Chapter Forty-Eight
Gretchen
I can't stop myself from biting my nails as I watch the man I adore shuffle forward, hefting the keg to his chest. The crowd has gone silent as everyone waits with bated breath to see if Kirk Balfour, stuntman extraordinaire and Scottish hunk who's stolen my American heart, can win the keg toss at the Highland Games.
That keg must weigh a ton, or whatever the Scottish equivalent of a ton is.
I've been in Scotland long enough to know it's not called a "stone," but still not long enough to remember the actual units of measurement in this country.
"Come on, Kirk," I whisper under my breath, earning an odd look from a gray-haired woman beside me who's clutching her tartan shawl like it's a security blanket.
The muscles in Kirk's forearms flex as he secures his grip.
Even from here, I can see the determination etched across his face.
It's the same look he gave me last night when he assured me that he could "show me what a real Highlander can do to make a woman's toes curl.
" And boy, did he deliver on that promise.
"Lass," the old woman snickers at me, "ye're blushing like a sunset on Ben Nevis."
I fan my face, desperate to cool the heat in my cheeks. "Sorry, can't help it. I'm totally invested in the competition."
She snorts. "Aye, yer 'invested' in those braw arms."
Oh, I can't argue with that assessment. Kirk's muscles strain his shirt as he plants his feet wider, preparing for the throw. The crowd holds its collective breath. Even Tam, Kirk's normally stoic brother, is leaning forward from his position near the judges' table and craning his neck.
"You can do it, sweetie!" I shout, more to reassure myself than anyone else.
Kirk takes three quick steps forward, his expression tight and sweat dribbling down his face.
The crowd's energy feels electric, crackling around us as Kirk launches the keg skyward with a guttural roar.
The keg spins through the air, end over end, seeming to hang suspended for a heartbeat before gravity reclaims it.
My breath catches in my throat as that keg sails past the marker of the previous competitor.
"Holy crap," I gasp as the keg crashes down with a thud that I swear makes the ground beneath my feet tremble.
The judge walks over to the competitors, measuring tape in hand. The crowd goes silent as one, and I find myself rising onto my tiptoes, straining to see what's going on.
"Twenty-seven feet, four inches!" the judge declares, his voice booming across the field. "That's a new record! And Kirk Balfour just demolished it!"
As the crowd erupts around me, I'm screaming before I realize the significance of this moment.
I start jumping up and down like a teenager at her first concert, not giving a hoot that the old woman beside me is tutting her disapproval.
I finally catch sight of Kirk, and his triumphant grin is so dazzling that it could power all of Scotland during a winter blackout.
"That's my fiancé!" I shriek to no one in particular, though several people turn to look at me. I don't care. I'm too busy watching Kirk get swarmed by his fellow competitors, receiving hearty back-slaps and congratulatory handshakes.
An hour later, Kirk volunteers for the tug o' war. His team consists of Domhnall Sterling, Logan MacTaggart, and a few other sizzling Scots. Mother Nature gave Scottish men all the best genes. I mean, those muscles...whew. I'm suddenly fanning myself.
"Ye've got yerself a champion there," the old woman says, her tone softening slightly. "I've known the Balfour boys since they were wee lads causing mischief around Dùndubhan."
Even Kirk's Dad is taking part. I never would've guessed Roy Balfour could pull as aggressively as his son or maybe even harder than Kirk.
What's next? Oh, not much. Just my honey showing off his stamina during the Hill Race.
I hop up on the balls of my feet, shielding my eyes from the sun as I spot Kirk jogging toward the starting line.
The Hill Race is no joke. It's a grueling three-mile climb up Beann Dealgach followed by a treacherous descent that has claimed many a competitor's dignity, or so Kirk told me. I suspect he's fibbing about that.
"Has Kirk always pushed himself this hard?" I ask Kenina, who's become my unofficial Highland Games companion.
"Aye, the Balfour men are as stubborn as the mountain itself." She points toward the imposing peak. "His grandfather once ran that race with a sprained ankle strictly to spite his cousin who said dared him to do it."
Yeah, I can believe that. Kirk's competitive streak is as wide as the Atlantic Ocean I crossed to be here. And just as unpredictable.
The runners gather at the starting line, stretching their hamstrings and adjusting the numbers pinned to their chests. I wring my hands when I see Kirk shake out his shoulders, his face set with that indomitable resolve I've come to recognize as his "no turning back now" look.
