When I only looked at her, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “No,” she said. “No way I’m letting you out of the house in that . . . that horrible granny garment. You’ll wear this one, and you’ll look brilliant.” She marched to my closet and rummaged through, snorting at the selection. Finally, she emerged with a cropped ivory top with cap sleeves and a low neckline. “This’ll do. And you can just quit shaking your bloody head at me, missy. Trust Auntie Phoebe. You’ve got great legs. It’s time to show them off.”
My friend had no issue whatsoever with the amount of skin she displayed. Her own skirt—patterned in the red, blue, and yellow tartan that had clothed generations of MacPhersons—barely covered the necessities.
I cringed as her critical gaze roamed me up and down. My hair, though freshly washed, was pulled up in its usual tight pony. And my face hadn’t seen more than a lick of mascara in weeks.
I hadn’t seen the need. Not when most of my day was filled with endless hours in the library, broken up only by the occasional mud-soaked farce that was my so-called weapons training.
“You know what it’s time for, don’t you?” she said, her blue eyes narrowing as she stalked toward me.
“No-o.” I backed up, stepping on poor Hecty’s tail in my fruitless attempt at escape.
Yowling, the tiny cat shot under the bed and turned to glare at me from the shadows.
“Oh, aye. It’s makeover time.” With a firm grip on my arm, Phoebe marched me toward the bathroom. “Let’s be on with it, then. We’re running out of time and you—my darlin’ girl—are sadly in need of an expert hand.”
In the passenger seat of the battered old Range Rover, I spent most of the hour-long drive yanking at the soft, loose curls that whipped about in the wind, and tugging on the short skirt that seemed determined to ride up.
Thing was, I hadn’t really felt like doing much of anything lately. Even racing across the moors on Ethel’s back had done little to penetrate the gray film that seemed to coat my senses like a dirty shroud.
As Phoebe and Doug chattered and giggled in the back seat, the yeasty, savory scent of Moira’s meat pies rose from the neatly packed boxes in the floorboard. With this batch, Moira had sworn she’d at last beat out “that braggart Catriona MacLean,” for the blue ribbon.
I folded and refolded the square of crinkled wax paper that had held a sample of her entry for Scottish tablet, a buttery, sugary confection I’d scarfed down within five minutes of getting in the car.
Even Collum was in rare form.
“Sure, and there are bigger fairs around,” he said, eyes pinned on the winding road ahead as he followed Mac’s truck up into the glory of the Highlands. “Braeburn and Atholl, for instance. But they’ve become so damn commercial. Food trucks that sell junk like corn dogs and burgers and chicken on a stick, for God’s sake. None of which can match Archie Gordon’s bannock and bangers, mind. And they bring in ringers from other countries, so locals have little chance to place in any of the competitions.”
Traffic had come to an abrupt halt as we joined the line of cars attempting to crawl through the tiny, quaint village that had played host to the ancestral gathering for a thousand years or more. An enormous ruin loomed atop a nearby hill. Only the ghosts of its noble occupants now watched over town and fields and glassy loch. Even smaller and older than the village near Christopher Manor, the sidewalks before the homes and businesses that lined the town’s only street now bustled with strolling Highlanders.
When we eventually reached the grassy field that served as a parking lot, the sun was just peeping over the mist-cloaked mountains to the east. As the guys moved off with a roll of striped canvas and poles, to set the Carlyle tent among the other clans, I reveled in the fragrance of the cool early air that sieved around us.
Deep water. Highland pine. Ancient mysteries that would remain forever unsolved.
I’d never seen any of the guys in a kilt. But as they greeted old friends on the way to our assigned spot, they looked oddly natural among all the other kilted lads. Collum’s back muscles bulged beneath the blue and white rugby jersey as he pounded tent stakes in the ground. By the time they’d pulled the canvas taut, Doug’s gold-framed glasses were opaque with steam, and beads of sweat dripped from his finger-length dreads to trail down his face.
Collum swiped a handkerchief over his face. “Think that’s it, then. If you’re done with us, Gran, we’ll be off.”
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 grand-father. 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.