The blood pressure monitor shrieks.
I snap my focus back to the patient in front of me. Female, mid-thirties, grey skin, pulse thready under my fingers. The A&E nurse at my elbow meets my eyes, and I nod once.
“Two units O-neg,” I say. “Fast infuser. Where’s anaesthetics?”
“Two minutes out.”
Two minutes is a lifetime when someone’s bleeding internally. I press my hands to the woman’s abdomen, feeling the tight distension beneath the blankets. Blunt force trauma from a car accident on the A82. She’s been stable enough to transfer, but now she’s crashing.
“Prepare for theatre,” I order. My voice stays level. It always does. “Tell them I’ll be scrubbing in five minutes.”
The nurse moves. So do I. ABCDE runs through my mind like a mantra: airway, breathing, circulation, disability, exposure. I’ve done this a hundred times in London, a thousand times before that as a registrar. My hands know the motions. My brain calculates risk and benefit without conscious thought.
This is what I’m good at.
This is where I have control.
The woman’s systolic ticks up as the blood flows in. I allow myself half a breath of satisfaction before the A&E doors crash open behind me.
Cold air slams into the resus bay. I turn, irritation sharp in my chest, ready to snap at whoever left the outer doors propped.
Then I see them.
Three figures in red jackets crusted with ice and old snow. Mountain rescue. They’re carrying a stretcher between them, boots leaving wet, gritty prints across my clean floor. The man at the front barks something to the others, and they angle the stretcher through the doorway with the efficiency of people who’ve done this too many times to count.
“Trauma two,” someone calls.
My patient is stable enough for now. I glance at the nurse. “Get her to theatre. I’ll follow.”
Then I peel off my gloves and stride toward the mountain rescue team and their incoming disaster.
***
Trauma bay two smells like wet wool and cold earth.
I push through the curtain and stop.
The patient is a man, maybe sixty, grey-faced and shivering despite the layers of foil blankets piled over him. His lips are still tinged blue. Hypothermia, clearly. But it’s not the patient who holds my attention.
It’s the man standing at the head of the stretcher.
Him.
Duncan Roberts looks exactly as he did three months ago at Murdo MacLeod’s wedding. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired. But there’s no kilt this time, no polished shoes or slightly awkward formal shirt. Instead, he’s in his element: red mountain rescue jacket open over a fleece, trousers splattered with mud, rope coiled over one shoulder. His hair is plastered to his forehead with melting snow. His hands are bare and red with cold.
And he’s watching his patient with the same intensity I saw when I tried to ask him about hiking routes and he grunted three words before turning away.
Grumpy doesn’t begin to cover it.
I step forward, pushing aside the memory of how ridiculously attractive I’d found him despite the rudeness. “I’m Dr. Zara Khan, trauma surgery. What have we got?”
His gaze flicks to me. Recognition sparks, then vanishes behind something flat and unreadable.
“Duncan Roberts. Glencoe Mountain Rescue.” His voice is low, clipped. That same Scottish burr that made my stomach flutter at the wedding. “Male, sixty-two, solo walker. Found at the base of the Devil’s Staircase two hours ago. Non-responsive when we reached him. Core temp was twenty-eight degrees. We’ve warmed him to thirty-one on-site.”
I blink. “You warmed him on the mountain?”
“Aye.”
“How?”
“Heat packs. Insulated bivvy. Body warmth.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like I should know better than to ask.
My jaw tightens. Three months ago, I’d found his brusqueness intriguing. Now it’s just irritating.
“You can’t warm a hypothermic patient that fast in the field. You risk rewarming shock.”
His expression doesn’t shift. “If we hadn’t warmed him, he’d be dead.”
“If you warm him incorrectly, he’ll arrest.”
“He didn’t.”
The silence between us crackles. Behind Duncan, a second rescuer is unfastening the straps on the stretcher. Younger, sandy-haired, broad across the shoulders. He glances up, catches the tension, and wisely says nothing.
I force my attention to the patient. “What’s his GCS?”
“Was three on-site. Now around eight. Responds to voice, moves extremities.”
I move to the patient’s side, pulling on fresh gloves. Airway clear. Breathing shallow but regular. Skin cold but not frozen. Pulse is there, slow but steady.
