Highland Games Through Time

by Nancy Lee Badger

  Impossible, she thought as she bent to pick up a bright red maple leaf. The storm that drenched him, and plastered dark auburn hair to his head, sure wasn’t happening here in New England. Last night’s storm blew out toward Maine and Canada hours ago, leaving blue skies behind.

  And puddles.

  Haven tiptoed around another puddle and headed back to work. If she ever volunteered at a Highland gathering again, she’d come prepared. She’d check out some books in the library or go on-line to research all things Scottish. As a last minute volunteer, Iona had accepted her as is. She also was enjoying a hiatus from her menial jobs.

  Working at the small herbal store for her aunt, she earned close to minimum wage. She supplemented her wages by writing column on herbs and their medicinal properties for the local paper.

  Where I met that bastard, Cal.

  Sounds of a hammer on steel, and an axe chopping wood, proclaimed the existence of other volunteers. Guests walked the grounds and visited the various displays. The historical kitchen tent and metalworking shop were popular. Iona spun wool on an ancient spinning wheel—when she wasn’t on break. Haven’s only talent?

  Knitting.

  The odor of open campfires and fragrant balsam pine filled the air, carried on a breeze that playfully tossed her long hair over her face.

  “I should go and braid this mess.” She twirled a lock of hair and yearned for a more exciting color. Like Iona’s wild, red hair. She picked up the hem of her green frock and sighed when she spotted the mud. It had soaked the bottom and stained her shoes.

  And me without a washing machine or a decent bathroom.

  How had her friend talked her into this?

  Haven walked toward the encampment’s main fire. On a tripod, a blackened pot hung from a simple chain. Another volunteer stirred something that smelled horrible, unlike the delicious meat pies and bridies Iona introduced her to, yesterday.

  I’ll do better when I make our dinner.

  Past the large campfire, a small forge smoked and sparked. A tall young man usually tended the flames, but Haven spotted him with an open book, leaning against a tree. She whistled softly. He stood naked to the waist, except for a leather apron.

  “Hey, Jake,” she called. The studious-looking twenty-two year old returned her wave. Jake Jamison’s muscular upper body and trim waist made many a woman’s eyebrows twitch. He’d tied his wavy black hair in a leather queue. His brilliant blue eyes and sweet smile drew the attention of young women who tramped through the village by the hour. On closer inspection, the book’s title made her heart skip. A man who read poetry? Cal only read the newspaper’s sport section and his financial statements.

  “Hi, Haven. “ He looked up with a big grin. Jake replaced his bookmark—a large, gold oak leaf—and grinned.

  “I don’t believe they printed Robert Frost’s poetry during the sixteenth century.”

  “I hide my book when visitors approach. I happen to like Robert Frost. I doubt Scottish Highlanders owned books at all. At least nothing printed by machine. Life in simpler times meant most villagers spent their days farming and trying not to get killed.”

  “Like those Neanderthals down there on the athletic fields? They’re obviously not into farming. Even if their battle is part of the re-enactment for the history buffs who visit the games, their weapons look dangerous. Still, some of them are handsome enough to…”

  “To what?” Jake’s grin proved hard to ignore. He set aside his book and they slowly walked together toward the lower edge of camp that afforded them a better view.

  Though she’d told friends she’d recently sworn off men because of her deceitful ex-boyfriend, Haven hadn’t lost hope. She stared with quiet appreciation at the assortment of bronzed giants and smaller opponents. “Who’s the big dark-haired guy with the broadsword?”

  “The big brute slamming his sword down on his opponent’s leather shield?”

  “That’s the one. The shorter guy isn’t looking too happy.”

  “He’s a MacDougal. Comes here by way of Provincetown, Rhode Island. Heard he’s a restaurant manager by day.”

  “I presume by night he’s the contented married husband of some petite mouse of a girl? I hear opposites attract,” she joked. As the words passed her lips, her body sizzled as she imagined having a handsome, muscular husband waiting for her at home. How might that feel? Especially one who stood over six feet tall, wore next to nothing, and screamed bloody murder as he brandished a sharp, shiny weapon? Someone keen on travel, and interested in the Scottish games could be fun. But, he’d have to be faithful and trustworthy. Good luck finding a man she could trust in this day and age. Cal Murchie taught her that.

