Chapter 4
MARY
The Tour from Hell
(Or the Time Emergency Braking Wasn’t Enough)
I start my car at seven-thirty in the morning telling myself this day can’t possibly be worse than last night’s dinner.
My first visit is to the MacDonalds’, twenty minutes outside central Glenfield, for a cow with mastitis.
The glamour of veterinary medicine at its finest.
When I arrive, Aileen MacDonald greets me with a smile that promises a long and detailed conversation about absolutely everything except the cow.
“I’m so happy to see you! It’s been forever! The first time I saw you, you practically fit in the palm of your father’s hand.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the exaggeration and offer her a polite smile instead.
“Good morning, Mrs. MacDonald. I’m happy to see you too. Where’s the patient?”
“In the barn, of course. But first, you have to tell me all about your trip through Europe! I heard you were in Paris?”
“Briefly. The cow—”
“And Amsterdam too, wasn’t it? My cousin lives in Amsterdam. Apparently they eat pickled herring with every meal there... You might’ve met her. Her name’s Margaret.”
Amsterdam has hundreds of thousands of residents, so the odds of me randomly meeting Mrs. MacDonald’s cousin are approximately nonexistent, but I simply smile politely.
“I don’t think so. Now, if we could—”
She grabs my arm and steers me toward the barn.
“Oh, and have you heard about the new doctor? Poor man.”
“Not really.”
She shakes her head dramatically and releases my arm as we approach the animal I’m supposed to examine. I pull my equipment from my bag, trying to focus on the task ahead instead of local gossip.
“He spilled a pint at The Grumpy Sheep yesterday!” she exclaims with obvious delight. “Duncan Fraser was there. Says this Dr. McLeod has absolutely no manners. Apparently he stood up suddenly and boom! Beer everywhere.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I comment distractedly while pulling on gloves.
Poor guy. I wonder if he has any idea what he got himself into moving here.
The cow, a beautiful Highland with impressive horns, watches me suspiciously while I examine her inflamed udder. Aileen keeps talking while I work.
“McKinnon never spilled anything. He was so composed. So calm. This new doctor seems... nervous. Tense. Not at all what we need in the Highlands, if you ask me.”
I inject antibiotics while resisting the urge to point out that McKinnon is probably sipping mojitos in the Canary Islands while his replacement gets publicly executed for accidentally knocking over a drink.
“She should improve within two days,” I say while packing up my supplies. “Keep using warm compresses and call me if there’s no improvement.”
“You’re an angel, Mary. A real angel. Unlike that poor Dr. McLeod who apparently can’t even hold a glass properly.”
My second visit is to the Campbells’ for a limping lamb. Denise Campbell, sixty-five years old with a tongue sharp enough to cut steel, waits for me in the sheepfold with the lamb tucked in her arms.
“Morning, Mary!”
We exchange the usual pleasantries.
“So, have you heard about the new doctor?” she asks.
And here we go again.
“Only vaguely,” I mutter.
“Moira MacTavish threw him out!” Denise exclaims scandalized. “Apparently he doesn’t know how to talk to people. Too cold. Too distant. Nothing like McKinnon.”
I kneel to examine the lamb’s leg.
Minor sprain. Nothing serious.
“Moira can be... demanding,” I say diplomatically.
“Demanding? She’s a perfectionist, yes! But she’s right. This Dr. McLeod looks at people like they’re medical files instead of actual human beings. McKinnon knew our names, our birthdays, our stories.”
I carefully wrap the lamb’s leg while wondering if this poor Dr. McLeod has even the slightest chance of survival in this village.
“He needs to rest for a week,” I say, handing the lamb back to Denise. “No pressure on the leg. He should heal just fine.”
“You’re wonderful. Unlike certain healthcare professionals who come here thinking they know absolutely everything.”
I leave the Campbell farm with growing sympathy for this doctor I’ve never met. Apparently he’s just become the latest replacement doomed to never live up to his legendary predecessor.
My third visit is to Old Angus MacDonald—no relation to the MacDonalds from this morning; the Highlands are simply overflowing with MacDonalds—to examine his dog, a border collie with a tick.
Angus greets me with his usual charm.
Meaning none whatsoever.
“Ah, little Miss McGregor. My Bess has something in her ear.”
“Lovely to see you too, Angus.”
I kneel beside Bess, who’s an adorable dog wagging her tail enthusiastically. The tick is easy to spot and remove. Naturally, while I work, Angus starts talking about the doctor.
“That Dr. McLeod came to see me yesterday.”
I carefully remove the tick with my tweezers.
“Mmh.”
“He wanted to send me to the hospital over a cough. A cough! Like I’m dying or something. McKinnon knew I was sturdy. Knew a Highland man doesn’t need a hospital for something that small.”
I disinfect Bess’s ear thoughtfully. A cough serious enough for a doctor to recommend hospitalization probably isn’t just a cough.
“He may have had his reasons,” I suggest carefully. “Doctors don’t recommend hospitals for no reason.”
“Bah! Man’s paranoid, I’m telling you. Always seeing terrible diseases everywhere. McKinnon knew the difference between a simple cold and something serious.”
Or maybe McKinnon was wrong and Dr. McLeod is trying to save your life, you stubborn old idiot.
But I say nothing.
Angus wouldn’t listen anyway.
“Bess is fine,” I announce while putting away my equipment. “Keep an eye on the ear for a few days. If you notice redness or swelling, call me.”
As I leave Angus’s farm, I realize I’ve spent my entire day hearing about a man I’ve never even met.
A man I’m beginning to feel a certain amount of... sympathy for.
