by Marlie May
“Sorry, but I’ve got to go.” Dag gave me a quick kiss. He spun on his heel and strode toward the heavy games area, calling over his shoulder, “Duty calls.”
“See you later,” I yelled. We’d meet up for the 5K Kilted Kaper in a few hours.
My first priority was coffee. Anticipation had kept me tossing for most of the night. I reached the food court and bought a double espresso, and then took a seat in central command, armed to deal with any and all festival issues.
I fought fires and dealt with staffing problems. One of the tractors pulling a wagon for people to ride in to and from the parking lot broke down. I called the local garage, and they sent someone out to fix it. And one of the volunteers fell and twisted her ankle. I arranged for the ambulance crew to take her to the hospital, then called her family to let them know what happened.
I’d changed into shorts and a tank and was warming up for the Kilted Kaper when Dag joined me at the start of the event. Around us, competitors stretched or made last-minute inspections of their footwear.
“You ready?” I asked, skimming my gaze down his body. In his shorts and shirt, he looked hot, in more ways than one.
He gave me a tight grin. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
I could understand why he was nervous. When I first entered competitions, my heart had raced before I took my first step. A mix of excitement, anticipation, and a healthy dose of fear had churned through my gut, making me nauseous. Now, the familiar calm I’d learned to adopt before an event blanketed my shoulders.
“You’ve got this.” After giving him a quick hug and a kiss for luck, we joined the other competitors waiting to get started.
With a bang of the gun, we took off, our feet pounding the pavement. I settled into my usual pace, racing through the neighborhoods blocked off for the race. Other runners stomped nearby, while a few stretched out, moving ahead. The course looped around, finishing back at the fairgrounds. I finished in the top ten, which would please my sponsors and was good enough for me. In the past, I would’ve berated myself for not making the top three. Would’ve made myself train harder, starting with the afternoon after the event. But I was learning—slowly—to put things into perspective. I’d found balance.
Dag rushed up to me right after he crossed the finish line. Lifting me off my feet, he spun me around while I giggled, before lowering me to the ground. A satisfying kiss followed.
“Amazing,” he said, his cheeks flushed, a bright gleam in his eyes. “I actually did it.”
He hadn’t made the top ten but finished eighteenth in the men’s division.
“Not bad at all.” I had a feeling this was the first of many races for Dag.
After showering and changing, I returned to central command. With his construction background, Dag was assigned to work outside, which meant I wouldn’t see him for a few hours.
In no time, I was absorbed in solving more problems. One of our suppliers for bannock—what the rest of the world called scones—had hit a snag. The driver’s vehicle broke down twenty-minutes away. He called to say he’d be late; he was waiting for a wrecker. On any other day, a delay of bannock wouldn’t bother a soul. Because, really, who outside of a Scotsman wanted bannock on a regular basis? But at the Highland Games, it was a crisis.
I placed some calls and was able to round up a crew to take the vehicle to a garage. They also planned to offload the food and get it here on time. One bannock disaster averted.
After that, I got in touch with the undecided donors on my list. Over the past six months, I’d solicited businesses from Kittery to Fort Kent, and donations were pouring in. This was my specific duty—my baby—and I had to admit, I was doing surprisingly well. One woman in particular, who I’d nicknamed Tight-fisted Tanya, must’ve had a change of heart. Or I’d worn her down because she agreed to transfer two thousand dollars to the Foundation’s bank account on Monday.
Alice stormed in after lunch. Lunch for some, that is. I was still trying to sneak in bites of my bannock at three.
“We’ve got a port-a-potty problem.” Alice ran both hands through her dark hair.
I groaned, unable to imagine what it could be. We were talking green stalls and holes with chemicals in the bottom, not rocket ships.
Okay, so maybe I didn’t want to know what the port-a-potty issue could be. Yuck.
Arms elbow-deep in yellow rubber gloves and wearing a matching bright hazmat suit, I gritted my teeth and approached the port-a-potty, plunger in hand. No, I had two plungers in hand. This was a big job.