  “You’re way off track this time, MacKay. That little guy’s his partner. They are very much in love, so the rumor goes, and that’s too bad for you, huh?”

  “Devil’s own luck! Why are all the good ones gay?”

  He laughed as he excused himself. He teased her because, in an unguarded moment, she told him she stunk at dating. Jake headed for the portable toilets set discreetly in a grove of dense trees. From the corner of her eye, Haven’s gaze locked on the rotund body of a young boy dressed in Highland attire, from the Glengarry on his head to the leather brogues on his feet. His too-short kilt, a lovely combination of blues and greens, rode above his pudgy knees. From this distance, the tartan looked similar to Iona’s Mackenzie plaid. The boy’s once-white Jacobite shirt, laced at the neck, sported ketchup stains.

  The outfit must have cost his parent’s a fortune.

  More than a month’s rent on her own downtown apartment. Envy snaked through her as he marched closer. He skipped off the trail then bent over and picked up two pinecones, giving her an unwanted view of pasty thighs above bright green and black Argyll socks.

  Some people should not wear kilts.

  Haven kept her eye on him as he passed and headed toward the blacksmith’s tools. The unguarded tools. She fell into step behind him, prepared to save Jake’s personal collection of tools from the boy. She hoped he didn’t expect a guided tour of the make believe village. Luckily for her, another volunteer cut him off before a pudgy hand could grab one of Jake’s tools. The boy mumbled something and spit on the ground. Whatever the other volunteer answered didn’t please the kid, who spun on his heels and marched back down the mountain.

  Good riddance, she thought.

  When the child tossed a prickly pinecone at the flock of grazing sheep, Haven’s soft spot for children hardened to stone. The boy reminded her of Cal’s son, the son he forgot to mention.

  Grabbing the twigs of juniper and boxwood from her pocket, she brushed the air. She laughed when the animals trotted out of his reach. When she clapped, he glanced her way. A pudgy brow arched skyward. He pulled up his slipping kilt, tilted his black bonnet at a rakish angle, and skipped down the path while muttering obscenities. The sheep would be long gone and on the other side of the pasture by the time the boy got close enough to slip through the fence and give them a kick.

  Happy that she’d remembered the simple spell from the ancient book, Haven scratched along the scooped neckline of her peasant top where the rough fabric scraped her skin. Although mid September, the sun beat down. She should have whipped up some herbal-based sunscreen. She enjoyed cooler days, but the weather could be worse.

  It could be snowing.

  Returning to the village center, she spied Jake back at his forge. He’d built a fire inside a half circle of piled stones. A crude, leather bellows hung from a tripod. Various buckets, filled with kindling, rusty pieces of metal or water, surrounded his anvil. She walked over to get a closer look.

  “Jake. How are you holding up?”

  “Me? I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  She’d been concerned the first moment she’d scrutinized his job as the village blacksmith. Bent over hot coals most days, she worried the heat might take its toll. Then he’d explained to her that, as a trained horseshoe-making farrier in real life, he knew
what to do.

  “You look hot, that’s all.”

  “I could use another break, Haven, but can’t leave the forge alone right now since I built up the fire. But, I can’t work the iron until these new logs burn down to coals. How about watching it while I get a drink and some chow down the hill?”

  “Me? I don’t know anything about—”

  “All you need to do is keep the people away from the fire and my tools, like I saw you do with that fat kid.” He pointed to all the equipment he’d laid out for a demonstration. “Hand out those nails.”

  She peered inside the smallest bucket and pulled out a handful of black, curved, metal objects. “What are these?”

  “Freebies for the kids. Give me thirty minutes. I’m in your debt.” He kissed her on the nose then yanked off his gloves and leather apron. With a swipe of a damp rag, he washed the soot from his face and naked chest.

  She swallowed, hard. He slipped inside his nearby tent then reappeared wearing a saffron Jacobite shirt. As he tucked it inside his leather breeches, he hurried down the mountain toward the crowds and the vendors.