Duncan steps back to give me room, but he doesn’t leave. He stands at the foot of the stretcher, arms crossed, watching.
I hate being watched.
Especially by men who looked me up and down at a wedding, decided I wasn’t worth their time, and then dismissed me with all the warmth of a glacier.
“Did you get IV access?” I ask.
“Aye. Left antecubital.” He nods to the patient’s arm. “Gave him five hundred mil warm saline on the hill.”
I freeze.
“You gave him fluids in the field?”
“Aye.”
“Without hospital authorisation?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m a qualified paramedic. I don’t need hospital authorisation to keep someone alive.”
“You need my authorisation if you’re handing patients to my trauma bay.”
“Your trauma bay wasn’t on the side of a mountain in a blizzard, Dr. Khan.”
The nurse beside me shifts uncomfortably. I ignore her. My pulse is ticking up, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
This is the problem with mountain rescue. Cowboys who think field experience trumps medical protocol. Who make gut calls instead of following evidence-based guidelines.
I’ve seen what happens when people go rogue. I’ve cleaned up the mess.
“Next time,” I say, biting off each word, “you stabilise and transport. You don’t treat beyond basic life support unless you have direct communication with a physician.”
Duncan Roberts stares at me.
Then he leans forward, close enough that I can smell cold air and wool and something faintly earthy clinging to his jacket.
“Next time,” he says, voice quiet and absolutely unyielding, “I’ll do exactly the same thing. Because next time, you won’t be there. And he’ll still need saving.”
For a second, neither of us moves.
At the wedding, I’d wondered what it would be like to have all that intensity focused on me. Turned out the answer was: infuriating.
Then he straightens, nods once to his team, and turns toward the door.
“We’ll be outside for debrief if you need details,” he says over his shoulder.
The door swings shut behind him.
I stand there, hands still gloved, staring at the space where he was.
“Bloody hell,” the nurse mutters.
I don’t answer.
I turn back to the patient and start running through the protocol for severe hypothermia. Controlled rewarming. Continuous monitoring. Bloods for potassium and lactate. Everything by the book.
Because the book exists for a reason.
And because following the rules is the only thing keeping me upright after London.
***
The patient stabilises over the next ninety minutes.
By the time I’ve handed him to the intensive care registrar and scrubbed out, my shoulders are tight and my head is pounding. I strip off my scrubs, pull on my fleece, and head for the staff room.
The hospital is quiet. Fort William isn’t London. We don’t have the same volume, the same relentless churn of trauma. That was the point of coming here. A slower pace. Time to rebuild.
Time to prove I can do this job without someone sabotaging me from the inside.
I pour myself a coffee from the ancient machine in the corner and lean against the counter, letting the heat seep into my palms.
Through the window, I can see the mountain rescue team loading gear into a battered Land Rover in the car park. Duncan Roberts is there, still in his jacket, talking to the younger man who came in with him. His posture is easy, relaxed. Like he didn’t just argue with a trauma surgeon twenty minutes ago.
Like he doesn’t remember blowing me off at Murdo’s wedding.
Like he doesn’t care.
I take a sip of coffee. It tastes like burnt plastic.
I’d been stupid at that wedding. New to Fort William, trying to settle in, trying to meet people. I’d seen Duncan standing alone near the bar and thought, maybe. He was attractive in a rough, brooding way. Strong hands. Good shoulders. Dark eyes that looked like they held secrets.
So I’d asked him about hiking routes.
He’d looked at me like I’d asked him to explain quantum physics, muttered something about “the Pap of Glencoe if you’re fit enough,” and walked away.
Message received.
I shake my head, draining the coffee. Clearly, I’m not any better at reading men than I was in London.
“Dr. Khan?”
I turn.
It’s Dr. Elspeth Cameron, the clinical lead for emergency medicine. She’s in her fifties, sharp-eyed, with the kind of calm authority that makes even the most arrogant consultants shut up and listen.
“Elspeth,” I say. “How’s the MVA patient?”
“In theatre now. You did well.” She steps into the room, shuts the door behind her. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I set down my coffee. “All right.”
She folds her arms, considering me. “You’ve settled in well over the past two months. Your clinical skills are excellent. The team respects you.”
“Thank you.”
“But Fort William isn’t London. We work differently here. Especially with the mountain rescue teams.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m aware.”
