It was just past midnight when the woman in wet, torn forest green sawwhat had to be the light from windows of a small house. She stumbledtoward it gratefully, hoping for warmth and some sort ofcommunications. Dammit, equipment failure and a plane crash were noway to start New Year's Day!
As she neared the house, she heard party sounds, and grinned. Itseemed that someone, at least, was having fun here on—if sheremembered her charts right—the Isle of Skye. The North Sea inwinter … yes, she was lucky to be alive.
When she knocked on the door, the party sounds got louder—until thedoor opened, and someone saw her.
"Och, we have a soaked lass out here!" the young man exclaimed. Heturned back into the house, called for blankets and a hot drink, thenput his arm around the woman, led her inside, and saw her settled intoa comfortable seat beside the fireplace.
"Our first visitor, with no coal or whiskey," an old man said ruefully."No good omen for the New Year, no warmth for heart or hearth."
"Och, uncle, 'tis no fault of hers," the young man said. "It's coldand wet she is, in need of help." He held a glass of whiskey to thewoman's lips, nodded as she sipped. "That's a good lass," he saidapprovingly. "I'm Geordie MacGregor, and who may you be?"
The woman hesitated, hiding it with another sip of whiskey. Theyhadn't identified her from her uniform; should she … no. See whatthey were really like, first. "Lindner … Sue Lindner. My planewent down, and when I made it ashore, I saw your lights." She turnedto the old man Geordie had called Uncle. "I'm sorry to be a bad omen,sir, but it may be I won't be that bad."
"Ach, lass, I'm the one to be sorry," Geordie's uncle replied. "'Tissuperstition, I know, but 'tis tradition as well. It's rest you shouldbe getting."
"I would like to warm up a bit, then if you have a phone, I should calland let the people expecting me know where I am. I'll pay for thecall, of course; it's long distance."
"You'll do no such thing," the old man retorted. "I'll not have itbruited about that Donal MacGregor's lacking in proper hospitality. Aplane crash, you say, and your clothes half gone … are you hurt?Will the Rescue Service not be looking for you?"
"I doubt it; my flight wasn't scheduled. And I'm not hurt, except fora few scratches and bruises. There's no need to disturb your party."She'd discarded her boots and equipment belt for the swim ashore, andsometime during that swim or her wandering—probably coming ashore overthose rocks—she'd lost her badge and pretty well shredded her uniform.It was no wonder they didn't recognize her; she doubted she'd be ableto recognize herself, huddled under a blanket with her hair plastereddown by salt water.
Another knock on the door brought laughter, especially from the womanwho opened it to admit a kilt-clad man bearing a piece of coal and abottle of whiskey.
"'Tis a few minutes late you are, Angus," Donal MacGregor called. "Ourfirst guest of the year is this poor cold lass here."
"And half drowned, by the look of her," Angus replied. He scowledferociously—a half-grin betraying hi