by L. L. Muir
She was tough and forced herself not to look at Fitz until after she hit her mark. Once she did, she turned to wait for the rest of the party to take their spots. When her eyes found the dark, broodingly handsome figure on one of the back rows, her heart felt like it was dancing in her chest.
The sash of green plaid matched his eyes. That charming face looked just as sexy without its five o’clock shadow as it had with it. And for the occasion, he’d tied his hair behind his neck, but she couldn’t wait to see it loose again. Maybe on the football field. She only hoped she’d be around when he changed his shirt.
Her mother started hissing in the middle of the bride’s entrance and Grace looked right into the woman’s eyes and shook her head. If she ever got married herself, which she wouldn’t, but if she did, she’d make her mother promise to keep a cork in it—if she allowed the woman to attend at all.
Her mom looked a little surprised and a lot mad. Boy was she going to get an earful when this was all over. But for the moment, Grace didn’t care. She had her hero sitting on the back row waiting for her, willing to stand beside her—and it didn’t seem to matter to him whether or not she was paying him to do it. In fact, they hadn’t talked about money at all.
Why was that?
The bride finally made it down the aisle. Patience turned to their father, whose job it was to lift her veil. Tears rushed into Grace’s eyes when she saw the pride on the man’s face. It was a touching moment—naturally, or maybe intentionally, caught on camera—and then it was over. She was pretty sure Rocky’s part hadn’t been planned, but suspected Patience’s perfect pose had been practiced.
That will never happen with me.
The realization kept the tears coming. Unless she moved home and married whom she was told to marry, Rocky Cunningham would never look at her that way, and maybe, not even then. Never once had he been genuinely proud of her. Even as a child, when she’d had something worth bragging about, he’d seemed unimpressed.
She just wasn’t Cunningham-worthy, for some reason. And as much as she’d celebrated it, consoled herself that she didn’t want to be anyway—because of the inherent greed that came along with those genes—it was kind of like failing at being a dog when you were obviously born a dog.
Her heart pounded a little harder, like it did every time she so much as thought about coming back to Texas for good, or for money. So she closed her eyes and pulled her bouquet up to her face, to pretend that she was home again, in Eugene. Where she belonged.
But she was also sad at the thought of getting on the plane the next day because she’d have to say goodbye to Fitzjames.
She looked at the back of the chapel, hoping to seal the sight of him into her memory. But he wasn’t there.
~
Fitz got quietly to his feet and sidled to the end of the bench. The priest harped on about the sanctity of marriage to a clan of folks who couldn’t appreciate the sanctity of kindness. And he certainly didn’t care if it upset Grace or not, he couldn’t sit there and watch her suffer any longer.
He’d seen the tortured emotions parade across her face and known her tears were caused by so much more than just a little sentiment at watching her sister marry. The lass was in pain. And when she’d closed her eyes, he’d realized she was close to having another anxiety attack. She would need him near her if it truly hit.
He’d seen many such attacks at Culloden. Visitors had been overcome by the sadness of the place long before the Great Visitor’s Center had been built and the War Room installed. After that, not a week would go by without a lass or two—and sometimes a veteran—fleeing from the building in the same sort of panic suffered by Grace.
Sweet Grace.
How was he ever going to save her from these people?
He moved slowly along the aisle outside the pillars until he reached the front of the chapel. There he stood and waited, hoping not to draw notice while he watched the lass. When she opened her eyes and looked to the back row, searching for him, he could be silent no longer. The lass’s brows furrowed and her chest rose and fell quickly.
First, he tried hissing, but that only brought her mother’s attention to him. Grace had apparently learned how to tune out the strange noise.
“Grace,” he said clearly. “I am here.”
Her gaze flew to his and she took a deep, slow breath. A relieved smile bloomed and all was right with the world again. Then he realized the room had fallen silent. All faces had turned toward him and even the priest, the bride, and her groom stared at him expectantly.
“’Tis all right now. Ye may get on with it.”
The priest’s brows finally lowered back to their original position and he resumed his speech. Fitz looked to Grace and found her grinning happily at him. And for the rest of the ceremony, they remained lost in the sight of each other, careless of what others might think.
Poor lass. She needed him so. And him with only the rest of the day to spend with her. Hopefully the evening as well. But what then?
At the very least, he had to get her on an airplane headed back to Oregon. He couldn’t leave her in Texas where her mother might peck her into the ground with her nastiness. And her father certainly wouldn’t be a protection, for the man was just as oblivious to Grace’s needs as her mother.
But how to save her?
Would something more dangerous than her family come along to threaten her?
He could only continue to pray that the deed required of him would become clear before all his sand was gone from the glass.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thankfully, Barbara Cunningham was too preoccupied with the turn of the weather to chastise him and Grace for being a distraction. She was busy directing valets and umbrellas while the wedding guests tried to reach their cars without ruining their finery. By the time the church was nearly empty, the rain began in earnest.
Rocky swaggered toward Grace and him huddling in a corner near the door, waiting for her mother to direct them. The man noted Shawn’s blue sack of clothes dangling from Fitz’s fingers, then bent his head to look at the sky beyond the open doorway.
