“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.”
Chapter Eighteen
Izzy thrummed with nerves and excitement at Alasdair’s wild and crazy idea. While it might solve their geographic problems, it was a huge step and one she wasn’t sure any of them were ready for. An announcement of the ribbons being awarded for the athletic events came over the loudspeaker.
“Come on, we’ve got to get out there.” While she wanted nothing more than to lead him upstairs, build a pillow fort, and hide inside—preferably naked—she was in the thick of the festival and had responsibilities.
Hand in hand they approached the stage where the athletes and the crowd had gathered. Her mom stood behind a small table covered in ribbons and welcomed everyone, her voice distorted by the sound system. Usually, Izzy announced and her mom bestowed, but her mom made no move to relinquish the microphone.
When it came time to award Alasdair the ribbon for Laird of the Games, whistles and yells erupted from other competitors. Pats on the back and handshak
es slowed Alasdair’s progress to the stage. He and Holt even exchanged a bro hug.
Alasdair dropped his chin in an “aw shucks” way, but his slight smile was puckish. He stepped close and spoke as if in a confessional. “I never would have made it up here without the blokes’ help, especially Holt.”
“I knew as soon as Mom said you were at the top, something shady was going on.” She pressed the prize to his chest. It was round and blue and trailed a dozen or more ribbons which fluttered in the slight breeze.
“My whisky-impaired brain thought winning your favor through feats of strength would be a good idea. If I had known it would only take hurting myself, I would have dropped the weight on my head this morning.”
“You are silly.” She tilted her face toward his. “Are you ready for your kiss?”
He obligingly presented his cheek, but Izzy took his face between her hands, and kissed him square on the mouth. The crowd faded into white noise. It wasn’t a sexy or intimate kiss, but it was firm and punctuated the promise knitting itself together between them. They broke apart. Only a second had passed, but everything was different.
He retreated to stand at the foot of the stage, and she understood he was waiting for her. He would always wait for her.
The last event of the evening was a performance by the Scunners, a Scottish band that fused traditional Scottish music with rock beats. The lead singer, a petite woman with short hair dyed platinum, bounded onto the stage. Her mom looped her arm through Izzy’s and pulled her to a relatively secluded area at the back of the stage.
“You and Alasdair have made nice.” Her mom’s tone and expression were a study in contrasts; happy and sad, scared and content.
“Have you talked to Gareth yet?”
Her gaze darted over Izzy’s shoulder and sharpened. “Not yet, but he’s been trailing me all afternoon, waiting to pounce.”
“Waiting to throw himself at your feet and beg forgiveness, you mean?”
Her mom spoke so softly Izzy had to lean closer. “The sooner we talk, the sooner it will all be over.”
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