“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.