.
The muscles of his back and arms screamed even louder, but somehow he straightened with the weight of the caber resting on his right shoulder. Like a pendulum, he was driven back two steps. A collective gasp went through the crowd. He dug his boots in and reversed the momentum. To keep balance, he shuffled forward in mincing steps that grew into strides and finally an awkward jog.
Letting out a great guttural sound, he heaved the caber. Something in his left shoulder wrenched and white-hot agony speared through his arm and upper back. He went to his knees and grabbed his upper arm.
The caber wobbled on its end, its destination in question. It might fall back toward him, in which case, he should probably move, but pain held him immobile. The caber knocking him senseless might be a blessing.
A breeze ruffled his hair, cooling the sweat on his neck. As if nature had given the caber a push, it toppled and landed like the hand of a clock at noon. The crowd erupted in cheers. A sense of relief and accomplishment did little to dull the pain in his shoulder. Now that he had no adrenaline left, exhaustion swamped him. He fell to the grass and closed his eyes against the sun, pinpricks of light dotting his vision behind his eyelids.
His mission wasn’t yet complete. He had to talk to Isabel. Desperation and futility battled. He should have trusted her long before now, just as Gareth should have trusted Rose.
“I’m a fool,” he muttered to himself.
“Not a fool. Just foolish.” A shadow loomed over him and a sugared feminine voice coaxed his eyes open. Isabel was on her knees at his side, her face hovering over his, her expression equal parts worried and mad. “Why did you put yourself through this?”
“Because if I won Laird of the Games, you would at least have to award me the prize and I could throw myself at your feet and beg your forgiveness. That moment will make all of this worth it.”
Her lips compressed before she asked in a gentler voice, “How badly are you hurt?”
“Not as bad as I hurt you last night.” He thread the fingers from his uninjured arm through the fine hairs that had escaped at her nape. “I’m sorry, Isabel. You can’t understand how much. Gareth is family, and I was ready to do whatever it took to protect him. I had no idea how special you would become to me or what was going to happen between us. If I had, I would—”
She kissed him. Not a sexy, sensual kiss, but a shut-up kiss with maybe even a hint of forgiveness.
“I’m not going to sugarcoat it; I was pissed last night. Punch-you-in-the-face, kick-you-in-the-nuts pissed.” Anger had left its mark like a barely healed cut in her voice.
“Unless this is some kind of weird foreplay, I assume you’re not going to kick me while I’m already down.” He tried for a smile, but everything around his shoulder, including his heart, ached.
“You were torn between loyalty to a beloved uncle and me,” she whispered, her lips brushing his, this time with a definite flavor of forgiveness. “Honestly, if I’d had the resources, I would have done the same thing to protect Mom.”
He wanted to pull her down with him and lay in the field together until the sun went down and the crickets serenaded them. A woman’s voice called out, “Get it, girl!” A few whoops followed.
Color exploded in her cheeks like a sunburst. “Can you get up or should I call Dr. Jameson over?”
“I can walk.” His voice reflected more confidence than he actually felt. He sat up, his head swimming. Tentatively, he rotated his shoulder. The stabbing pain had dissipated to a throb. “Give me a hand?”
They clasped hands and she hauled him to his feet. He staggered into her, draping his arm across her shoulders, more from the need to feel her close than for support.
Dr. Jameson set his tablet down and met them at the sideline. “A perfect caber toss, my boy. Sit and let me look at that shoulder.”
Alasdair sat. “I thought you were a veterinarian.”
“And what is man but a social animal?” Dr. Jameson adjusted his glasses. “That was a butchered quote by Aristotle, by the way. Alright, tell me where it hurts.”
Alasdair communicated in ouches as Dr. Jameson probed his shoulder.
Finally, Dr. Jameson squeezed his arm and smiled. “I don’t think you’ve torn anything. My suggestion is ice, rest, and ibuprofen. It looks like you’ve locked up Laird of the Games with that caber toss, by the way.”
Alasdair laughed sheepishly. “I had a little help from my … well, friends.”
The tentative bonds he’d made over the course of the last decade seemed gossamer while over his short stint in Highland, he’d formed attachments with Kevlar-like strength.
Isabel thread her fingers through his. Their connection was the only one that mattered. “Come on, Highlander. I’ll get you fixed up.”
He followed her like a sheep over a cliff, but she bypassed the first-aid tent set up by the side of the vendors and led him to Stonehaven’s front door. Unlocking it, they stepped into cool air and blessed silence. An oasis from the chaos.
While she readied an ice pack and retrieved the medicine, he was afraid to blink in case she disappeared. What if he had passed out in the field and was dreaming this. “You’ve forgiven me so easily?”
“Mom and I talked this morning. You’re lucky she’s mature and wise. Unlike me.” She tossed him an inscrutable look over her shoulder. “You didn’t lie about the important stuff, did you?”
“Never about how I felt. Feel.” He swallowed the pills she pressed into his hand with a sip of the iced tea. “Gareth was going to confess the truth to your mother about his lineage and responsibilities as soon as the festival ended, which meant I could tell you.”
“And Wellington?”
“I truly thought I could neutralize the situation before it affected you and Rose and Stonehaven.” He paused. “I quit last night. Rather epically if my memory can be trusted.”
She fiddled with the lid of the medicine bottle, her gaze down. “What happens now? Are you going home after the festival like you planned?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” She darted a look under her lashes at him.
“On you. On what Rose and Gareth decide.”
She heaved a sigh and when she finally met his gaze straight on, tears glistening. “Mom said they are geographically challenged and nothing can change that.”
“What if I told you I had an idea? A wild and crazy idea.”
A spark of hope had her leaning closer to him. “I’d say, bring it on, Highlander.”