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.
“Nah. I’ll just go with—”
“No.” I stumbled as she basically shoved me toward the stage. “Go on with you, now. You’ll want to see the bairns dance. It’s adorable.”
Without another word, she scuttled off to join the group of men and women gathered around a different table.
“Okay.” I frowned, huffing as I stomped off toward the edge of a sparse knot of people who were watching the baby dancers. “Guess I can take a hint.”
I was still grumbling under my breath when someone tugged at my skirt. I glanced down to find a little girl in red and white Highland dancer’s plaid blinking up at me through too-long bangs.
“That man thaid to give you thith.”
No more than five or six, the girl pulled a hand from behind her back and thrust out a dimpled fist. In her chubby palm lay a shiny red apple.
She giggled when I took it, revealing a gap where two baby teeth had disappeared into fairyland. I tried to thank her as she raced off to join her friends near the stage, but my voice too had apparently absconded.
Lids closing, I raised the round, fragrant fruit to my nose and breathed in the scent of ice and memory. The apple’s cool skin brushed against my lips as I smiled and opened my eyes.
And there he was, leaning against the side of the nearby ale stand, arms and ankles casually crossed, as if he’d been waiting there since dawn.
Grinning, he pushed away from the weathered wood and took three long-limbed strides toward me.
I’m dreaming, I thought. Gotta be.
The dreams came often now, leaving me gasping and sweaty, filled with a new kind of nameless ache. But the boy standing before me did not disappear, or dissolve into mist that filtered through my fingers.
Chapter 5
FROM RUMPLED BLACK HAIR TO HIGH-TOP SNEAKERS, Bran Cameron looked perfectly at ease draped in the odd dichotomy of ancient kilt and vintage Lord of the Rings tee. Bran was a person comfortable in his own skin, a reality I couldn’t really comprehend. I wondered idly if he’d meant the plaid to match the startling blue and green of his heterochromatic eyes.
“Madainn mhath.”
As he spoke, I realized two things simultaneously.
One . . . that I was staring like a starveling at a pretty piece of cake.
And two . . . that the air, so rich in oxygen only seconds earlier, had gone suddenly and woefully thin.
“W-what?”
“Madainn mhath. It’s Gaelic for good morning.” He flicked a hand at his attire. “Seemed appropriate, considering.”
“I know what it means.”
“Well, of course you do,” he said. “You are a superhero, after all. Though I must say, I believe I prefer that skirt to a cape and tights.” A slim dark eyebrow cocked as his gaze tracked down my bare legs. “You know,” he mused, “we never gave you a proper superhero name. Personally, I prefer Brain Girl, but we can open the floor for discussion if you—”