The port-a-potty gods might think they’d defeat me, but I’d prove them wrong. In the open doorway, I crouched, ready to pounce and…
“No,” I whispered, putting a halt to that daydream before it got started. No, no, no.
Wrinkles filled Alice’s face, and she cleared her throat. “We’re running out of toilet paper.”
So, no need for plungers. “The Games just got started. How could something like this happen?”
“Exceptional GI distress?”
“Ha, ha.”
I could’ve sent volunteers to buy out the supermarket’s supply, but what if the local supply didn’t get us through Sunday? Besides, the community might need toilet paper, too. I placed a call to Blo Brothers and explained the situation.
“I can’t imagine why you’re out, Ma’am,” he said. “But we’ll send some right over.”
Esteban showed up as I ended the call, and I updated him on what I’d accomplished. He patted my back as he passed me. “Great job, Lark. Phenomenal, in fact.”
After that, it was time to walk the park and anticipate disasters before they got started. People streamed around me, with at least ten-thousand attending, more than we’d anticipated. Since the heavy games would take place tomorrow, we expected closer to twenty-thousand attendees then. All paying entrance and buying food, and many participating in the events. Ca-ching! I could hear the proceeds pouring in already, guaranteeing we’d reach my lofty goal for the event.
My first issue involved trash barrels. I texted central trash command. Could someone empty the recycling bin in section 10? It’s overflowing.
Sure thing. I’m on it.
I finished the day at central command again.
Esteban told me the Foundation had raised twenty-eight thousand dollars so far. “I’m confident we’ll double that by the end of tomorrow.”
Darn. Even doubled, it wasn’t enough.
He must’ve seen my face fall. “This is more than we could ever hope for. Even fifty thousand for the entire weekend would be fantastic.”
“I know. You’re right.” I smacked my pen on the table.
“You’re the reason we’ve been successful, you know.”
I lifted my head. “Everyone is. This was your idea. I only jumped onboard when you asked for help.”
“Now, don’t be modest. Who went to every business throughout southern Maine soliciting food and beverage donations? Who wrote all those letters begging for money?” He took in my overheated face. “Give yourself the credit you deserve. You’ve got a knack for this.”
Only time would prove that theory right or wrong.
* * *
On Sunday morning, I received a text from Dag. Meet me at the park? I’m running late. I’ll bring you an iced coffee. Vanilla, cream, extra sugar, right?
You’re spoiling me, but I love it.
You deserve nothing but the best.
Which was him.
I jumped out of bed and threw on a dress and my tartan. In no time, I’d arrived at the fairgrounds and crossed the street, walking toward central command. Dag met me inside, and I exchanged a kiss for my much-needed coffee. “Thanks.”
I’d missed him with the Games taking up much of our weekend. We’d have to make plans for alone time this coming week, maybe out at his friend’s place, at the ocean.
Before I could suggest a time and date, Esteban clapped his hands. He explained our duties for the day, then clapped again. “Okay, ever
yone. The crowds will be arriving soon. Let’s get to it.”
“See you later?” I asked Dag. “We could meet up before the Heavy games.” I slanted a look heavy with its own implications. “I can help you dress in your kilt.”
He wore jeans and a Highland Games tee. His kiss tasted sweeter than the hazelnut coffee lingering in his mouth. “It’s a plan.”
“Text me!”
When I hadn’t heard from him by ten, I sent him a message. The Games are at 11. We still meeting up beforehand? XOXO
XOXO back at cha. Got tied up with the bagpipers. An argument about Chanter reeds. Can we meet at the green?
My excitement dimmed. So much for helping him dress in his kilt. It was hard to whine through a text, however. It’s a date. Hey, what is this one, anyway. Our 26th? 27th?
What do you want for our 27th?
Just you.
I can afford that.
I didn’t need monetary things to make me happy. His humor filled me to the brim.
