corner, and I panicked. My arms froze in midair, as if I were being arrested. I slammed my eyes shut and held my breath.
The sound of screeching brakes galvanized me into action, and I screamed and jumped sideways. I found myself staring at a small sports car well within the opposite lane and in no danger of hitting me. Illuminated by the car’s headlights, I put up a hand to shield my eyes.
A man jumped out and ran around the front of the car. Stopping short of coming to my side, he spoke.
“Miss! Are you all right?” His Scottish burr was pronounced.
With no time to waste, I dispensed with introductions.
“Yes, yes. Can you take me to the nearest town? Is that Fort William?”
Blinded as I was by the car’s lights, I couldn’t see his face well, but he appeared to be over six feet tall and slender.
“Yes, of course,” he responded instantly. “Did you have an accident? Where is your car?”
“No, no car. It’s a long story. Is there any chance I could skip the story and questions and just get to a town?”
The man hesitated and then moved to the car. He opened the passenger door.
“Yes, as you wish,” he said.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” I said, hurrying toward the car. If I thought climbing into a wagon in long skirts and a hoop was arduous, I hadn’t bargained on dropping down into a low-slung sports car. I bunched up my skirts and lowered myself, plopping ungracefully into the seat. The pannier took a lot more seat room than was fair. The man reached down and helped stuff the rest of my skirts into the car.
The interior lights of the car highlighted his face as he bent, and I blinked. Handsome with shoulder-length dark hair and blue-gray eyes, he reminded me of Colin. His smile, bright and engaging, accentuated the resemblance.
“Thank you,” I said again as he straightened and shut the door. He rounded the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. Long legs encased in dark-blue jeans slid under the steering wheel. He sported a dark-brown jacket over a light-blue collared shirt topped by a navy-blue sweater.
He put his hand on the gearshift and turned to look at me.
“My name is Gordon Anderson,” he said. “Won’t you at least tell me your name?”
My jaw dropped.
“Anderson?” I squeaked.
“Aye,” he said. “And you?”
“Maggie Scott,” I said.
“You are American,” he stated. He checked his rearview mirror before dropping his eyes to my face.
“Yes, I am. Could we go?”
He drew his brows together but smiled pleasantly and nodded.
“Yes, of course. Where do you want to go?”
Putting the car into gear, he accelerated.
“To the nearest hospital or pharmacy. I don’t know. Do you guys sell antibiotics in pharmacies here without a prescription?”
“Antibiotics?” he repeated, taking his eyes from the road to look at me.
“Yes.”
To my dismay, he shook his head.
“No, madam. Only a doctor can prescribe antibiotics, and even then, it must be for a definitive diagnosis. Scotland is very concerned about the overuse of unnecessary antibiotics and the growing resistance to them.”
I blinked. He seemed to know his stuff.
“Are you a doctor?” I held my breath. Please, please, please...
Chapter Ten
Gordon shook his head.
“No, I’m not. My sister is though. I was just on my way to visit her. She lives in Fort William.” He turned to look at me again but shifted his eyes away quickly. “May I ask? Are you ill? Why do you need antibiotics? Did a doctor prescribe them?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “I don’t even know what kind I need.”
“Are they for a friend then?”
“Yes, a friend,” I said.
“What condition does your friend have?”
I couldn’t very well say typhoid fever. Could I? Wouldn’t that start a bit of a panic? World Health Organization involvement? Global news?
I remained silent, trying to think of something to say.
“Look,” he said. “I would like to help you, but you have to give me
The sound of screeching brakes galvanized me into action, and I screamed and jumped sideways. I found myself staring at a small sports car well within the opposite lane and in no danger of hitting me. Illuminated by the car’s headlights, I put up a hand to shield my eyes.
A man jumped out and ran around the front of the car. Stopping short of coming to my side, he spoke.
“Miss! Are you all right?” His Scottish burr was pronounced.
With no time to waste, I dispensed with introductions.
“Yes, yes. Can you take me to the nearest town? Is that Fort William?”
Blinded as I was by the car’s lights, I couldn’t see his face well, but he appeared to be over six feet tall and slender.
“Yes, of course,” he responded instantly. “Did you have an accident? Where is your car?”
“No, no car. It’s a long story. Is there any chance I could skip the story and questions and just get to a town?”
The man hesitated and then moved to the car. He opened the passenger door.
“Yes, as you wish,” he said.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” I said, hurrying toward the car. If I thought climbing into a wagon in long skirts and a hoop was arduous, I hadn’t bargained on dropping down into a low-slung sports car. I bunched up my skirts and lowered myself, plopping ungracefully into the seat. The pannier took a lot more seat room than was fair. The man reached down and helped stuff the rest of my skirts into the car.
The interior lights of the car highlighted his face as he bent, and I blinked. Handsome with shoulder-length dark hair and blue-gray eyes, he reminded me of Colin. His smile, bright and engaging, accentuated the resemblance.
“Thank you,” I said again as he straightened and shut the door. He rounded the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. Long legs encased in dark-blue jeans slid under the steering wheel. He sported a dark-brown jacket over a light-blue collared shirt topped by a navy-blue sweater.
He put his hand on the gearshift and turned to look at me.
“My name is Gordon Anderson,” he said. “Won’t you at least tell me your name?”
My jaw dropped.
“Anderson?” I squeaked.
“Aye,” he said. “And you?”
“Maggie Scott,” I said.
“You are American,” he stated. He checked his rearview mirror before dropping his eyes to my face.
“Yes, I am. Could we go?”
He drew his brows together but smiled pleasantly and nodded.
“Yes, of course. Where do you want to go?”
Putting the car into gear, he accelerated.
“To the nearest hospital or pharmacy. I don’t know. Do you guys sell antibiotics in pharmacies here without a prescription?”
“Antibiotics?” he repeated, taking his eyes from the road to look at me.
“Yes.”
To my dismay, he shook his head.
“No, madam. Only a doctor can prescribe antibiotics, and even then, it must be for a definitive diagnosis. Scotland is very concerned about the overuse of unnecessary antibiotics and the growing resistance to them.”
I blinked. He seemed to know his stuff.
“Are you a doctor?” I held my breath. Please, please, please...
Chapter Ten
Gordon shook his head.
“No, I’m not. My sister is though. I was just on my way to visit her. She lives in Fort William.” He turned to look at me again but shifted his eyes away quickly. “May I ask? Are you ill? Why do you need antibiotics? Did a doctor prescribe them?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “I don’t even know what kind I need.”
“Are they for a friend then?”
“Yes, a friend,” I said.
“What condition does your friend have?”
I couldn’t very well say typhoid fever. Could I? Wouldn’t that start a bit of a panic? World Health Organization involvement? Global news?
I remained silent, trying to think of something to say.
“Look,” he said. “I would like to help you, but you have to give me
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