The sky hangs low and gray as I head back toward Glenfield, completely exhausted by the day. Rain starts falling, light at first, then heavier by the minute.
The country road is narrow and winding, bordered by hills on one side and a shallow ditch on the other. I drive carefully.
Then, around a bend, he appears.
“Ragnar!”
His massive black-wool silhouette stands planted squarely in the middle of the road.
The animal looks like he’s been waiting for me.
I slam on the brakes.
The car skids on the wet asphalt. I feel the wheels lose traction. Everything happens both too slowly and way too fast at the same time. The steering wheel jerks beneath my hands. The car slides to the right.
Toward the ditch.
No. No, no, no, NO—
A dull crash follows.
The car comes to a stop tilted at an uncomfortable angle. The engine dies.
Then silence.
Nothing but the sound of rain hammering against the body of the car. The windshield wipers are frozen mid-motion across the glass.
I stay seated there, hands clenched around the wheel, heart pounding violently. Quick assessment: nothing broken, no pain, just adrenaline surging through my veins.
Slowly, I turn my head toward the road.
Ragnar is still there.
Completely motionless.
I swear the situation is entertaining him.
“Seriously?” I yell through the windshield.
He doesn’t move.
I unleash a string of curses my grandmother would strongly disapprove of, unbuckle my seat belt, and climb out of the car. The rain soaks me instantly. My boots sink into the muddy ditch.
The car is stuck.
Not catastrophically—the front wheels are in the ditch while the back end remains on the road—but buried deeply enough that I won’t be able to free it alone.
I turn toward Ragnar.
“This is your fault!” I accuse, pointing a finger at him.
He stares at me.
Motionless.
Unimpressed.
“You did that on purpose.”
A bleat answers me.
I pull out my phone, shielding the screen from the rain, and call the Fraser farm—my next appointment—to let them know I’m going to be late.
If I can even make it there.
Then I hang up and stare at my car in despair.
I could call Callum.
Or Lachlan.
Or any member of my family who would come rescue me and never let me forget this humiliation.
No.
I’ll handle it myself.
I walk behind the car, brace myself, and push.
Nothing.
I shove harder. My boots slide in the mud.
Still nothing.
“Come on,” I growl through gritted teeth.
Ragnar bleats again.
I swear he’s mocking me.
That’s the exact moment a Land Rover appears at the top of the hill. It slows as it approaches the scene.
I can only imagine how I look: covered in mud up to my knees, futilely pushing a stranded car while a massive sheep watches from the middle of the road.
The Land Rover stops.
A man steps out.
Tall.
Dark hair soaked by the rain.
Black waterproof jacket.
Scowling face.
Very scowling.
He takes in the situation with one glance: the car, the ditch, me, Ragnar.
“Need help?”
The tone isn’t exactly friendly. More like someone already exhausted by his day who just stumbled onto another problem.
Something inside me instantly bristles.
“No,” I reply sharply. “I’m handling it perfectly fine, thanks.”
He looks at me.
Then at my half-ditched car.
Then back at me.
“Clearly.”
My blood pressure spikes instantly.
“Listen, I’ve had a very long day, and this psychotic sheep decided to play games with my sanity! So if you’re only here to make sarcastic comments, you can leave.”
He says nothing.
Instead, he walks toward Ragnar.
And Ragnar—that traitorous sheep—immediately steps aside.
Just like that.
No resistance.
No protest.
For him.
“Seriously?” I exclaim in disbelief. “Seriously, Ragnar?”
The man doesn’t respond, as though it’s perfectly normal for me to argue with livestock. He simply returns to his Land Rover, opens the trunk, and pulls out a tow rope.
I remain standing there speechless, torn between gratitude and indignation while he efficiently hooks the rope onto the rear tow hitch of my car, then secures the other end to the front of his Land Rover.
All without speaking.
Or looking at me.
“I can do it myself,” I protest weakly.
He gives me a look that very clearly says, Oh really?
Then he climbs back into his Land Rover and, within thirty seconds, pulls my car out of the ditch.
He unhooks the rope, tosses it back into the trunk, and heads toward the driver’s door.
“Wait!” I call, hurrying toward him. “I... thank you.”
He pauses with one hand on the door.
“Be more careful next time. These roads are dangerous.”
The tone is gruff.
Almost accusatory.
“I know how to drive,” I snap, offended. “That sheep jumped in front of me!”
I point dramatically toward Ragnar, who remains entirely unbothered by any of this.
The stranger raises one skeptical eyebrow.
“Apparently not well enough.”
And there it is.
The brief flicker of gratitude evaporates instantly, replaced by an overwhelming urge to throw something at his head.
“You know what? Forget I thanked you.”
“My pleasure.”
He climbs into his Land Rover and drives away, leaving me standing on the side of the road soaked, muddy, and furious.
I watch his taillights disappear into the rain.
“He saved me, and I still want to throw rocks at him,” I mutter.
A bleat makes me turn around.
Ragnar is still there by the roadside.
And he makes a sound.
A long, deep bleat that sounds suspiciously like mocking laughter.
“Ragnar,” I say, pointing a finger at him, “you and I are going to have a very serious conversation.”
He stares at me one second longer before calmly wandering back toward the fields, as though this entire situation existed purely for his personal entertainment.
I climb back into my car and start the engine. It turns over perfectly fine, thank God. I pull back onto the road toward Glenfield, my hands still trembling on the wheel.
I don’t know whether it’s from the accident or my encounter with the grumpiest man in the Highlands.
Whoever you are, Mr. Land Rover, I sincerely hope I never see you again.
Because next time, I can’t guarantee I’ll keep my temper.