A few minutes before eleven, I located him. As I glided my gaze down his kilted body, I acknowledged I’d become addicted to plaid. “You look fantastic. As usual.”
“So do you.”
I flared my tartan. “I love that we match.”
The overhead speakers screeched, yanking my attention away. People sitting in the crowded bleachers jumped and others chuckled nervously. “Ladies and gentlemen. It’s time for the heavy games!”
People clapped and cheered. Since Dag was competing, I left the field to join Roan at the edge to watch.
“And, for our first event, ladies and gentlemen, we have the caber toss,” the announcer said. “The symbol of the Highland Games.”
“Did Dag say when he was up?” Roan asked.
“First.”
“Lucky draw.”
I studied Roan, who leaned against the wooden railing, his upper arm muscles revealed by his t-shirt. A few years younger than Dag, his build was similar, except Roan had hazel eyes and dirty blond hair. He seemed like a nice guy. Too bad he and Paisley hadn’t hit it off as anything more than friends. “You’re not competing today?”
“Nope.” He squinted toward the center of the field, where guys were maneuvering the caber into position. “Thought about it, but it takes practice to get this right, and I’ve been too busy at work.” He scowled. “My accountant…Well, let’s just say she’s in jail, now.”
“Wow. Sorry.”
“Me, too.” The skin around his eyes crinkled when he looked my way, and sadness had taken over his face. “Divorced her, too.”
I winced. “Doubly sorry.”
“Yep.” Sighing, he stared at the field, saying nothing further, and I turned to watch, too.
“In the caber toss,” the announcer said. “The competitors must hoist the pole upright and toss it so that it turns end over end, with the larger end striking the ground first, preferably landing in the twelve-o-clock position. Let’s give our first, a local contestant, a big hand. Dag Daylight Ross! May he turn the caber!”
Roan chuckled. “He actually entered as Daylight?”
Cute that Dag had used the true meaning of his name. I returned Dag’s wave, unable to keep the smile off my face. “I love it.”
Dag stepped onto the center of the field, raising his arms to the crowd’s cheers. Volunteers stood the pole Dag would throw upright. Nestling it against his shoulder, he squared his feet and stooped, slowly working his hands down to the bottom of the nineteen-foot pole, being careful not to let it tip sideways. One quick heft and he grabbed the bottom with cupped hands, teetering, his feet fumbling for purchase on the ground.
The crowd aww’d.
Dag stepped backward and then sideways quickly while struggling to maintain control of the pole, which looked poised to lunge away from him. I bit my lower lip and then shouted his name, my words drowned out by the whistles and hoots for him to throw it.
I compressed my hands against my chest and shouted, “Go!”
Gaining control, Dag stepped forward, picking up speed to a near run. He stalled and grunted, thrusting the pole up and forward. A hush descended as everyone watched it tumble and land on the heavy end. It bounced sideways and flopped on the ground. Cheers erupted from the crowd while the announcer said, “Well done! Well done! Three-o-clock and a fabulous first effort.”
Dag bowed and then fist-pumped the air as he crossed the field to wait with the other competitors. Considerable high-fiving commenced.
“Looks like Dag will give them stiff competition,” Roan said.
“I’d say so.” Frankly, I was amazed. I knew he’d trained and competed in heavy games while living in Scotland, and he certainly stayed in shape with his job, but the caber toss was a difficult event. Most people trained for months in preparation.
“And next up is Edmond Strongman Dirkson,” the announcer yelled through the speakers. “May he turn the caber!”
Roan tapped my arm, drawing my attention away from the field. “I’m going to find something to eat, but I’ll see you later?”
“Sure.”
He left, and the competition continued until each athlete tossed the caber twice. Dag finished sixth overall.
“Okay folks, the next event is the Stone Put!”
Dag strode over to stand with me, climbing between the rails of the wooden fence. I handed him a water bottle, which he drained.