“Fine Scottish weather we’re having,” Fitz said with a smile.
Rocky grinned. “So you’re not gonna beg off on account of weather?”
Fitz chuckled low in his throat. “Why? Are ye expecting some?”
Rocky waved a young man to him, then took hold of the back of his neck and leaned close. “You know where Martin High is?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy looked a little shocked, as if the man had never spoken directly to him before.
“You tell Mary you’re going with Grace, to make sure they get to the school. All right?”
The boy grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Once they were in the car and on their way, Grace introduced the lad. “Fitz, this is Jacob Vandergriff, my aunt Mary’s grandson.”
The lad grinned. “I hope I get to play. I mean, I’m the sophomore quarterback, so I can help.”
Fitz nodded. “Then I hope ye’ll be allowed on my team. But we’ll have to see what Lord Cunningham has to say about it, aye?”
Jacob grinned wider.
Grace’s smile was fairly wide as well.
“What are ye so happy about, lass?”
“I’m just looking forward to someone making my father eat crow, that’s all. It doesn’t happen often.”
The boy snorted. “It doesn’t happen ever.”
The car pulled into the large, busy parking lot. The sign read Welcome to Warrior Country, James W. Martin High School. Whatever events that had filled the car park must have been canceled due to the weather, because people were leaving in droves.
Grace peeked out the shadowed window. “Looks like someone got a generous donation today, huh?”
Fitz forced a smile. “If yer father has paid the school for the use of the grounds, then I suppose not all his money is spent unwisely.”
She rolled her eyes and he knew his little jest had gone amiss. So he decided he wo
uld have to put that much greater effort into impressing her on the field of battle.
When they got out of the car, they found that all the wedding guests had followed in spite of the weather. The womenfolk took umbrellas and headed toward the stadium while the men bent their heads and hurried into the school. And since all of them carried small bags, Fitz assumed the invitation had gone out the night before, calling the men to arms. He just hoped he wouldn’t be expected to face all of them at once.
Jacob led him to the locker room and he changed into a generous pair of black shorts and a gray t-shirt. Just as he was about to put his boots back on, Shawn, the groom, showed up with a pair of cleats.
“I prefer my boots, thank ye just the same.”
Shawn shook his head. “Not on wet AstroTurf, son. You’re going to need these or you won’t move more than a foot or two.”
When they gathered on the field, there seemed to be half as many men as he expected, but plenty to fill two teams, from what he could remember of the game.
Rocky finally joined them and walked to the center of the mob. From his jogging suit, Fitz suspected the man had no intentions of playing himself. Young Rock was his father’s shadow and hobbled on a crutch he hadn’t needed at the dinner the night before.
“Cunninghams, raise your hands,” the elder man bellowed. A little over half claimed the name. Rocky then turned to Fitz and grinned. “I guess that means you get the rest. That is, unless you want to complain that I’ve got all the muscle on my side.”
Fitz lifted his eyebrows. “Is that what ye call it then, muscle?” He glanced at Rocky’s belly.
The crowd fell quiet and waited for the big man’s reaction, then laughed when he laughed.
“Would you like a rundown of the rules?”
Fitz shook his head. “I’ve seen the game played. Twice. In what ye Americans call yer Super Bowl.”
Rocky laughed hysterically as if Fitz had told a grand joke. Then he asked, “And you don’t mind facing off with the Cunninghams?”
Fitz stepped closer to the man and leaned to within a foot of his big face. With hands on his hips, he said clearly, “I’ve been wanting it for centuries.”
Rocky cocked his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, son.”
Fitz snorted. “Culloden? Are ye familiar with it?”
Rocky put his hands on his hips to mirror his stance. “I’ll have you know, the Cunninghams fought at Culloden.”
Fitz was far too close to the man to shout, but he did it in any case. “Aye! Ye did!” He paused for a breath so the man could gloat a bit, then he moved in for the kill. “But ye bastards fought on the wrong side!”
Red faced and sputtering, Rocky turned and shooed his team aside. The rest of them looked like they might like to reconsider their team assignment.
“Any of ye who aren’t afraid to fight, come with me.” He gave Jacob a wink and stomped off toward the south end of the field. There were thirteen of them altogether, since no one wanted to admit to being afraid. When they gathered around him, he made his confession. “I wasn’t jesting when I said I’ve only seen the game played twice. So, I thought our best move would be to put young Jacob here in charge.”
The rest looked at the lad and eventually nodded. It took a moment, but they seemed to relax a bit, smile a bit, and realize this game might not be the serious contest they’d been expecting—or fearing. And though Fitz was relieved the lad knew how to play the game, he was a wee disappointed that there wasn’t another full grown man who felt capable of leading them. But no matter. A willing leader was better than a seasoned one, he reckoned.
The only thing that needed proving was that Fitz was man enough for Grace—even though there was nothing he could do to keep her. The truth of it surprised him—that he wasn’t truly there to pound the Cunninghams into the ground for bringing about his own death. But if he managed to shame them, even a wee, no one could stop him from doing a proper jig—perhaps on the hoods of their cars…
Jacob gave him simple instructions, and while the lad plotted with the others, Fitz popped up to look over their bent heads and searched the bleachers for Grace’s face. His eye was drawn to a hand waving beneath a large black umbrella. The lass sat in the top left corner removed from the others. Just as she’d been removed from the rest, standing in a corner, during her sister’s wedding ceremony.