  Haven sighed then laughed aloud at his brotherly kiss. Jake, a couple of years younger than she, had kissed her in friendship. If she’d ever had a brother, Haven would have liked him to be like Jake. She’d shared her troubles and Jake agreed she’d been treated shabbily by Cal. Jake called him a bastard for what he’d done to her.

  He’s a kindhearted young man with an old soul.

  She watched him walk away as she wiped her palm across the damp tip of her nose. Too bad her own soul yearned for a man who would lay down his life to see her happy. Jake was not that man. When her thoughts turned to russet hair dripping rain into her eyes as he kissed her senseless, a rush of molten fire tore through her.

  No, must be the heat from the campfire, she lied.

  CHAPTER 3

  Forty-five minutes after Jake left Haven in charge of the blacksmith station, perspiration dripped from Haven’s forehead. Her hair turned curly, and a few strands escaped the confines of her braid. She swept loose hairs behind her left ear as a trio of little girls with golden pigtails skipped up the path and reached Jake’s display. Forcing a weary smile, she passed out the odd-looking, square-headed nails Jake had shaped into crude rings.

  With safety a priority, she kept the children back from the forge itself. Should anything bad happen, it would take the emergency medical crew, stationed near the larger ski lodge, time to get to the village.

  She could heal burns or cuts, but Haven promised Iona not to practice her healing abilities in public. Some people might get the wrong idea, or construe some of her poultices as possibly poisonous.

  Which they aren’t.

  Her aunt schooled her in using herbs, roots, berries, and even gemstones to create healing medicines.

  The din of the crowd brought her thoughts back to the present. Farther down the mountain, the noise of boisterous voices rose from the direction of the popular beer tent. Several patrons and most of the athletes carried personal flasks filled with single malt Scotch. Security personnel walked around the area to keep order. A broad smile tugged at her parched lips. Tipsy visitors seemed the least of their worries. Every man and woman carried some sort of weapon.

  Where had Jake run off to? Was he stuck in the long food lines? Or, had he escaped inside the beer tent?

  I hope he chokes on a mouthful of haggis.

  The sheep’s stomach filled with heart, liver, and lungs as well as onions, oatmeal, and suet sounded nasty.

  She sniffed the afternoon air, salivating at the aromas carried on the breeze. Haven walked closer to the trail that led down toward the lower meadow while keeping an eye on the fire. The oily aroma of fried fish and roasting meat blended with the spicy tang of pine trees and sheep.

  Iona and Jake had better get back here unless they want a mutiny on their hands.

  She leaned against a tree, bent over, and rubbed her sore toes while wishing better footwear had come with the costume. The image of the strange man came to mind.

  A strange, magnificent man who had kissed her senseless; whose hands had caressed her intimately. His wet clothes had pressed against her and dampness made her dress cling like a second skin. Her breath caught at the memory.

  His eyes had widened in surprise as he approached surrounded by mist and a raging storm. He wore knee-high leather boots over muscled calves. She’d glimpsed a naked thigh when a gust of wind—wind she never felt—blew his wool garment high above one knee as he waved a huge sword.

  She shook the image from her mind and returned to the forge. A family of two adults and four kids swarmed a little too near the glowing coals.

  “Hi,” she said, quickly gaining their attention. “Our blacksmith is enjoying an afternoon respite, but he asked me to offer these gifts to ye’.” She passed out rings to all but a little boy. His attention locked on the water bucket. She dove to intercept him at the same moment he tipped over the rustic wooden barrel.

  Splash!

  “Oh my, are you okay?”

  She turned to answer the mother of the curious little hoodlum, but the woman scooped up her wayward child without a peek in Haven’s direction. As the family headed down the mountain, like a flock of agitated geese, she answered.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. No problem.” She sighed. The splash had soaked her dress from chest to toes.

  “Guard the forge,” she yelled to another volunteer. Grabbing the hem of her sodden dress, she marched to her tent. “Think pleasant thoughts, think pleasant thoughts.”

