Return to Heartland: A Heartland Cove County Romance

by Jacquie Gee

  “I’m not that good.” Trent’s face turns scarlet red.

  “Liar. You, big, brawny fool, you." Bernie pushes him. “And he’s modest, too.”

  Trent spins his cap on his head. “Apparently, I’m a better dancer than I thought.”

  “Well, I for one can’t wait to see.” I glance at Trent.

  “Well, I’d better get on.” Bernie tips his head. “See you later, Mate.” Bernie imitates Trent. He turns his back and is away. “You’re sure you don’t wanna come, now?” He hollers back, breaking into some moves as he walks away—a little soft-shoe and a wiggle of his hips. I half-wonder if he’s mimicking what Trent has planned.

  “No, thanks,” Trent yells. “I prefer to go in cold!”

  “All right, then. Until later.” Bernie solutes him.

  “Does it actually bother you that I’ll be in the audience?” I ask. “Because if it’s gonna throw you off, I won’t come.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just…” He draws me back into his arms and makes his voice sizzle. “What if I were to promise you a private performance, later, instead.”

  The purr in his voice renders me weak-kneed. The way he’s gazing at me makes me feel like I’m the one being undressed. “Stop,” I say.

  “Stop what?” He grins. I swear this man enjoys keeping me off balance. “Not interested in your own private show?”

  “Now you’re just making me nervous.”

  “That seems only fair, considering what happened with the calendar.”

  “I’ve apologized a million times for that.”

  “All right. But you still haven’t answered me about the private performance.”

  He has no idea how much I want to say, yes to that. I’m just afraid to. I don’t wanna ruin what’s going on between us. Maybe this is all too fast.

  “Come ’ere…” He reels me closer, dragging me around the corner, into the causeway at the side of the horse barn where things are a little less congested. He moves in close, drops an arm around my waist and playfully swings me up against the barn, grabbing what little slice of privacy we can in a crowd this size. My heart does a full turn in my chest. I fall with my back against the wall of the barn, my breath heaving in and out. Trent presses close, his body against mine, warm and ridged in all the right places. He leans toward me, lips parting like he’s about to kiss me, and then suddenly tears a clump of cotton candy from my stick with his teeth.

  I laugh and pop forward, nabbing the end of the trail of cotton candy between my lips and provocatively draw it into my mouth, walking my way…or should I say, mouthing my way… slowly toward his sugar-coated lips. He does the same, darting forward gobbling up the strand until our lips nearly meet. Then he stops, hovering just outside my lips.

  “May I?” he asks, his breath rolling hot.

  “If you don’t, I swear I’ll die.”

  He grins.

  I suck in a quick breath, feeling the tension of his muscles against my chest, as he lowers his head but still does not quite kiss me.

  Okay, Aussie boy, two can play at this game. You want to tease me? I can do the same.

  I tilt my face leaning toward him, nipping at his bottom lip, then pull back again, settling my shoulder blades back against the barn. Another near miss. A hot and teasing one. Curling my cool fingers around his hot, hot neck, I pull him to me, until our bodies connect, twirling a lock of his hair around my finger.

  His eyes glaze over. His lips tremble over mine.

  “You are driving me wild, Miss Becca Lane.”

  “Same, Mr. Nash.”

  Every nerve in my body is a rattling snake, ready to strike out and kiss him, but I don’t want to lead. I want him to do it first. I want him to want it more.

  Though I’m not sure that’ll ever be the case.

  His hand moves from my hips to my neck, and before I can respond, he engulfs me in a kiss, so warm, and intensely engaging, I’m helplessly at its mercy. My entire body ignites into an explosion of heat. My candy floss topples to the ground.

  My hands float to his face as his cup my rump. He pops me on the old fence rail that runs the length of the building. Instinctively I wrap legs around his hips, as he presses closer to me, and kisses me again, over and over and over again. He tastes of organic tea, mint mouthwash, and fresh spun sugar. A crazy combination, but I love it. I can’t help but think, I wish we were on the bridge so I could erase the old kisses—and just in case there’s some truth to the old legend.

  “I’ve waited so long to kiss you,” Trent whispers into my mouth. “I’ve wanted to do this from the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “Really? I thought you hated me.”

