If Collum and Doug blended the ancient with the modern in their T-shirts, tartans, and plain sporrans . . . when Mac MacPherson stepped into the newly erected tent, he looked like something out of a storybook.
“Whoa, Mac!” I gaped at his intricate attire. “You look magnificent!”
“As well he should.” Moira playfully bumped her husband with a hip on her way to rearranging the last of the food. “Representin’ our house in the march, what with Lu feeling peaky, now isn’t he?”
“And judging the sheepdog trials again,” Phoebe said, scrunching her nose at her grinning grandfather. “Though I still think that darling one-eyed bloke should’ve won last year.”
“Aw, go on w’ you now.” Mac, in kilt, furred sporran, and military-style black cap, waved his wife away when she fussed with the silver broach that fastened the formal plaid at his shoulder. It draped over one side of the formal blue jacket, just skirting Mac’s knobby knees. “You kids better get on with it, ’fore Moira here finds more chores that need doing.”
“Now you mention it . . .” Moira tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her lips as she eyed the stacked jars of jam and strategically arranged baskets of baked goods.
“Go. Go. Go.” Collum, one eye on his grandmother, shooed the rest of us out before Moira could come up with any more tasks.
“Wise of ye to get while the gettin’s good.” Mac chuckled as he followed us out the open tent flap. “No daft children did I raise, even if I say so myself.” He turned to the boys. “And which heavies will you lads compete in today?”
“The caber, of course,” Doug replied, slinging an arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “I’ll likely sign for the sheaf toss as well. And Coll’s for the hammer, I think?”
“Aye,” Collum agreed. “And we’d best go or we’ll be so far down on the list we won’t compete till sunset. See you, Mac.”
“Good luck to ye, son.” When Mac clapped Collum on the shoulder, I saw the glow of pride in the older man’s careworn face as he grinned at his grandson. “And don’t forget what your da and I taught ye. With the caber, ’tis not distance that matters, but accuracy, aye?”
Collum’s windburned cheeks flushed an even deeper red as he bestowed one of his rare and lovely smiles on his grandfather. “Aye, Mac,” he said, his voice so gruff he had to clear it. “I remember.”
As I watched the two of them, my own throat tightened a bit. I’d seen the photos. Little Collum—?all big teeth and chipmunk cheeks—?crushed between his dad and grandfather. Scattered all over the manor were snapshots of the three of them, the two men hoisting the freckled little boy on their shoulders. Grinning, sporting poles and matching fishing hats, the three of them setting off on manly fishing trips.
According to Moira, Collum and Phoebe’s mom had been a silly, selfish woman who’d run off with another man shortly after Phoebe’s birth. “And better off we are without that one,” she’d declared more than once.
But their dad, Michael MacPherson, was another story. Even after twelve long years, his absence was a painful, palpable thing.
And whose fault was that?
If—?twelve years ago—?they’d simply left me to freeze to death in that forest, Michael would be here now, filling this gaping hole in their lives.
Their family would be intact. Happy and whole.
I was the reason it all went to crap. Me . . . and no one else.
“Hope?”
I jerked my chin up to find Mac gone and Collum standing only a foot away, hazel eyes narrowed as they peered into mine. “What’s the matter, then? You’re awfully far away.”
“N-nothing.” My voice cracked and I had to swallow back the part of me that wanted to fall to my knees and beg them all to forgive me for ruining their lives. “Must be something I ate. I’m okay now.”
“Come on, you gadabouts!” Phoebe called. “Daylight’s wasting and if I miss out on Mollie Nichols’s famous scones and raspberry preserves you’ll be dealing with one surly ginger, that’s for certain.”
For a moment, Collum didn’t respond as he examined my face. I forced a smile and brushed past him with a breezy “Better get going before she whips out those knives of hers and starts chucking them at us.”
In the grassy strip between rowdy tents labeled MacGregor and Fraser, MacLaine and Buchanan, Doug paused to pull his phone from his sporran. He glanced at the screen, then at Phoebe.
He answered her questioning look with a thumbs-up. A grin split her face nearly in two.
“What was that all about?” I asked as Doug and Collum split off from the two of us and disappeared between two tents.
“Oh, nothing.” Without another word, she hurried after the boys, leaving me staring suspiciously at her twitching skirt.
“Oi,” she said, when I caught up. “I hate it when Doug throws that damn pole. I mean, God knows watching him gets me going. But, well . . . I worry that kind of strain isn’t good for him. What if it brings on a seizure, you know?”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I said. “Doug knows his limits, and he’s been feeling pretty good lately, hasn’t he?”
Phoebe gave a noncommittal shrug as we emerged from Clan Row into the central field. I’d done a little flash research the night before so I’d have some idea what to expect from a true Highland Gathering and wouldn’t look like a complete novice. The articles I’d dredged up slipped into place as we stopped for a moment to observe brawny males of just about every age practice the ancient art of hurling heavy objects through the air.
The first official mention of the Scottish “tossing of ye barr” had been recorded during a military muster in the year 1574.
The Tossing o’ the Caber—?a large tapered pole or tree that has one end wider than the other—?is now the highlight of the Heavy Athletic Competition for most Highland games.
Ranging from 15 to 23 feet long, and weighing between 70 and 150 lbs, the caber toss is the only event where the competitor is not striving for distance or height, but is a show of strength, timing, balance, and momentum.
In other words, the caber, as the text streaming through my mind explained, was a competition where strong men (and now women too) picked up what amounted to a sawed-off telephone pole. Then, cradling the end like a baby in a snuggie, toss it into the air while trying to maintain a straight trajectory.
As I watched the judges dodge the weighty missiles, I couldn’t imagine that the caber had been a very effective warfare accessory. Seemed to me, to avoid getting your head bashed in, one could simply take a little step to the side.
Across the field Collum was bent over a table, signing up for another event that appeared to consist of throwing gigantic, iron-headed hammers from a standing position. I cringed as a premature release very nearly bludgeoned the first row of spectators.
“So.” Phoebe’s blue eyes flicked past me to skim the clearing. “I’ll go sign up for the knife toss, and meet you by the stage, yeah?”
I glanced over at a raised wooden platform where several little girls in brightly colored kilts were dancing around and over a pair of crossed swords.