Chapter 27
JANE
— Are you sure you want to do this? Keira asks, perched on the edge of my bed, watching me with a mix of admiration and concern. The Highland Games aren’t exactly beginner-friendly.
I’ve pulled on a workout outfit that practically screams if I’m going to publicly embarrass myself, I’m doing it in style.
— I’ve never been more sure of anything, I say, tying my hair into a tight ponytail.
It’s a massive lie. I’ve never been more terrified in my life—not even when I had to film that scene where I was chased by a chainsaw-wielding serial killer (which turned out to be plastic, but my scream? Entirely real).
— I have to do this, Keira. After yesterday’s “Heather-the-Perfect” episode, I need to prove I’m not just some shallow American actress who doesn’t understand Scottish culture.
— You know you don’t have anything to prove, right? Keira says, holding my gaze. Callum chose you. That’s all that matters.
I think back to our kiss on the moor, to that new, deepening connection between us.
— It’s not Callum I need to prove anything to. It’s myself, I say finally. And maybe a little to your mother. And that aristocratic snob Heather. And every single McGregor who looks at me like I’m an alien who crash-landed in their tartan.
— So, in summary, everyone except Callum, Keira concludes with a teasing smile.
— Exactly.
I take a deep breath and turn to her.
— On a scale of one to ten, how badly am I about to embarrass myself?
— Oh, a solid twelve, she replies with brutal honesty that makes me burst out laughing. But it’ll be memorable, and that’s what counts, right?
The McGregor estate has been transformed for the occasion. Colorful tents dot the grounds, stalls offer local specialties, and at the center, several areas have been set up for the different events. The atmosphere is festive—a blend of traditional village fair and athletic competition.
I spot Callum talking with a group of men I assume are organizers.
He looks devastating in his kilt, his long, muscular legs fully on display (which continues to distract me in a way that’s honestly a little embarrassing).
He glances up, sees me, and his face lights up in a way that still makes me question whether any of this is real.
— Ready for the big day? he asks, walking over to me.
— As ready as one can be when about to throw tree trunks in front of their in-laws, I reply with a tight smile. How does this work, exactly? Do I sign up somewhere?
— You don’t need to sign up, he explains. It’s a family event. But are you sure you want to participate? It’s not mandatory.
— I know, I say, squaring my shoulders. But I want to. For me.
He studies me for a long moment, and I see pride flicker in his eyes.
— In that case, let me introduce you to your coach for the day.
He gestures behind me, and I turn to see Ewan approaching with a wide grin. Ewan is the kind of man who seems perpetually amused by everything around him, like he’s living inside a private comedy only he fully understands.
— Lady Jane! he calls out in his thick Scottish accent. Ready to become a true Highlander?
— I’m not sure that’s something you can achieve in a single day, but I’m willing to try, I reply.
— Perfect! Callum told me you needed a coach, and I’m just the man for the job. I won the caber toss three years in a row before this idiot beat me last year.
He nudges Callum playfully, who just shakes his head with a smile.
— Pure luck, Callum replies. But I’m not competing this year—I have to oversee the event.
— Oversee all you want, mister director, I’m turning your wife into a champion, Ewan declares with infectious enthusiasm. First stop: the weight throw. Just to warm up.
Callum shoots me an apologetic look.
— I need to go check on the obstacle course setup. Ewan will take good care of you.
— Don’t worry, I say with a confidence I definitely don’t feel. What could possibly go wrong?
Callum and Ewan exchange a look that is not reassuring in the slightest.
— I’ll be back soon, Callum promises before walking away.
Ewan turns to me, hands on his hips.
— So, what’s your experience level with traditional Scottish sports?
— Absolutely zero. Unless drinking whiskey counts as a sport. In that case, I’m starting to get pretty good.
— In some circles, it might, he chuckles. But today, we’re focusing on the real ones. Let’s start with something simple.
“Simple” turns out to be a heavy metal weight attached to a chain that I’m supposed to swing over my head before launching it as far as possible. My first attempt is a disaster. I barely manage one rotation before releasing it too early, sending it straight into a muddy puddle about six feet away.
— Not bad for a first try, Ewan lies with heroic optimism. Let’s go again.
The second attempt is worse. The weight slips out of control mid-swing and flies off in the opposite direction, narrowly missing a flock of birds that scatter in alarm.