  “Who could hate you?” His wonder-filled eyes darts over my face, and I feel like something priceless. His gold-green eyes sparkle like stars in a dark night sky. He pulls back, then kisses me again even more passionately than he had before. “About that private viewing?” I moaned when he comes up for air. “What do I have to do to schedule one?”

  He smiles and kisses me again. “Consider it done.” He pulls me into an even more passionate embrace.

  I’m trembling. No, shaking. No, completely dissolving. I've never been undone by a man like this. His fingers float wild over my skin. I inhale sharply and closing my eyes, melting under his touch.

  I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be falling so fast. Every time I do, it ends in disaster.

  With him, it could mean something. It does mean something.

  It’s okay Becca, he’s not like Jebson. Let go…

  Thoughts of Jebson flash in my mind. His kiss the other night. Him proposing to me after high school.

  Jebson with me. Jebson leaving me. Jebson cheating on me.

  His final words, “Did you really think it was gonna last?”

  “Wait,” I push on Trent’s chest. Panic threading through my veins. “Maybe we shouldn’t —”

  His face falls.

  My breath comes in heaves. I’ve made a mistake. “I just mean, not here—” I try to correct it, but the hurt is radiating from him.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks around. He drops his hands and steps away, and every part of me is screaming. He rumples his brows and looks at me longingly, and I feel the hurt.

  “Maybe later.” Threads of confusion stitch through his eyes. He turns to walk away.

  “No, wait!” My voice hitches.

  How do I tell him what I need to say?

  “There you two are!” Trudy’s voice bounces up between the buildings.

  No, no, not now Trud…

  Trent jerks around. He smooths down the fronts of his jeans. I turn around to greet Trudy too, as she races toward us, not leaving any room.

  “We’re short a caber tosser.” She bounds up in between us, her words coming faster than her breath. “Alex Flynn has thrown out his back. How do you feel about wearing a kilt?” She clutches Trent’s arm.

  “A wha—” Trent’s face turns ashen.

  “She needs you to go throw your log around,” I clarify.

  “A log?”

  “A pole.” Trudy corrects me. “Like a telephone pole. While wearing a kilt.” She’s breathless.

  “One of them man-skirts,” Trent asks.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Oh, and you might have to throw a hammer as well,” Trudy adds.

  “Oh, no. No, no, no.” Trent backs away, his hands in the air. “I draw the line at skirts.”

  “Please.” Trudy presses her hands together, begging. “Otherwise we’ll have to cancel the event, and it’s a big money maker. At the moment, it stands to bring in a hot five K, or so…”

  “Great.” Trent looks like he might pass out. He turns his back.

  I catch a laugh in my hand.

  “What do you say?” Trudy pleads. “You up for it?”

  Trent turns around. “But, I’ve… never…”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll teach you.”


  “Maybe you could just pretend to be a Scot for a day?” I offer.

  “Trudy?” Static. “Trudy, are you there?” Aunt Penny’s voice crackles over Trudy’s earpiece device. “Are we going ahead with the caber toss, or not? People are filling the stands over here.”

  “Hold up," Trudy tells Aunt Penny. "What do you say?" She blinks in Trent’s direction.

  “Jeez, Louise, lemon squeeze.” He claws at his head and paces.

  “Well?” Aunt Penny nags.

  “Hold up,” Trudy says.

  “Oh, all right, fine.” Trent swings around.

  “We’re good!” Trudy shouts over the earpiece to Aunt Penny, then grabs for Trent’s arm. “Come on.” She clutches his bicep and hauls him away. “We have to hurry. See you later, Becca!” She calls over her shoulder as the pick up the pace.

  I watch as they round the corner, Trent’s heels still somewhat digging in.

  “Oh, what the heck,” I burst forward after them. “I can’t miss this.”

  Chapter 46

  I push through the crowd, ascending the grandstand steps two at a time, just as Trudy steps into the center ring about to announce the caber toss event. Seventeen rows up. This ought to do. I plop down in a seat next to a kid with great smelling popcorn. Not too close. Not too far. Just distant enough for Trent not to spot me.

  Hopefully.

  I catch a glimpse of Trent fitfully dressing behind a makeshift screen, off to the side of the ring, his silhouette moving hastily into his kilt, the rest of the crowd too distracted to notice what's happening, but not me.

