Long Shot

Chapter 22

“If my event next March goes off as well as these games,” Bobbie said to Jen at eight the next morning, “I’m going to owe you a whole hell of a lot.”

The last of the 5k runners disappeared down the Hemmertex drive, the Highland cattle watching the group of fifty-four competitors stream by. Bobbie, Jen’s race assistant, clutched her tablet computer in which she’d list the finishers after they wound through Gleann, struggled up the hill overlooking the lake, and then made their way back down to the games grounds. The Kid Sprint, which would circle the grounds once and award prizes in different age groups, would go off in a moment. Tons of excited kids and camera-wielding parents milled about in the sunshine.

“You won’t owe me a thing,” Jen told Bobbie. “It was my pleasure.”

And it was. Perhaps more so than planning any number of city events for big-time clients who would never display such honest happiness or personal satisfaction. Besides, Bobbie’s new convention would benefit people she cared about . . . and Gleann.

The games were such a small thing in the grand scheme of this town. Sue McCurdy and Aimee and many others had wanted to believe that just putting on the games again this year—opening the gates to the same-old, same-old—would’ve magically saved the town from falling into ruin, but Jen knew better. This was one weekend out of the entire year. What Gleann had asked her for—without even really knowing it—was long-term help. And Jen was ecstatic that she’d been able to give it, especially now that her sister and Sue and, yes, even Melissa were moving forward on new business opportunities.

Change was in the air, and it smelled wonderful. It filled her with a new sense of accomplishment she couldn’t recall ever experiencing before.

She skirted around the music pavilion—the garbage volunteers had done their job after last night, excellent—and passed the tent where the heritage researchers and kilt makers were rolling back the flaps and setting up their wares.

“Testing, testing.” Leith’s voice crackled across the athletics field, coming through the PA system she’d begged off the local high school. “What do you do with an elephant who has three balls?”

Jen cringed, throwing a wary glance at the families gathering for the foot races. She hurried for the field, intent on stopping Leith short of saying penis.

“Walk him,” Leith mugged into the PA with an exaggerated flair, “and pitch to the giraffe. Ba dum dum.”

Low, scattered laughter came from the corner of the field where a group of fourteen men in kilts were doing squats and lunges, or stretching themselves out on the ground. Leith pointed to them, clapped for himself, and set down the mike.

“Sounds good,” she said, coming up to him. “Although I was a bit afraid where you were going to take that one. I never asked, but have you announced before?”

“Nah, but they love me. I’ll just wing it.” He winked.

They did love him, and she was positive his winging it for no charge would be far better than the drone who demanded money, whom Gleann had hired in the past.

He began to rotate his arms in big circles, mimicking what a few other guys were doing on the opposite end of the field.

Her eyes bulged. “Are you . . . warming up?”

He blinked at her, then turned in stupefication toward the place where two bulked-up athletes were launching into a slow jog around the field. “Wow. Old habit coming back, I guess.”

She didn’t say anything more, just let him process whatever was going on in his mind. He gazed at the towers to be used for the sheaf toss and the weight throw for height—two tall poles with a horizontal crossbeam rigged on ropes, able to be raised and lowered for the different events. In the sheaf toss, throwers used a pitchfork to get a stuffed burlap sack up and over the bar. In weight for height, throwers used a single arm to get a fifty-six-pound weight over the bar.

His eyes then trailed off to the side where a long white board in the grass marked the “trig,” or the front border of the throwing box for the weight for distance, and the open and Braemar stone puts. If Gleann was doing the hammer throw, they’d used that trig, too, but they weren’t. They were throwing two weights for distance that day: the twenty-eight pound and the fifty-six. The open and Braemar stone puts both used a heavy river stone, the main difference being that throwers could use any style to throw the open stone—like the classic shot put—and had to stay in a standing position to throw the Braemar.

The cabers would be thrown last, once the field had been cleared of all other equipment, and since it seemed to be the biggest audience draw.

Fifty feet away, Duncan backed a large Suburban up to the edge of the field, three cabers roped to the roof. Six high school students came running over to help him take them down and also unload the sheaves and pitchforks from the back of the cab. Getting younger volunteers—especially interested athletes—had been Leith’s idea, and it seemed to be working out splendidly.

“Duncan brought some great sticks,” Leith said next to her, breaking out of his reverie. “Excellent shape, light enough to turn so the crowd’ll be happy. None of these guys are pros, but if anyone does really well and wants to try a challenge caber, something longer and heavier, he’s got a sick one.”

