“Aye!” a collection of masculine voices said in unison from the group gathered between the tree trunks that were designated as the starting point. From what Hope could see, fourteen men lined up, with Graham and his cousins at the righthand side.
“Good.” The old man fumbled with his pistol. It seemed he was unsure how to use it. “Now, at the sound of my pistol—”
CRACK.
Several ladies screamed while Hope and her sisters flinched as the gun went off, the bullet landing in a puff of dirt on the ground before the old man. The men were off instantaneously. Laird McTavish came up to escort the elderly man back to the chairs, carefully taking the firearm away.
Hope covered her mouth in surprise as the men ran down the slope at full speed. She was sure the momentum from running downhill would trip them, particularly on the uneven terrain, but only one or two men fell, rolling down the hill like cut lumber pushed off a cliff.
Her hands moved up the sides of her head and she held her face in dread.
“Oh goodness,” Hope said, her brow crinkling beneath her fingertips. “Are they going to be all right?”
“Well, no one’s ever died from participating in the Casan Laidir, if that’s what you’re asking,” Rose replied.
“It’s not,” Hope said, straining her neck to see over the shoulders of the rest of the crowd, keeping her eyes on an ever-shrinking Graham as he ran ahead of the rest.
“What does Casan Laidir mean, Rose?” Faith asked, peering down the hill.
“Strong legs,” Rose answered. “The McTavish claim to have the strongest legs in the highlands. It’s an odd thing to claim, to be sure, but then there are the games to consider.”
“Games?” Faith repeated.
“Aye. Some twenty years ago, the Lonach Highland and Friendly Society had the idea of holding a series of competitions, like they did in the olden days. Laird McTavish is a fan of those ancient stories and insisted on competing.” Rose stood on her tippy toes to see better. “They’ve gone every year and always win all the foot races.”
“Do they?” Hope asked. “That’s quite impressive.”
“It is,” Rose agreed, watching the race. “Oh, I hate this part.”
“What part?” Hope asked, seeing the men fast approaching a rushing river.
“It’s not deep, but the water is quite fast and the rocks are slippery. Some years ago, Logan Harris cracked his head on arock. I was just a girl then, but I’ll not forget his bloody head as they carried him out.”
“Mr. Harris participated?” Faith asked, interested.
“Yes,” she replied. “Have you met him?”
“Briefly, at Elk Manor,” Faith said, her face unreadable. “He doesn’t seem the type to participate in this sort of thing.”
“It was before he left for the war. He was a gangly young lad then, always eager to prove himself. He was winning by a long stretch that day, I remember. But he was too quick and lost his footing.”
“Oh,” Faith said.
“Every single one of them has nearly killed themselves in one way or another growing up here,” Rose continued. “It’s what makes them who they are.”
Hope focused back on the race. Jared had been keeping pace with Graham as they came out of the river, but Graham was pulling slightly ahead as they reached the horses. A silly desire to see Graham win bubbled within her and she had to swallow back a cheer as he climbed up on the horse’s back and vaulted off towards the cabers.
Hope’s hands came together, bouncing slightly with excitement as he tore back across the river, further away from those just finishing crossing on foot. Graham came hurtling back towards the slope as Jared followed close behind. A thrill went through her at the thought that Graham might win, when he suddenly pulled back, rearing the horse to a stop yards away from the finish line.
“What … what is he doing?” Hope asked, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. He was going to lose the race.
Graham slid off his steed and took several steps towards a man lying on the grass, clutching his shin. One of the men who had fallen at the beginning had stayed on the ground. Graham knelt down just as Jared crossed the finish line, and while a loudburst of cheers and congratulations erupted around Hope, she kept her eyes on Graham.
After a moment of assessment, he helped the young man rise and walked him up the hill. Within moments, Michael and Jamie crossed the finish line, followed by a burly man with a black beard. Graham was next, half carrying the injured contestant, who he handed off to an older gentleman providing medical assistance.
“He lost, to help that man,” Hope said.
It seemed Graham hadn’t cared about winning at all. A warmth began to spread throughout her heart. Graham was a gentleman.