  I rub my hands together, nervous for him as Trudy takes the podium.

  “Testing?” She taps the mic. It pops and screeches. The crowd covers its ears. “Testing,” she tries again.

  The sound check man gives her the thumbs up, and she begins. “Okay, great! Welcome, all to the first annual Heartland Cove Mini Highland Games! You guys are all in for a big treat! Just part of our first ever International Potato Festival!" The crowd applauds. "Today we have our first ever Aussie participant. Filling-in for crowd favorite, Alex Flynn, who, sadly, is under the weather.” The crowd boos. “Now, without further ado, let me introduce today’s competitors!” Trudy raises her arms and bagpipers—real honest-to-goodness bagpipers all the way from neighboring Cochran—take to the ring.

  The bagpipers march in—three men, two women, four children—playing “The Battle of the Somme,” a traditional Scottish piece. The grandstand rumbles to life, toes tapping, body’s swaying. Adrenaline pumps throughout me. I tap a toe to the music, as well.

  “Now to meet our fearless competitors!” Trudy shouts over the wail of the bagpipes. “First up, all the way from Cochran, three-time caber toss winner, ‘Mad Dog Mansfield!” He appears in the spotlight, and the crowd goes nuts, hooting, hollering, whistling.

  Mad Dog steps to the center ring, raises his arms and clutches his fists triumphantly. He shakes them at the crowd and their voices rise, arms bulging, chest gleaming, even though he’s a decade past middle age, he’s still an incredibly hot man. Graying locks blow back from an angular face. A well-trimmed beard finishes off a rugged look.

  I glance around, noticing the crowd of women noticing Mad Dog. I have to say, I can’t help but stare myself. He struts into the middle of the of the ring, strikes a wrestler’s pose, and the women lose it. One woman down the row from me lets out a two-fingered whistle.

  Mad Dog waves to the crowd, sucking up the attention. The hem of his green and red tartan ruffles in the breeze above traditional tartan knee stockings. His bronzed muscles shine as he flexes again, first to the women on the right, then the left, every muscle down to the core of his hot, gleaming body, moving with him. The women go wild, shouting for more.

  All at once, I feel incredibly uneasy. Poor Trent. Poor guy. A novice in every way. The kilt. The sport. Scotsman sex appeal. I’ve no idea if he knows how to, or even what to do. I hope the man can pose.

  I put a hand over my face, not wanting to look, as Trudy announces his name. “And Mad Dog’s challenger today is Heartland Cove's very own, Trent ‘The Terminator' Nash!" Trudy waves her arms trying to work up the crowd. There's a gentle wave of cheers.

  Trent enters the ring and raises his arms, waves, then slightly smiles. Still nothing. He just needs to ham it up. I stare down at his bare chest, taut muscles and bulging arms, standing in nothing but a kilt and a pair of shoes and goofy socks. He looks up at the crowd completely lost and some of the women ahhh.

  A breeze picks up, tossing the corner of Trent’s kilt to one side, flashing the tiniest smidgen of bottom, and the crowd bursts out into a cheer. He’s apparently taken the kilt-wearing tradition to heart and gone commando. Oh, my.

  There you go, now pose, I think in my head.

  Trent flinches, and his pecs bump up, then down. His very well defined six-pack stacks up and falls down. Stiff lines form along his belly, and the women in the crowd sit up and take notice. He might not have caber-toss experience, but he certainly rivals Mad Dog in the physique department.

  Not to mention his irresistible charm. Smile.

  Trent's walnut curls twist in the breeze, and I shiver. "He's pretty cute," the woman next to me says.

  "Yeah, not bad." I note who she is for my jealous file later. And she hasn't even seen him with his glasses on.

  He's left his glasses off, likely, so they won't get broke, and I worry how he's going to see to do the toss. But then I think perhaps he doesn't need them for distance. I should have offered to hold his glasses for him. I should have offered to get him out of this mess.

  Trent shifts and somehow spies me in the crowd. I can tell by the shocked expression on his face. I wave and his chest hollows. I’ve made him self-conscious. Not good before a caber toss competition.

  The crowd cheers, calling for Trent to pose like Mad Dog did. Trent looks around confused. Mad Dog shows him, taking on one of his famous poses, then taps Trent to flex. Your turn? He mouths.