She waved to Duncan, who was barking orders to the high school kids like a drill sergeant one second, then making them laugh the next.

“The guys are really excited for this,” Leith added. “A lot of them haven’t thrown together in a long time. Duncan did a great job, bringing them all together here on such short notice. Some old rivalries are heating up again. Lots of side bets. It’s going to be a good day.”

He was staring across the field, hands on his hips. Today he wore his own kilt and hose, the colors bright, the fit perfect. She gave him extra points for a clean, unstained T-shirt, too.

“It is.” She took a deep inhale of the best air she’d ever breathed, feeling it trickle into her lungs.

“Dougall!” Duncan boomed. “Get over here!”

“The boss calls.” A gorgeous smile spread across Leith’s rugged face.

“I’ll check in later,” she said, having to look away before she jumped him right then and there.

“You got it.”

She’d swiveled and was already heading to the whiskey tent to check on Shea, when she heard Leith call her name. She turned to find him jogging back up to her.

“Forgot to tell you something,” he said.

“Oh? Problem?”

“No, not at all. I, uh, I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”

Time stopped. So did the wind and the sounds of the awakening games. The thump of her heart picked up, though. Good and strong and fast.

“What?” she said.

She didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile so widely, and that was saying something. “You heard me.” He opened his arms then let them slap down at his sides. “But I’ll say it again if you want. I love you.” Duncan called him again. “And now I really have to go.”

He held her gaping stare for as long as possible before finally turning and loping over to the AD.

So it was just like that, she thought with her own hidden smile. He loved her. Again.

She could say she loved him again, too, but the warmth that spread through her limbs was not something she’d ever felt before. It was not the same emotion that had existed in their previous lives, their earlier incarnation. It was not the love that she’d spoken over the phone all those years ago. It was something entirely and wonderfully new, and she embraced it with her whole being.

On her way over to the whiskey tent, lost in a delirious haze she didn’t quite know how to navigate, she glimpsed a patch of the old fairgrounds between two cars. Not just any patch, but the center of the field, where the rugby teams were warming up in preparation for their first match. The very spot where, ten years ago, the declarative words Leith had meant as a beginning turned out to be an end.

Not this time, she told herself. Not if she could help it.

Shea came out of her tent to straighten the Amber Lounge signs that had gone crooked overnight. Jen went over to her. “How’s it going?”

“The extra glasses and napkins arrived this morning,” Shea said. “How’d you do that on such short notice and on a weekend?”

“New Hampshire Highland magic.” She winked. “They were local, is all.”

Shea surveyed the grounds in the direction of the athletics field, where a scattered few people had already set up chairs and blankets. Jen’s attention was drawn back to the fairgrounds and that patch of grass, but then someone else caught her eye.

“Don’t look now”—she nudged Shea—“but that hot rugby player from last night is staring at you.”

Shea turned to follow Jen’s line of sight to the dark-haired man who now wore shorts, cleats, and a clean, red rugby shirt. He was sitting on the grass, one well-muscled leg bent inward, the other straight out, as he stretched. But he was definitely looking up toward the whiskey tent on top of the small rise, and it definitely wasn’t at Jen.

“That’s nice,” Shea said in a flat tone. But she looked at the guy for far too long before heading back into her tent. She’d better be careful, because her curiosity was showing.

Down by the ticket entrance, the families of the kids who were about to race had massed into a big group. Aimee was down there, along with Ainsley, the number three pinned on her chest.

In Loughlin’s field, which bordered the games grounds, one of the shaggy orange Highland cattle started to cross the grass toward the crowd. Jen had no idea those things could move any faster than a lazy amble, let alone be capable of the slow jog the giant beast was doing now. It looked like curiosity had gotten the better of the animal, too, only it wasn’t as determined to hide it as Shea. The cow wore a great, clanking bell around its neck, and as it came right up to the fence, the kids got really excited and started to mill around it. That seemed to excite the cow, and it paced back and forth, opening its huge pink mouth, probably looking for food. On the far side of the field, looking only like a black blur from this distance, one of Loughlin’s border collies started to bark.

The parents tried to usher the racers back into position with one hand and take pictures with the other. Once the kids were lined up again, Bobbie shouted directions to them and pulled the trigger on the cheap plastic popgun Jen had picked up at the Gleann gas station. The kids took off in a squealing surge, no concept of pacing themselves, heading out and around the heritage tent, past the field and its lone cow, in a flat-out sprint. Jen watched with a smile as Leith and all the guys on the athletics field turned to applaud and cheer on the smaller ones, some of whom wore kilts as well.

