Denise Gore Long
Meredith ignored the breathtaking scenery surrounding her, worried more about the potential for a breathtaking accident than the view. New England winters hadn’t prepared her for driving in the Scottish Highlands. Never trust a kitten-themed weather app forecasting a “pitter patter of flakes.” More like angry confetti.
“No, no, no!” The rental car’s tires spun. She skidded sideways, colliding with a fence. The airbag deployed with a weak hiss and puff of air. Meredith thumped her forehead against the steering wheel.
“Mmmooo…”
Her head popped up to find herself nose to nose with a fuzzy-faced Highland cow who desperately needed a Kleenex. Her scream startled Mr. Moo backwards. Beyond him, his shaggy friends followed their leader toward her through a rental-car-sized gap in the fence.
Mr. Moo’s bangs hung in his eyes like a teenager who’d just rolled out of bed. Another ambled closer, then another, until her car was surrounded by ginger bodies dusted with snow. One leaned against the vehicle, and the whole thing groaned.
“Lovely. Trapped by the cutest cows ever.” She reached for her phone. No signal.
An engine growled, and a pickup emerged through the snow, stopping just shy of the cows. The driver stepped out and—
Oh my.
Dark curls escaped from under his knit cap. Even through the snow-streaked window, she could see the strong line of his jaw, the easy masculine energy in his movements. When his gaze swept the scene, Meredith’s breath caught. Blue eyes that probably got him out of trouble as easily as they got him into it.
He addressed the lead cow. “Haggis. I have ye to blame for this mischief, I’m sure.”
His voice carried through the window—warm, accented, and doing inconvenient things to her pulse. He moved toward the herd, all easy confidence and patient gestures. “Away with ye now.”
The cows shifted toward the pasture, yet Haggis lingered, licking Meredith’s window.
“Seems you have an admirer.”
That accent did nothing to slow her pulse.
Meredith eased the car door open, nudging Haggis away before stepping out. The already stunning scenery managed to improve with his stubble, snow-dusted curls, and eyes that met hers with warmth and polite curiosity. “Believe me, I didn’t encourage him.”
“Poor Haggis. Terrible taste in lasses.” He grabbed a tool from the truck and moved to the fence. “Ignores the sensible ones, goes straight for the ones daft enough to drive in a whiteout.”
She forced herself to think past how rugged he looked. “Hey, I was told to expect only a pitter patter of flakes.”
His hands stilled on the wire. “A pitter patter. What eejit told you that?”
“Purrcast.” At his look, she added, “Kitten-themed weather app.”
His grin sent tingles down her spine. “You trusted a kitten?”
“Kittens never lie. And the app had five stars!”
“From other eejits, I’d wager.” He went back to work, and she definitely should not be noticing how his shoulders flexed. “Next time, look out the window. If you can’t see the hills, don’t drive into them.”
“Now you tell me.”
He tested the wire with a tug. “There now. That’ll hold. At least until another Yank runs into it.”
He wiped his hands and approached, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head back. His gaze swept down her face, lingering, and her brain stuttered. Oh, she was in trouble.
“You’ll be Edith’s granddaughter, then. Meredith from Boston.”
“How—”
“She’s expecting ye.” He tugged off a glove and extended his hand. “Brodie McBride.”
His hand was like a heated mitten, and he held on longer than expected. Her heart kicked up its heels. “You help my grandmother.”
“Och. No trouble. She pays me in shortbread and grandmotherly wisdom.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, strikingly blue against the white landscape. “She mentions you a fair bit. Says you’re fierce smart with money but havnae the sense God gave a chicken when it comes to your own happiness.”
Meredith’s mouth fell open. “She did not say that.”
“Near enough.” He released her hand and nodded toward the pasture where one cow had separated from the herd, circling restlessly. “Bit of timing, this. Tilda’s about to drop her calf.”
“What? In this weather?”
“Cows never check with the kittens.” He was already moving toward his truck. “Come on then. Road’s no’ safe, and we’ll be here a bit. First-time mothers take their time.”
Stranded. With him. “Shouldn’t we…do something?”
“Aye. We should drink tea and stay out of her business unless she says differently.” He opened the passenger door, one eyebrow raised. “In you get. Unless you’d rather freeze in that tin can?”
A serial killer wouldn’t care about a birthing cow, right?
The cab wrapped her in warmth and the smell of damp wool and cedar. He poured tea from a thermos and handed it to her, fingers brushing hers. The tight space felt smaller with him in it.
“So.” He angled toward her. “Edith says you’re seeing if Scotland suits you. Or is it more running from something that doesn’t?”
Perceptive. “Can’t it be both?”
“Aye.” He watched Tilda through the windshield. “I came back from London only to help my folks a wee bit, then return to real life.” His smile was self-aware. “Turned out this was real life. The rest was just…noise.”
Something in her chest loosened. “Yes. Exactly.”
He turned that blue gaze on her fully, and the air shifted. Charged. “Well then, Meredith from Boston. Welcome to the Highlands. Try no’ to hit any more of my fences.”
She met his eyes with a slow smile, surrendering to the pull. “Who can say where the kittens will lead?”
His laugh was low, genuine. When he held her gaze, there was no mistaking his interest. “As long as they keep sending you my way.”
Her debut novel, Finding Jonah, released in June 2025. Prodigal Dad, book 2 in the series will be out soon.
Connect with Denise on Facebook, Instagram or her website. Sign up for her newsletter to receive a free story.
Spark Flash Fiction 