"On your marks!" The starter raises a pistol into the air. "Get set! GO!"
The crack of the starter pistol sends the runners surging forward. Kirk takes off like a shot, his powerful legs eating up the ground. I'm bouncing on my toes, my heart racing nearly as fast as he is.
"He's starting too fast," Kenina sighs beside me, shaking her head. "Kirk, ye bloody fool, save it for later. The hill will humble ye, mo luran."
"Is that experience talking or worry?" I ask, my eyes glued to Kirk as he powers up the initial slope.
"Both, lass. I've watched three generations of Balfour men learn this lesson the hard way."
"Um, what does mo luran mean?"
She smiles. "My darling boy."
The runners become smaller as they ascend, mutating into colorful dots against the green hillside. I strain my eyes, desperate to keep track of Kirk's blue shirt among the throng.
"So, who won last year?" I ask, still squinting at the hill.
"Logan MacTaggart," Kenina says with a sniff. "Three years running. Logan's a good lad, but not as good a runner as my Kirk."
I spot Logan's red shirt pulling ahead of the pack. Kirk isn't far behind, but the steep incline is taking its toll.
"Come on, Kirk," I mutter. "Pace yourself, sweetie."
"He never does," Kenina chuckles. "That's why ye love him, aye?"
She's right. Kirk's all-or-nothing approach to life is exactly what drew me to him. The man doesn't have a half-speed setting.
The runners vanish over the crest of Beann Dealgach, and I'm left standing on my tiptoes as if I can somehow peer through the mountain itself.
"Now we wait," Kenina explains, relaxing a bit. "The descent is where the real race happens."
"The descent? Isn't that more dangerous?"
"Oh, aye. That's precisely why it separates the men from the wee ladies. Kirk has the heart, but Logan has the experience. The mountain doesnae care about either."
I can't stop myself from picturing Kirk hurtling down a steep slope, one misstep away from catastrophe. My imagination conjures images of twisted ankles and tumbling bodies that make my stomach lurch.
"Dinnae fash yourself," Kenina pats my arm. "They're Highlanders. Falling down mountains is nothing to these braw laddies."
"That is not an inspiring statement."
Kenina shrugs. "When ye love a Balfour, ye learn not to worry so much."
The next fifteen minutes are the longest of my life. The crowd's energy shifts as someone spots movement at the crest of the hill. I rise onto my tiptoes again, squinting against the sunlight.
"Here they come!" shouts a man to my right.
Two figures emerge over the ridge, moving at breakneck speed down the treacherous slope. I can't tell who's who until the sun catches on a flash of red.
"Logan's in the lead," Kenina confirms, clasping her hands to her breast.
But wait. A blue blur is gaining ground, taking the descent at a dizzying pace that makes my head swim. Kirk is practically flying down the mountainside, his feet barely touching the ground.
"Is he---is he actually accelerating?" I gasp, equal parts terrified and impressed.
"Aye, the bloody fool!" Kenina exclaims, her hands flying to her cheeks.
I can't look away as Kirk practically hurls himself down the mountain, taking shortcuts where others are choosing safer routes. The gap between him and Logan is closing with every reckless stride.
My eyes must've popped out of my head a second ago as I shout, "He'll break his neck, Kenina!"
"Or win. That's the Balfour way."
The crowd surges forward as the leaders approach the final stretch. I'm jostled from all sides, but I don't care. My focus remains entirely on Kirk. His legs are pumping like pistons, eating up the ground between him and Logan.
"Come on, Kirk!" I scream, my voice lost in the roar of the crowd.
With less than a hundred yards to go, I can't move or speak. My gaze is glued to what has to be one of the most insane displays of sheer stubbornness I've ever witnessed. Kirk's entire body is leaning forward at an angle that defies physics while his arms pump with desperate energy.
"GO KIRK!" I scream until my throat burns.
The distance between the two men narrows to mere feet. Ten yards from the finish line, Kirk makes his move, summoning a hidden reserve of strength to pull alongside Logan. They're shoulder to shoulder now with their faces contorted from the effort.
Five yards.
Three yards.
One yard.
They cross the finish line in what looks like a dead heat. Both men collapse onto the grass, their chests heaving like bellows. I shove through the crowd, ignoring protests and muttered curses as I elbow my way to the man I love.
"Kirk! Are you okay?" I drop to my knees beside him.
His wide, sloppy grin tells me everything I need to know, and I fling my entire body at the crazy, incredible jackass who stole my heart.