The cow in the pasture let out a bellowing cry and tossed its horns, shaking the fringe from its eyes as it watched the kids run away. It looked like it wanted to run with them, dancing back and forth, getting closer to the fence, leaning into the posts that were already a little tilted and loose.

And then one post tilted too much, grinding up the dirt at its base. The cow hit it again as it strained to race with the kids. The post fell over in slow motion, dragging the connecting wires with it . . . and the next two posts on either side. The middle one landed completely flat, hollowing out a space in the fence big enough for even a great hairy cow with a four-foot horn span to get through. Which it did.

The freed cow trotted happily out of its field, its orange coat bouncing, heading for the route around the athletics field. Maybe it thought it was part of the kid herd. Maybe it wanted the candy and money first prize.

No no no no no, Jen screamed silently, already running down the hill, not really thinking how stupid it was to go charging toward an animal that had gotten loose from its pen. Then someone screamed for real—one of the moms standing at the finish line. As everyone finally realized what had happened, there started a chain reaction of panic. Even Jen, a country-turned-city girl, knew that shouting and running about with a loose animal was the wrong thing to do, but it didn’t deter anyone.

A mass of parents, arms flailing, started to run for their kids, who were still gleefully and ignorantly chugging around the athletics field.

The cow got spooked and changed course, away from the crowd and in the opposite direction. Toward the tents.

Across the field, way back by Loughlin’s house and barn, the barking of the border collie drew closer and closer. The dog was a black-and-white bullet, streaking across the scrubby grass. Out hobbled Loughlin from his barn, holding a whistle to his lips and then calling herding orders to his dog, but the smart little thing was well on it.

The cow wasn’t running, not stampeding, but it was huge and loose and panicking, and in an unfamiliar setting. It hit the heritage tent, its hooves uprooting the ropes, its horn ripping at the sidewalls. The white tent came down. Tables collapsed inside. The proprietors had already left, thank God, having come out to see why forty adults were shouting as they ran for their kids.

The cow snorted, mooed, kept going farther into the grounds. The dog barreled down on it, leaping gracefully over the downed fence, yapping its head off. The cow recognized its herder, and turned its head as the dog circled around, crouching low, pushing it back the way it had come. The dog wove back and forth, keeping the cow on track, but in its rotating path stood Shea’s whiskey tent. It went down, too, with a trip of rope and good sweep of massive orange hindquarters. From underneath the billowing pile of white came the distinct shatter of glass and a wet gurgle.

That’s when Shea screamed, “No fucking way!” and Jen was glad all the kids had been safely gathered on the opposite side of the grounds.

As soon as the dog cleared the cow from the general area, Shea dove for her collapsing tent. A few more bottles tipped over underneath, and she whimpered.

“Save the whiskey!” cried a couple of the rugby players as they sprinted over from the field. They were smiling and laughing, damn them.

Hot Rugby Guy was the first on the scene, hurrying to Shea’s side and shouldering a thick fold of tent before it fell on her. “Here,” he said, his legs flexing under the sagging weight of the breaking tent. “Can you get under? Or see inside at least?”

Poles snapped and Jen’s heart sank. As more rugby players dove for the tent and held up the white fabric, the sound of breaking glass tapered off.

She’d never felt such panic on-site before. Her events never went down in flames. Or got stampeded by cows. She never failed. Ever.

The cow stumbled back over the downed fence, the dog crouching and weaving at its heels. Loughlin finally made it over, his wrinkled face red and twisted from effort. He leaned against one of the still-standing fence posts, rubbing his knee, making no effort to call to his dog anymore or go to the broken section.

Turned out he didn’t have to.

The heavy athletes came running over from the field, kilts and all, Leith at their head. He bent down, picked up the toppled center fence post, and walked it upright, sliding it into its old, ragged hole. The wires from the row of attached posts were dragging it down, pressing down on him. The cords in his neck popped out, the muscles in his chest and arms going tight as he motioned for the other guys to fan out.

“Hold the other posts up,” he called out. “Duncan. In the back of my truck are some shovels. We’ll sink these things deeper, then I’ll send one of the kids over to Mildred’s garage to get some Quikrete.”

The disgusted look he threw at Loughlin was unmistakable and there for all to see. Leith MacDougall, actually showing his displeasure with one of Gleann’s esteemed locals, and one of the biggest names in the valley, no less.

“You’re welcome,” Leith gritted out to the old farmer, as he shouldered the post.

