A Highlander for Christmas

The wheels lose their grip in slow motion. One moment I’m navigating the narrow Highland road with determined caution, the next I’m sliding sideways into a snow-filled ditch, my corporate crisis management skills utterly useless against basic physics.

“No, no, no!” I pump the brakes—wrong move, the car slides faster—then remember to steer into the skid. Too late. The passenger side crunches into the embankment with a sound like disappointment made audible.

The engine dies. Silence floods in, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and my own rapid breathing.

Brilliant, Holly. Absolutely brilliant.

I try the ignition. Click. Nothing. Try again. Still nothing.

Right. Time for that famous resilience everyone says I have.

I shove open the door against the wind and immediately regret wearing these shoes. Snow invades through every gap, soaking my tights within seconds. The storm has intensified since I left Angus MacRae’s cottage—fat, heavy flakes that stick to everything and reduce visibility to mere metres.

The car lists at an angle that makes my stomach lurch. Not dangerously tilted, but definitely not driving out without help. I pop the boot and rummage for the emergency kit Dad insisted I pack. Torch, check. Warning triangle, check. Tiny shovel that looks about as useful as a teaspoon, check.

I start digging around the front wheel, my hands already numb through my wool gloves. The snow comes away easily enough, but there’s ice beneath—black, treacherous ice that explains the skid.

A memory surfaces: Steven laughing at me for taking that winter driving course. “Such overkill, babe. When are you ever going to need that in the city?”

Right about now, Steven. Right about bloody now.

The shovel scrapes against frozen ground, achieving nothing. I switch to the rear wheel, then realise the futility. Even if I clear the snow, I can’t magic away the ice or the angle of the ditch.

My phone shows one bar of signal. Thank God for small mercies.

I dial the local garage, stamping my feet to maintain circulation while it rings. And rings. And goes to voicemail.

“This is Morrison’s Garage. We’re closed for the storm. Leave a message if it’s not urgent.”

I hang up. Try the recovery service my insurance company recommended. The cheery automated voice informs me the current wait time is four to six hours due to adverse weather conditions.

Four to six hours. In a blizzard. In the middle of nowhere.

My teeth are chattering now, whether from cold or frustration I can’t tell. Back in the car, I blast the heater—nothing. Of course. The engine’s dead.

Think, Holly. Asset assessment. What do you have?

A broken car. A Santa costume in the back seat. Three boxes of mince pies. And about two hundred metres between me and the cottage of a man who made it crystal clear he wants nothing to do with helping anyone.

Pride wars with survival instinct.

Survival wins.

I grab the torch and lock the car—habit more than necessity, since who’s going to steal it from a Highland ditch? The walk back up the lane is treacherous, my city shoes finding every patch of ice. Twice I catch myself on the verge of falling, arms windmilling for balance.

By the time I reach his door, I’m shaking with cold and my knocked pride has frozen solid.

I knock. Wait. Knock again.

The door opens to reveal Angus MacRae looking even less pleased to see me than before.

“What now?” His gaze travels past me to the empty lane. “Where’s your car?”

“In a ditch.” The words come out through chattering teeth. “About two hundred metres down. Hit ice.”