An elderly woman watches me with an expression that suggests she’s reconsidering the future of the McGregor lineage if I’m its newest representative.
— Maybe we should try something else, Ewan suggests diplomatically. The caber toss might be more your thing.
I stare at him, trying to decide if he’s joking.
He’s not.
— You want me to throw a tree trunk? A real tree trunk? Me, who can’t even open a jar of pickles?
— That’s the beauty of the Highland Games, Ewan says enthusiastically. They push you beyond your limits. And we’ll start with a small one.
The “small” one turns out to be a log roughly my height and probably my weight. I look at it, then at Ewan.
— You’re kidding, right?
— Not at all! he says. It’s not about distance—it’s about technique. You want it to land straight, at twelve o’clock.
— At twelve o’clock, I repeat, as if that somehow makes this less absurd. Of course.
I notice we now have an audience. Several members of the McGregor family—including, of course, Isobel and Maggie—have gathered to watch.
Heather is there too, stunning in a country-chic outfit that looks straight out of a fashion spread.
I also spot Callum returning, his expression caught somewhere between anticipation and concern.
Perfect. Just what I needed—an audience for my impending humiliation.
— Ignore them, Ewan murmurs. Focus on the technique. Feet shoulder-width apart, back straight…
I try to follow his instructions, gripping the log the way he showed me. My arms immediately protest under the weight.
— Now lift, build momentum, and… throw!
Taking a deep breath, I summon every ounce of strength I have and execute what must be the most pathetic caber toss in Highland Games history.
The log barely clears my head before crashing down behind me, dragging me down with it.
I end up flat on my back in the grass, staring up at the Scottish sky, wondering if this is how my brief career as a Highlander ends.
Laughter erupts around me, but it doesn’t sound mocking. More amused—almost fond. Ewan appears above me.
— That was… a start, he says diplomatically.
He offers me a hand.
— A disastrous start, I correct, taking it.
— Disaster is part of the learning process, he assures me. You should’ve seen Callum when he started. Nearly knocked out the pastor on his first try.
— Really? I ask, suddenly intrigued.
— Oh yes. Old McPherson had to dive to the ground to avoid a flying caber headed straight for him. Callum was mortified.
The image of my usually composed husband like that makes me laugh, easing some of my embarrassment.
— What’s so funny? Callum asks, joining us.
— Nothing at all, Ewan says innocently. Just reminding Jane that everyone starts somewhere.
— Hmm, Callum replies, suspicious. How’s it going?
— Let’s just say I won’t be dethroning the reigning champion anytime soon, I say. But I haven’t given up yet.
— That’s the spirit! Ewan exclaims. Now let’s try something that requires more agility than strength—the sack race!
The sack race is exactly what it sounds like—running while trapped waist-deep in a burlap sack. It seems simple. In theory. Reality is… different.
I line up with several other participants, including Keira and a few McGregor cousins I vaguely recognize. Callum stands near the finish line judge, giving me an encouraging nod.
— Ready? the judge calls. Go!
I launch forward—or try to. My first few hops are promising, but on the third, I lose my balance and go down spectacularly, taking the cousin next to me with me. We end up tangled in a mess of limbs and burlap as the others race past.
— Sorry! Sorry! I gasp, trying to untangle myself.
— No problem, he replies in such a thick accent I barely understand him. It’s a sack race, not a ballet.
We manage to get back up and continue, more or less.
I finish second to last, just ahead of a man so elderly he might have competed in the original Highland Games.
But strangely, I don’t feel humiliated. The mood is light, everyone is laughing—including me—and several people clap me on the back for finishing despite my fall.
Even Isobel seems slightly less stern when she tells me:
— That was brave, Jane. Few outsiders join in with that much enthusiasm.
Coming from her, that’s practically a declaration of eternal love.
— Thank you, I say, surprised. I’m doing my best.
— That’s clear, she says before moving off to congratulate the winner.
Ewan returns, holding two glasses of amber liquid.
— A little something to lift your spirits, he says, handing me one. You’re doing well.
— I’m embarrassing myself—but enthusiastically, I correct, taking the glass. What is it?
— Whisky, of course. The official drink of brave losers and humble winners.
I take a sip and barely grimace, which surprises even me. It seems my palate is getting used to this fiery Scottish drink.
— What’s next? I ask, oddly energized despite my disastrous performance.
— Archery, he announces. An essential skill for any self-respecting Scottish lady.