Jen rushed over once the athletes had the fence upright and the cow had been herded by the dog well into the field. The stupid cow was looking over its shoulder at the kids, as if it still wanted to run with them.

“Thank you.” Jen desperately tried to keep a handle on her voice.

“Hey, you,” Leith replied. “Quite the morning.”

She knew he was trying to pull a smile from her, but it wouldn’t work. Not now. Her mind was racing.

Loughlin adjusted his pants as he turned and started to hobble back across his field. His insurance company would be getting a call from Sue McCurdy’s office, that was for sure.

“You okay?” she asked Leith as he pressed his butt and lower back against the pole and stood half bent, hands on his thighs.

“Oh, sure. I’m Atlas, baby.”

She’d never allowed any man to call her baby. He was mostly joking, but there was an easy warmth in his expression, and it didn’t rankle her at all. In fact, it gave her a little island of peace in all this.

“Any reason why the competition can’t go on?” he asked.

She looked around. Everyone was safe . . . but everything else was a disaster. The heritage tent—the tables, books, and photos, and all the kilts for display and sale were strewn everywhere. Shea and a bunch of men in shorts and cleats were burrowing under the remains of her tent and mourning the sad, sad death of some fine bottles of whiskey. Strings of fairy lights made a minefield of the lawn, and most of the tables in the eating area had been overturned or splintered. The athletics field—thank you, Spirit of Mr. MacDougall—was untouched. There really wasn’t any reason the guys couldn’t get to throw around the big stuff.

“No,” she told Leith with a great sigh. “Keep it going. For the love of God, we’ve got to give these people something to do today.”

Duncan came back with the shovels, passing them out, and Leith gave instructions on where to dig, how far down to go. Jen wandered away from the noise and pulled out her phone.

That early on a Saturday, it would be a miracle if her tent contact would be available. He wasn’t. She left a frantic message, knowing there was very little he could do, being that he was located close to New York, but it was worth a try. In the meantime she could help the kilt makers and heritage people dig out their wares. Rolling up her sleeves, she waded into their tent and helped pull out some tartans and books from the dirt. Many were unsalvageable, stamped with massive hoofprints.

Aimee and Ainsley came over. “What can we do?” her sister asked.

Jen could hear Shea swearing up a colorful storm just as a lot of other locals and attendees were starting to mill about. She told her sister and niece, “You guys stay here and help the heritage people. Too much broken glass over by Shea. Don’t want Ainsley to get hurt. I’ll go to her.”

By the looks of it, Shea didn’t really need the help. Pretty much every rugby player had come over to sift through the broken tent and salvage what bottles were whole and unbroken. Whenever they found one, they raised it above their heads and bellowed like a pirate finding treasure. Hot Rugby Guy was still there, but instead of staring at Shea or attempting to flirt with her as some of the others were hopelessly doing, he was helping to methodically pick through the debris.

Someone tapped Jen’s shoulder. She turned to find Chris holding his fiddle case under one arm. He looked pissed.

“We can’t play today.”

“What?”

He sneered at the dirt, kicked a chunk with his sneaker. “This morning the sheriff took Scott in for questioning about the Loughlin barn fire.”

She clamped a hand over her mouth. Neither she nor Leith had had the chance to tell Olsen last night about Scott’s potato chip hat, but when the sheriff’s office had called her last week to inquire about what she’d seen in the back of the barn that first day, she’d told them about the items. Maybe Olsen had seen it last night and had put two and two together on his own. If Scott had caused the fire, he’d called himself out on stage.

“So unless you can find another drummer in the next couple of hours . . .” Chris said.

Fuck. She bit at the curse and it tasted nasty. “Maybe you can play solo? The crowd loved you last night. You were undeniably the star.”

He paled. “I don’t know. I’ve never done that. I sort of need the other guys.”

“Please. I’m begging you.”

“Let me think about it.” He wandered off, already looking like that answer would be no.

Great. Absolutely great.

For the next half hour, Jen picked glass out of the grass. Her phone rang. Jogging away from the noise, anxious to hear what solution the tent company had for her, she picked up the call without checking to see who it was.

“Jen.” Slight New York accent with a strong twinge of desperation and disappointment. She knew that voice like the sound of her own alarm clock.

“Tim, hi. Listen, can I call you back in, say, an hour?” Even that timeline was being hopeful.

Her boss cleared his throat. A different phone rang in the background and she recognized the tone as that from the Bauer Events office. “I really don’t think you have an hour,” he said. “The vacation’s over a few days early. I need you back in New York. This afternoon.”