“You’re not doing this event, right?” I waved to the field where contestants were lining up to throw an enormous rock.
“Hammer throw’s my next.”
In that competition, a ball secured to the end of a wooden shaft was whirled overhead and thrown. Whoever sent it the farthest distance won.
The announcer continued, “In the stone put, folks, the stone weighs twenty pounds for men, ten for women. The thrower can toss it any way they wish, as long as they hold it in one hand and cradle it against their neck until the moment they let it fly. This is a true Scottish…”
“Hot day.” Dag wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“Eighty, I think.” Even hotter in the sun.
Cheers erupted from the field behind me, drawing my attention to where other events were taking place concurrently. In the adjacent field, two women sat facing each other, their feet pressed together. The Maide Leisg, Gaelic for Lazy Stick. They held a pole and would pull until one of them was lifted off the ground.
“I need to check the gate,” Dag said. “I’ll catch up with you later?”
“I’ll be back in time to watch you compete again.”
He smiled. “Sounds good.”
I strolled past the children’s area, chuckling at those waving along the ground on stilts. Further across the field, a girl leaped off a platform onto an enormous pile of hay. Other kids played traditional Scottish games such as marbles or hopscotch. A group of bagpipers had commandeered a section where they taught the basics of the ancient musical instrument. Ear-piercing squeaks rang out in the air. The pony rides we’d arranged were a hit if the number of kids waiting was anything to go by. Jane, a chicken tucked underneath her arm, waved when she saw me.
I wove through the crowd to the beer tent, where Paisley worked behind the bar.
“Come in for a brew?” Paisley shouted out over the whirl of the crowd. My sister wore a Celtic dress and a red and blue tartan provided by the Foundation. Her blonde hair shifted back and forth on her shoulders as she poured foamy beverages from the multiple taps set up by local brewmasters, and handed them off to customers.
“I’d love one, but—” I held up my phone. “I’m on duty.”
“Come by when you’re done for the day,” Paisley called back. “I’ve been told to give out one free sampler float to any volunteer, and that means you.”
My parched throat couldn’t wait. “It’s a deal.” I turned and bumped into Roan.
“Hey, Lark,” he said, steadying me with his hands on my forearms. He stepped back and waved to the brooding man beside him whose arms were c
rossed on his broad chest. From his dark hair and the shape of his eyes, it was easy to tell he was a younger version of Dag. “You met Gunner?”
“Not yet,” I said with a smile. “Hi.”
Gunner’s lips lifted, and he nodded, but his gaze was focused beyond me. I turned, realizing he watched Paisley as she giggled and danced back and forth behind the bar.
While I didn’t know Gunner, I recognized his narrowed expression.
He was interested.
But, if Gunner was contemplating gunning for Paisley, I’d have a word with him, explain the ground rules.
These Ross men could be lethal.
Paisley poured a brew. Her hips shifted to the music while foam drizzled down the side of the glass. A quick swipe with a rag and she handed it to a customer. After striding around the bar, she enveloped me in a hoppy-scented embrace. “How you been, anyway? It feels like I haven’t seen you for ages.”
“I’ve been unbelievably busy.”
“I bet. The Games are going incredibly well.” Paisley smiled. “How you been, Roan?”
“Great, thanks.”
Paisley gaze slid past him and landed on Gunner. Her breath caught.
Oh-oh. Maybe I should have a word with Paisley, too. Not to set ground rules for her, because Paisley was her own person and could take care of herself. But Dag had shared some of Gunner’s past, including the circumstances of his wife’s death. If she was interested, Paisley would have to proceed with caution.
Regardless, I introduced them. It would be impolite not to do so.
I then noticed Gunner wore the kilt I’d last seen on Roan. On Roan, the kilt looked cute. On Gunner…well, this man was dangerous.
Not to my heart, but to the heart of every other woman on the planet.
Dag
I was strolling through the Games’ field late Sunday afternoon with Lark when someone called my name.
We turned.