Libby had never gone to the horse races, never cared much for the football matches Bram attended now and then. She’d never honestly been much interested in any sport. But there was something interesting here that she’d never accounted for when thinking of a game or competition—something that had nothing to do with the sport itself and everything to do with the community cheering it on. By simply joining in, bouncing on her toes in time with Mamm-wynn and lifting her voice along with Mabena, she became part of something.

It was a lovely feeling.

And it grew all the lovelier when Oliver Tremayne’s team glided in a second before the other, the five men whooping their victory and jumping out into the surf with arms pumping the air and slaps on each other’s backs. Oliver himself at the center of them all.

He was an odd sort of alpha. She couldn’t help but watch the interplay with fascination. He wasn’t the largest, probably wasn’t the strongest—though he was clearly quite fit. If he was the dominant male in his group, it wasn’t from his physical stature. No, it must rather be because of the way he laughed with the men, spoke to them, directed them with a hand on a shoulder or a gesture to the right or left.

Casek Wearne, on the other hand, must have won his place as captain of his gig from sheer muscle power. While his men laughed off their loss and joked easily with the winning team, he was glowering about it. At least until he glanced toward the shore. Something in their general vicinity must have caught his attention, because he straightened, and his face brightened.

“Benna, my lady—will you two take these to the winners?” Mrs. Gillis was shoving steaming mugs at them even as she asked it.

Libby took two, and Mabena somehow balanced three with total ease, though Mamm-wynn plucked one away from her. “I’ll help too.”

Mrs. Gillis had already turned to press a few others into delivering sustenance to the Wearne team, so Libby didn’t bother replying, just struck out through the sand. The men saw them coming and met them a few feet away from the gig.

She couldn’t even have said who took the mugs from her. She was too busy watching the care with which Oliver accepted the one from his grandmother’s outstretched hands, the warm smile he gave his matriarch.

“Mamm-wynn. What are you doing down here?”

“Libby was cold. I had to bring her a shawl.” She stated it simply.

But when his gaze shifted to her in a way that made her think—probably foolishly—that he’d been waiting for an excuse to do so, it didn’t feel so simple. Libby trailed her fingers down the edges of said shawl. “She was my hero this morning.”