  Reluctantly, Trent turns, red-cheeked, then springs back, his arms into the Hercules pose. His muscles strain and ripple and glint in the mid-day sun. He is a bronzed gladiator in the Roman Coliseum.

  Another breeze sweeps through the midway, this time with a little more force. The corner of his kilt flips up as he shifts into the next power position. A sculpted slice of glute slips into view. The women in the crowd yip and screech. "That's the guy! The guy from the centerfold!" someone yells.

  I cower in my seat.

  "It is!" another, shouts, and I wanna die.

  “On with the competition?” Trudy bellows over the microphone, drowning the women out.

  Trent and Mad Dog approach the circle, where the head of the Chamber of Commerce holds out a coin. The coin toss to see who goes first. Being a gentleman, Mad Dog defers to Trent, who calls it in the air. “Tails!”

  Tails? Who the hay ever picks tails?

  But it works for him, tails it is, and Trent gets to go second. That oughta give him the chance to study Mad Dog's performance first. Good thing. That way he'll learn how it’s done. Trent steps back to watch, as Mad Dog sets up.

  “The caber is typically a shaven-down larch tree,” Trudy reads from a scripted notecard. She babbles on and on about the sport and its history as Mad Dog psyches himself up. Mad Dog circles the log to its opposite end. He stands over it, straightening his stance. “The caber itself typically ranges anywhere from sixteen to twenty-two feet in length and weighs between one hundred sixty to one hundred eighty pounds. Today’s pole is nineteen feet, six inches in length, and weighs one hundred seventy-five pounds.” Mad Dog grunts, he bends, cups the bottom of the pole in his hands and thrusts it upwards. He struggles to balance it.

  One hundred seventy-five pounds? I should never have let Trent do this. What if he hurts himself? Who will star in the Magic Michael show tonight?

  Mad Dog lets out a primal call and charges forward like an angry, snorting bull, the caber balanced in his hands. He rac
es through the middle of the ring, then growls ferociously and hurls the pole forward. The caber flips end over end. He’s aiming for the perfect score of twelve, meaning, the log should land parallel to the hour of twelve, drawn out on the clock face in the dirt. The closest toss to noon wins. But, they must toss the caber far enough to reach the other end of the circle as well. The caber comes crashing down with a loud thud.

  Reflexively the crowd falls silent. The caber has flipped over the regulation full rotation and landed nose-first into the dirt just shy of the stands. The throw is good. It’s measured and documented. “Twelve fifteen!” Trudy shouts. Breath escapes the mouths of the crowd. “A terrific score! That’s gonna be hard to beat.”

  Trent scowls up at her as he takes his place in the ring.

  “Let’s see if the rookie has it in him,” Trudy whispers, trying to build suspense, like somehow Trent cannot hear her. Trent will need to score a perfect twelve to beat him. Trudy leaves that bit out.

  Trent steps up, prepares himself over the caber and I fidget in my seat. I hope someone has at least shown him how to do this. There is a very specific technique. He needs to face the twelve o’clock position to start out with, or he doesn't stand a chance. And he'll need to toss the caber as close to that twelve position as possible to beat Mad Dog. I stretch, so I can better see. The caber will be measured wherever it falls. The closer to twelve than twelve fifteen, Trent wins. Anything outside of that, Trent loses.

  Though usually at these meets, judges score best two out of three tosses—if Trent can last that long. Typically, by the third toss, the men are exhausted, let alone a guy who’s never tossed a caber ever before in his life.

  I wince, watching as he approaches the log. He bends, and tries to cup it with his palms, and it's clear he has no idea what he's doing. "He's going for the lift," Trudy feels the need to commentate. Hoisting it up with a grunt, he raises the log waist-high, too high. It's over wobbly as well.

  Sweat breaks out on Trent’s forehead as he struggles to balance the caber. He has it in the air, but it’s too far out from his body to control it. The unruly log dances in his palms, threatening to escape them altogether, as he dips and sways, heading out of the circle. The crowd ducks and roars, as the log threatens to spiral. Trent dashes sideways pulling the log back to center. The crowd roars. Pulling it in closer to his body, he lunges and lets out a howl, and it twists in his hands. The caber somehow straightens out, does the required flip, and drops to the ground facing, miraculously, outward as it should.