Crouched in a defensive stance, Lachlan Wallace’s mind refused to focus. Sweat streamed from his brow, drained into his eyes and blurred his vision. His breathing rushed through his ears like an angry river. Everything around him moved in slow motion. He rubbed his forearm across his face and his white sleeve came back with a swath of blood.
But nothing hurt, except Lachlan’s heart.
Shifting his gaze to the time clock—five seconds left—the red numbers frozen in place while the judges consulted with each other to confirm the three points given to the American for his last kick. Maybe that’s what caused the bleeding. Lachlan didn’t care.
He switched his sights to the scoreboard. Tied, UK nine, US nine. The American contender across the mat stared with the hunger of a rabid dog. Still, Lachlan could take him. He just needed a moment to focus.
Damn. Out of the starting gates, he’d suffered a vicious kick to the gut, but that wasn’t the reason for a ton of lead sinking to his toes.
Just hang in there. I have to prove her wrong about something.
The referee sliced his hand downward—the signal to engage. Lachlan’s legs moved like four hundred pound weights hung from his thighs. The American approached, growing blurrier by each fraction of a second. Holding his defensive stance, Lachlan shifted for a countermove as his opponent slightly raised his hind foot to his toes.
A kick.
Anticipating the move, years of training took over and Lachlan spun to the right, aiming a left roundhouse kick to the American’s head. A millisecond off, the man ducked and rolled away from what could have been the kick to end the fight. Lachlan should have continued with the attack, pinning the man to the mat and issuing a three-point punch to the face, but Angela’s voice rang in his head.
“I’ve filed for divorce. John and I moved your things to Container Village on Falkirk Road. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor. You’re such a loser. Don’t try to call. I’ve blocked your phone.”
The rush of Lachlan’s breathing deafened his ears.
Who the fuck is John?
The unanswered question burst into a million stars as the American’s heel collided with Lachlan’s temple.
Back in Scotland with an overstuffed duffle hanging from his shoulder, Lachlan pushed the buzzer to Uncle Walter’s Glasgow flat. Walter Tennant wasn’t really his uncle, but Lachlan had called the old archaeologist by that moniker ever since he could talk.
“That you, laddie?” the disembodied voice crackled through the ancient speaker.
“Yes, sir,” Lachlan said while the buzzer sounded. He pushed through the door and bounded up two flights of stairs. He never used a lift when stairs were available.
Waiting in his doorway, Walter’s glasses were thick as Coke-bottle bottoms. The man had to be over eighty. Crusty, he’d lost most of his hair and his back stooped a bit, but other than that, the old archaeologist could pass for sixty-five. Walter’s neck craned as Lachlan topped the stairs. “How can you possibly look taller every time I see you?”
At thirty, Lachlan had been six-foot-six for a good ten years. “Maybe you’re shrinking.” He gave the old man a hug. “How’s life treating you, Uncle?”
“No complaints. Your mum will be helping with the dig at Avoch Castle in the spring. Do you think you could take a couple weeks to join us?”
Heck, Lachlan could barely think past tomorrow and Walter was asking about a dig that wouldn’t start for six months? “I’ll have to check my schedule. Avoch? Wasn’t it once Ormond Castle, the seat of Andrew de Moray?” Lachlan wasn’t a history buff like his mum, but he had a zest for anything about William Wallace and de Moray had been the great legend’s comrade in arms.
“You are your mother’s son.” Walter ushered him inside the flat—threadbare carpet, an old TV, a recliner.
“Hey, did you get a new couch?” Lachlan asked.
“Aye. Figured I needed someplace for the guests to sit.”
“You planning on having guests?”
“Nay. Just me and the cat—but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.” The cat was the reason for Lachlan’s visit. The timing was perfect. After he’d regained consciousness in the Brussels hospital, he’d called his mom who was in London for a series of lectures on Medieval History. By the time he arrived at the Edinburgh airport, he had an offer to cat sit for Uncle Walter for two weeks. Lachlan had changed his flight from Edinburgh to Glasgow, and there he stood with his duffle in tow. All he needed was to do a load