Scottish Highlands

The Vauxhall chose the most dramatic possible moment to die—halfway up a single-track road with nothing but heather and sheep for company. No signal, of course. This was the Highlands, where mobile phones went to experience existential despair.

I walked two miles before I found the inn. It looked like something from a fairy tale—whitewashed stone, thatched roof, smoke curling from a chimney. A wooden sign swung in the wind: "The Wandering Ram."

The door opened before I could knock.

"Car died, did it?" The woman in the doorway looked like she'd been carved from the landscape itself—broad, solid, with wild red hair going grey and eyes the color of storm clouds. Her accent was Highland through and through. "Saw you coming over the ridge. Only reason anyone walks that road."

"I don't suppose you know a mechanic?"

"Hamish, in the village. But he's in Inverness till Thursday." She stepped aside. "You'd better come in then. I'm Fiona. Welcome to the Ram."

The inn's interior was all dark wood and tartan, a fire roaring in a stone hearth. Fiona led me to a worn leather chair and pressed a glass of whisky into my hand before I could protest.

"Drink that. You look half-frozen." She settled into the chair opposite, her substantial frame making the furniture look delicate. "Now then. Car trouble in the Highlands with no phone signal. It's either the start of a horror film or a romance novel. Which do you prefer?"

I laughed despite myself. "I'll take the romance, thanks."

"Wise choice." Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. "I do a mean full Scottish breakfast and the hot water actually works. You could do worse for a few days' stranding."

She wasn't wrong. The room she showed me was small but perfect—exposed beams, a bed piled with quilts, a window looking out over mountains that belonged on a postcard. I slept better than I had in months.

The next morning, Fiona made good on the breakfast promise. Eggs, bacon, black pudding, tattie scones, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes—the works. She joined me at the table, nursing a cup of tea that looked strong enough to dissolve spoons.

"So what brings a Sassenach to the back of beyond?" she asked. "Not exactly tourist season."

"Running away," I admitted. "Divorce. Job loss. London felt like it was crushing me."

"Aye, London does that." She wasn't looking at me with pity, which I appreciated. "And did the running help?"

"I don't know yet."

"Well." She stood, collecting plates. "You've got till Thursday to find out. Make yourself at home. There's books in the lounge, walks if you fancy them, and I'm always here if you need... anything."

The way she said "anything" left room for interpretation. I tried not to interpret too hopefully.

The days fell into a rhythm. Morning breakfast with Fiona. Long walks through heather that smelled of honey and rain. Evenings by the fire, whisky in hand, while she told me stories of the area—clan feuds, disappeared walkers, a monster in the loch that definitely wasn't marketing for tourists.

On the third night, the storm hit.

It came howling off the mountains like something alive. The lights flickered, failed, came back, failed again. Fiona appeared with candles and a torch, looking more amused than worried.

"Power's gone for the night. Generator's enough for the fridge and hot water, but that's your lot." She set candles on every surface, their light catching the red in her hair. "Care for company? Storms like this, even I don't like being alone."

We sat closer than usual, the fire our only real light. The whisky flowed more freely. So did the conversation.

"Can I ask you something personal?" I said, emboldened by Glenfiddich.

"You can ask. I might even answer."

"Why does a woman like you run an inn in the middle of nowhere? You're smart, you're funny, you're—" I stopped, suddenly aware I was headed somewhere dangerous.

"I'm what?" She turned to face me, firelight dancing in her eyes.

"Beautiful." The word came out before I could stop it. "You're beautiful, Fiona."

"I'm fifty-six years old and built like a Highland cow." But she was smiling. "You've had too much whisky."

"Not enough, apparently, since I'm only now saying this." I reached out, touched her hand where it rested on the chair arm. "I've been wanting to say it since I arrived."

"Have you now." She didn't pull away. "And what else have you been wanting?"

"To know what you taste like." I leaned closer. "To know what sounds you make. To know if the rest of you is as warm as your hospitality."

"Well." She set down her glass with deliberate care. "There's a simple way to find out."

The kiss was like the whisky—smoky, warm, complex. She tasted of peat and honey and something wilder, something that matched the storm outside. When her hands pulled me closer, I went willingly, losing myself in her softness.

"Bedroom," she murmured against my mouth. "Mine's got the better fire."

Her bedroom was like the rest of the inn—cozy, tartan, lit by flames that cast dancing shadows on the walls. She undressed without self-consciousness, revealing a body that was everything I'd imagined. Generous. Soft. Strong. Real in ways that London women with their gym memberships and careful diets never were.

"Come here then." She beckoned from the bed. "Show me what Sassenachs are good for."

I showed her everything. The storm battered the windows while we made our own weather inside. She was responsive, demanding, loud enough that I was glad for the isolation. Her pleasure came in waves, each one building on the last until she peaked with a cry that rivaled the wind.

"Not bad," she gasped after. "For an Englishman."

"I'm just getting started."

"Are you now." She grinned and pulled me back down. "Prove it."

I proved it twice more before the storm passed. We lay tangled together while dawn crept over the mountains, her head on my chest, my hand tracing the curve of her hip.

"Thursday's tomorrow," she said quietly.

"I know."

"The car'll be fixed. You'll be able to leave."

"I know that too." I kissed her hair. "What if I don't want to?"

"Then don't." She propped herself up to look at me. "I'm not asking for forever. But I could use help with the spring season. Room and board and... company. If you're interested."

I stayed through spring. Then summer. Then a year. The divorce finalized, the London job forgotten, a new life built in whitewashed stone and Highland heather.

Some people run away and find nothing. I ran away and found Fiona. Found warmth. Found home. And every storm that howled off those mountains just reminded me of the night it all began—and the woman whose hospitality changed everything.