He so worried about her.
And as if she sensed his worry, she lifted a thumb to him.
He did the same in return, but then glanced at his wiry team and gave her a shrug, as if to say, she shouldn’t get her hopes up. And a second later, he was rewarded with the peal of laughter he was beginning to recognize.
He needn’t worry, he realized. The lass would hold nothing against him if he failed to humble her father. But still, how pleased she’d be if he did…
CHAPTER TWELVE
The ball was theirs.
Jacob began the play and Fitz ran to the place where he’d been told to go. But someone knocked Jacob to the ground before he threw the ball. So they resumed their places and tried again.
For the next play, Jacob threw the ball to Fitz, but one of Rocky’s team knocked it down before it could reach him. And to add to the confusion, two others began to argue on the far side of the field.
Rocky stomped onto the false turf. “What’s going on?”
“He tackled me,” complained one man.
Rocky’s eyes bulged. “So?”
“So he’s on my team!”
Rocky took the whistle dangling over his belly and blew it in the man’s face. “That’s it. Shirts and Skins!”
Fitz thought he could hear that peal of laughter again, though much more enthusiastic than before.
“Please, Uncle John,” shouted Jacob. “Keep your shirt on! We’ll be skins!”
Everyone laughed, including some of the women, and Fitz pulled off the gray t-shirt. Some of his teammates gave him an unkind look before doing the same. He glanced down at his abdomen to see if he was covered in dirt or something more foul, but he still appeared to be as clean as when he’d finished his shower the night before.
Jacob laughed outright, but when Fitz gave him a questioning frown, the lad simply shook his head and called the players to him.
“Obviously, everyone’s a little distracted by Fitz’s six-pack,” said the lad. “So we’re going to take advantage.”
The plan was for Fitz to run down the field with his arms raised like he was expecting the ball to hit those hands at any moment, and the rest of the team would try to block both him and Shawn, who would actually be carrying the ball down the opposite side of the field.
“You take the left side,” Jacob told him. “So the women can see you too.”
“The women?” He looked down at his stomach again, then at the middles of his teammates, and finally understood. “Shall I blow them kisses while I’m at it?”
Jacob giggled. “If you want.”
“Here. This ought to help,” said one man with a belly much like Rocky’s only a third the size. He reached behind Fitz’s head, pulled the tie from his hair, and spread out the curls a bit and tossed the tie aside.
They were enjoying a good laugh when Rocky blew the whistle and shouted, “Time!”
Jacob, as it turned out, was a very clever lad. And for most of the game, they held their own. When the time came, however, they were ten points down with no hope but to kick the ball between the goal posts so there would be less difference in the score. The confounding rains had ceased, but not in time.
“No worries,” he told his team. “We fought well, and we fought hard. No shame in that.”
We fought well. We fought hard. No shame in that.
He’d said those words before to a larger team of comrades. And he’d said it often.
His gut clenched while he moved into position and the past rose up to meet him like an oncoming opponent. The ball was snapped, then kicked. But he had no attention to give the game. He was si
mply too overcome with grief.
He collapsed to his knees and concentrated on breathing. After two and a half centuries, he’d never mourned over the massacre of Culloden while trapped inside a mortal body—a body that was unable to contain all the horror it had been witness to. And just as his legs had remembered how to run, his eyes remembered how to weep.
With his chin lowered, his hair fell around his face and he could do nothing more to hide his grief.
He was barely aware of his comrades celebrating around him. The ball must have flown true. Then, into his awareness, strode Rocky Cunningham, descendant of those who had cut him down on the battlefield, Captain Cunningham’s artillery company.
“You still lost, Payton,” the man said above him. “The Cunninghams have won again. It’s what we do.”
Fitz clenched his fists and held on to whatever willpower his body was still capable of, for Grace’s sake. Then he felt the heavy hand of his enemy pat him gently on the shoulder. Not gloating. Not attempting to knock him off balance.
“Don’t be hard on my grandnephew now, will you? When you send a boy to do a man’s work, you can’t blame the boy. Am I right?”
Two more pats and the hand was gone. The presence was gone. But the words hung in the air like the first shot of a canon.
When you send a boy to do a man’s work, you can’t blame the boy…
Only the boy that came to mind, at that moment, wasn’t Jacob Vandergriff. It was a young Charles Edward Stuart, a prince that had been barely older than himself back in 1745. And in his mid-twenties, Fitz couldn’t say what he’d have been capable of himself. Could he have rejected his advisors and gone to the battlefield sooner? Would he have recognized the disastrous terrain, the fatal flaws before they were exposed?
He couldn’t say.
And he couldn’t sit in the middle of a football field in Arlington, Texas and allow a young man to feel worse than he already must. So he dried his face and pushed himself to his feet, then looked around for Jacob.
He found the boy standing at the edge of the field being comforted by Shawn.