“You’ll not be feeling quite so mag-magnanimous in the morning, I’d guess.”
Holt just shook his head and gave Alasdair a once-over. “I don’t know what that means, but I do know you’re going to need lots of help to win. Lots.”
Alasdair wasn’t sure whether he should be insulted or grateful. With Gareth still hanging around his shoulders like a barnacle, Holt pointed to the back room and shuffled away.
Alasdair turned to his mum, but she only gestured for him to proceed. “Your farmer friend is correct. Let’s see what kind of pull he’s got.”
The classy whisky tasting had devolved into a party. A dozen or so men gathered in the back room. A couple were beefy enough to break Alasdair in two. Holt deposited Gareth in a chair with a group of three kilted men, returning to clap Alasdair on the back. “Here’s your competition tomorrow.”
“This is impossible.” Alasdair had practiced all the events except the caber toss. He’d become proficient, but something spectacular would have to happen to give him a shot at being named Laird of the Games.
“’Course it isn’t. Lemme just…” Holt stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a gust of air. Muttering a curse, he tried again and this time a shrill whistle emerged and a quiet cascaded over the men. “This here is Alasdair. He’s competing tomorrow for the first time.”
A call of welcome went up around the room. Holt waved them back to silence. “There’s more. For extremely personal reasons, he must win.”
A chorus of good-natured, whisky-soaked boos rang out.
“I know. I know. It’s a crazy notion, but I’ll let him explain. Go on, Alasdair.” Holt stepped back and waved Alasdair forward.
Fighting the urge to strangle Holt, Alasdair pasted on a smile and attempted to sound sober. “Gentlemen. Ish my great honor … That is to say, it’s my great honor to be standing here with you this evening.” He gave a small bow, which upset his equilibrium enough to make him have to step forward to keep upright.
Laughter rolled through the room. Undeterred, Holt yelled, “Shut yer yaps!”
Alasdair panicked. Gareth, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes bright, nodded at him in encouragement. His mum stood near the doorway with Dr. Jameson, her expression one of fascination as she watched him “uh” and “ah.” His English sensibility stumbled for words while his Scottish heart was branded with a torrent of emotion.
“I have been a monumental idiot when it comes to women.” Several of the men nodded and clinked their glasses together in agreement. At least, he wasn’t the only one. “One woman, in particular, I should say.”
“And who would that be?” one of the men called out.
“Isabel Buchanan.”
Another chorus of voices rose to a din. “She’s a pretty one.”
“So is her mother.” A wolf whistle sounded from the middle of the group.
“Does she like you back?” one of men hollered above the rest.
“She did until I did something dumb,” Alasdair yelled back.
“And winning tomorrow will win Izzy back?” another man asked.
Alasdair ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’m desperate. If I don’t try, I’ll regret it the rest of my days.”
Someone took pity on him and shoved a drink in his hand.
After that, the events of the evening ran together like a watercolor painting left in the rain. There was singing involved with his arms thrown around the shoulders of two men whose names never registered, but were his best friends in the world in that instant.
Then George ruined the feeling of brotherhood. He stood in the door of the backroom with his thin top lip curled and his nose scrunched like he had trod in manure. Alasdair strode over, grabbed a handful of George’s shirt, and shoved him up against the wall.
“You little git!” Alasdair yelled into the sudden quiet. “You thought to leverage a loan against Isabel? You’re begging for my fist in your face.”
George pushed ineffectually at Alasdair’s wrist. “I suppose you warned her. Is that why the application was pulled?”
Alasdair’s laugh was mean-spirited and felt good. “You and Richard didn’t count on one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Highland is a small town, and Isabel has friends everywhere. Even the bank. Not everyone is willing to sell their soul for a promotion.”
“You certainly won’t need to worry about getting a promotion.” George’s sneer was an invitation for Alasdair’s fist. He drew his arm back and—
Gareth caught his elbow. “Ach, the little whelp isn’t worth the trouble he could cause you, laddie. Let him run back to London like a lapdog.”
Gareth was right. With a teeth-rattling shake, Alasdair tossed George toward the door. “Get out of Highland. Tonight.”
George straightened his shirt. “You are an uncouth, uncivilized Scot. If you come near me, I’ll contact the authorities.”
Alasdair growled and stomped his foot in George’s direction. The man fled like hellhounds were on his heels, and Alasdair let a wild laugh loose. With his bravado dialed to maximum, he called Richard.
The minutiae of the conversation didn’t stick in his memory, but the broad brushstrokes involved several Gaelic curses and the intimate location where Richard could shove Alasdair’s job. In short, he quit in spectacular fashion.
At what felt like the wee hours of the morning, he stumbled into the night air, cool enough to be refreshing, and found himself shoved into the back seat of a four-by-four that smelled of dog next to Gareth.
Dr. Jameson drove and Alasdair’s mum was in the front at his side. A fear formulated in his whisky-soaked mind and he stuck his head between the seats. “You’re not taking me to the airport.”
His mum shifted to give him a shake of her head that somehow conveyed both amusement and disappointment. “As if they’d let you on a plane in your state. Now, sit back and try not to sick up on the drive.”
Alasdair did as he was told because the motion was indeed nauseating. He let his head loll back on the support and patted Gareth’s knee. “Alright there, old man?”
“I’ll survive.” Gareth was leaned against the window.
Alasdair’s thoughts drifted. He would survive too. After all, that’s what he’d been doing the last few years in London. Surviving. But more was within his reach. He’d done his best to mitigate risk in his love life and work life, but if he wanted to be happy, he’d have to risk something fundamental to his survival. He’d have to risk his heart.
Chapter Seventeen
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. W
e 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.
A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel Page 25
