The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,121
the stone put to Campbell, and the foot race to Rannoch. Only the caber toss remained, and given his performance thus far, he held out scant hope for winning his wager with Annie.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
He’d already written the letter inviting his family to visit, though he’d waited to send it until after the Glenscannadoo Games. Likely he’d be waiting a good deal longer. Possibly months. A year, even.
John peered across the vast green to where the spectators gathered. Locals, visitors from neighboring towns, and guests of the laird stood in groups or sat on blankets enjoying their luncheon. He scanned the crowd for a familiar head of banner-bright hair.
“To the left, near the bagpipers,” Rannoch said. “She’s speakin’ with Lockhart’s sister.”
He found her. His glorious Highland lass. She wore a green, long-sleeved gown today with her tartan sash about her waist and blue silk ribbons on her straw bonnet. Her sleeves and gloves disguised the cuts that were still healing.
Thank God none of them had been deep. Thank God his wife was so strong.
He watched her laugh and converse with Miss Lockhart as though they were bosom friends. “She’s quite convincing,” John murmured, sliding his gaze several feet away to where Lord Lockhart stood with Laird Glenscannadoo.
“She’s motivated,” Rannoch replied. “If somethin’ is a matter of will, I wouldnae bet against Annie.”
John smiled. “No, indeed.”
A week had passed since David Skene had tried to abduct Annie. Constable Munro had asked a few questions about the man’s death, but not as many as John expected. Munro had appeared content to dispose of the rat and all the trouble he’d brought to the county.
Since then, John, Annie, and the MacPhersons had been preparing for the Gathering. Several times, Annie had ventured to Broderick’s house in the east foothills of MacPherson land. She always returned home sadder and in need of John’s comfort.
Broderick’s injuries had largely healed—at least as much as they were likely to. But he was simmering with a bottomless rage, and his isolation wasn’t helping. Annie didn’t know what to do. She often questioned the wisdom of involving Broderick in their plans to confront Lockhart. “How can we ask this of him, English?” she’d whispered only last night.
They had little choice. If Lockhart was the man who had hired Skene to imprison and kill Broderick, he must be brought to justice. He must be made to pay.
Now, Rannoch distracted his glare away from Lockhart with another thump on John’s back. “Best ye focus on the caber toss, Huxley. Campbell hasnae been defeated since he was a wee laddie.”
Two hours later, Campbell still hadn’t been defeated. But it wasn’t over yet. John’s first two tosses had been surprisingly good. Campbell’s were better, of course. The man was a bloody monster made of pure muscle and bone. He hefted the two-hundred-pound log as though it were a twig.
Now, he threw the thing end-over-end in his third toss. It landed perhaps a degree shy of twelve o’clock. All of the man’s tosses had been similarly excellent.
John’s shoulder muscles ached. The heat was stifling. And the midges were relentless. He glanced to where he’d seen Annie earlier. She was there, cornflower blue eyes dancing like flowers in a midsummer field. He shaded his eyes to see her better.
She mouthed something. He thought it was I love ye, but it could easily have been I’m winning. Likelier it was the first one. Annie wasn’t nearly as competitive as he was.
Finally, it was time for his third toss. He approached the caber that Campbell held propped and ready for him.
“Good luck to ye, Huxley,” said Campbell in that deep, quiet rumble. “Win or lose, ye’ll make a fine addition to the MacPherson tug-o-war team.”
John chuckled, acknowledging his brother-in-law’s compliment with a clap to that monstrous shoulder before accepting control of the caber. A breeze rolled through the glen, cooling his sweat and clearing his mind. He settled the caber against his shoulder, feeling it slide into the old, familiar spot along his bone. The MacDonnell officiating the event—one of Dougal’s cousins—signaled he could begin and stepped back to give him room.
John breathed. Slid his hands down the wood to the bottom. Then gripped and lifted. At first, he thought he had it. But the weight shifted as he adjusted his laced fingers. He took a second to regain his grip.