  Haven repeated her mantra instead of screaming. The kid acted like a kid. She shouldn’t blame his innocent curiosity. Curiosity frequently got her into jams as well, but she wished the mother had been more in control. When she had kids, she would certainly…

  “Who am I kidding?” She slipped through the flap of her small tent while she remembered she needed a man in order to create a family. Standing in the absolute middle, the only place she could stand without hitting her head on the tent’s ceiling, she looked around. Sunlight streamed easily through the lightweight linen now that Jake had pulled off the waterproof canvas. Last night’s rain would have soaked through or dripped through the seams. Taller than its width, the tent had plenty of room for one.

  A perfect little sanctuary for a newly-single woman.

  Several blankets and her grandmother’s wool plaid covered a tiny army cot, an uncomfortable piece of twenty-first-century furniture—trying to act ancient—which she hoped never to encounter again. The old blanket’s pattern in the MacKay colors of navy and green, crosshatched with black, brought a smile to her lips.

  She missed her family. Her parents were long dead. The grandmother who raised her died soon after she met Cal. Her shoulders shook with distaste. Her aunt was all she had left and they weren’t on speaking terms. Her aunt hated Cal Murchie and said so to Haven’s face.

  Her aunt’s personal opinion about Cal had turned out correct, and she told Haven whenever the opportunity arose. The man was trouble and had shattered her heart. When would she stop referring to the passage of time using their pitiful relationship as a basis? Instead of thinking of Cal, she needed to find a decent man, wherever he might be.

  “I wish I was within my true love’s grasp right now.” After massaging her sore foot, she scrounged under the cot, pulled out a towel, and patted her bodice. As she flapped the side of her skirt to dry the damp material, her nose caught an unusual scent. A puff of smoke rose and the odor of burning herbs swirled around her head moments before fog rolled about her feet.

  * * *

  Clashing swords and the screams of dying men reverberated against the backdrop of tall trees and distant rocky crags. Horses whinnied and blood flowed, turning puddles crimson. Each flash of lightning told a tale of pain and rage. The battle turned in Kirk’s favor the moment the fog had lifted, the woman disappeared, and he had crashed his steed into The Mackenzie.

  They had
battled on foot and Kirk all but won the day until the man’s mercenaries appeared. They grabbed the bastard up out of the mud and stole him away.

  The coward.

  Kirk wiped the end of his plaid across his damp face then mounted with one quick step. Another bolt of fire, from the black clouds above, sizzled as it hit the muddy ground. The marvelous scent of wildflowers drifted closer, washing away the smell of fire and brimstone. A pleasant fragrance made him spin his mount around until he again faced a blooming bubble of mist. The familiar cloud enshrouded a memorable form.

  She is here!

  * * *

  Within the mist’s embrace, heat flared along Haven’s leg then suddenly burst inside her pocket. She patted the smoldering fabric while her thigh tingled and her vision clouded.

  Her hair, freed from the braid by gusts of an unknown wind, blew about her face. It added to her blindness, but she sensed the moment the tent walls dissolved into nothingness.

  “Devil’s own luck. What the…? ” Beating the folds of her soggy dress with one hand, lightning crackled far above. She turned to run and hide, but some power glued her feet to the tent’s dirt floor.

  Haven coughed and sputtered. Wiping the back of her hand over her nose, the acrid odor refused to budge. When her eyes watered, she snapped them shut. The earth shuddered beneath feet frozen in place. A thunderous din sounded near.

  She slid open one tear-filled eye.

  One moment she’d been inside her tiny tent during a sunny day in Northern New England. The next, she stood in the open under the gathering grayness of early evening. When she forced open her other eye, she once again spied the silhouette of a man. A really big man.

  The image erupted from the mist and into view. She couldn’t blame simple imagination or weariness this time. Haven saw him clear as day. He sat astride a large horse. When both man and beast barreled toward her, she waved both hands.

  “Stop!”

  He didn’t.

  * * *

  Kirkwall’s attention never wavered as he reined in his steed. His gaze focused shamefully on the mystery woman’s rounded bodice of pale green linen that hugged her curves beneath a vest of smooth, tanned deerskin. Thin rawhide laces wove along the sides from armpit to waist and again down the valley of her womanly mounds.