“Are you?” She raises an eyebrow. “Because I heard you had words with Duncan Roberts.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “He treated a patient in the field without following proper protocol.”
“He saved a patient’s life in the field using twenty years of experience.” Elspeth’s voice is mild, but there’s steel underneath. “Duncan Roberts is the best mountain rescue leader in Scotland. He’s forgotten more about cold-weather trauma than most A&E doctors will ever learn.”
“That doesn’t mean he can bypass hospital guidelines.”
“No. It means he prioritises survival over paperwork.” She pauses. “Which is why I’m assigning you as the hospital’s medical liaison to Glencoe Mountain Rescue for the winter season.”
The words hit me like cold water.
“What?”
“You’ll attend training sessions, brief the team on updated protocols, and accompany them on selected callouts where a doctor’s presence is warranted.” Elspeth’s expression is calm, immovable. “You’ll be the bridge between the hospital and the hill. It’s a role we’ve needed to fill for months.”
“I’m a trauma surgeon. Not a wilderness medic.”
“You’re both. Or you will be, once you’ve done the training.” She tilts her head. “This is the Highlands, Zara. Half our trauma comes off those mountains. If you want to be effective here, you need to understand how rescue works. And that means working with Duncan.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
Working with Duncan Roberts. The man who couldn’t spare me two civil sentences at a wedding and just lectured me in my own trauma bay.
Perfect.
Elspeth’s gaze softens, just slightly. “I know you’re used to a certain way of doing things. But this is a small community. We rely on each other. The hospital and the mountain rescue team have to work as partners, not opponents.”
“Even when they take risks?”
“Especially then.” She straightens. “First training session is Friday afternoon at the Glencoe MR base. I’ll send you the details.”
She leaves before I can argue.
I stand there, coffee cooling in my hand, staring at the door.
Through the window, the Land Rover’s engine rumbles to life. I watch as it pulls out of the car park, red taillights disappearing into the grey afternoon.
The mountains loom beyond the town, dark and jagged against the sky.
I’ve been here two months, and I still don’t understand them. I see them every day from my flat, from the hospital corridors, from the car park. They’re beautiful in a raw, brutal way. But they’re not mine. They belong to people like Duncan Roberts. People who know how to read snow and wind and rock, who move through that landscape like it’s a second home.
I’m a city girl. I grew up in Manchester, trained in London. I know operating theatres and rotas and the weight of a scalpel in my hand.
I don’t know mountains.
And I certainly don’t know how to work with a man who’s made it clear he’d rather I didn’t exist.
I drain the coffee, drop the cup in the sink, and head back to my office.
There’s paperwork to finish. Protocols to review. A system to fix.
Because that’s what I do. I follow the rules. I create order.
Even if it means spending my winter trapped in the orbit of the grumpiest, most infuriating man in Scotland.
***
That night, I lie awake in my flat, staring at the ceiling.
My brain won’t stop replaying the argument in the trauma bay. Duncan’s voice, low and certain. Next time, I’ll do exactly the same thing.
The worst part is, the patient survived.
The man we pulled out of hypothermia is stable, on track for a full recovery. Duncan’s field decisions worked. His instincts were sound.
That doesn’t mean he was right.
Does it?
I roll onto my side, pulling the duvet tighter. Outside, the wind rattles the window frame. It’s November. The start of winter. The season when the mountains turn deadly and people like Duncan Roberts spend their days pulling frozen, broken bodies off the hills.
And now I’m supposed to work with him.
I close my eyes and try not to think about the way he looked at Murdo’s wedding. Kilt slung low on his hips, shirt rolled to the elbows, nursing a whisky in the corner while everyone else danced. I’d thought he looked lonely. Interesting.
Turns out he was just rude.
And now I’m stuck with him.
I pull the duvet over my head and force my breathing to slow.
Maybe this is what I deserve. I ran from London because I couldn’t face the wreckage of my career. Because my ex-boyfriend sold my surgical decisions to a journalist and framed me as reckless. Because I trusted the wrong person and it cost me everything.
And now I’m here, being forced to trust a man who treats hospital protocol like a suggestion and me like an inconvenience.
Great.
Brilliant.
I didn’t leave London to fail again.
I came here to prove I could do this job. To build something solid. To be the surgeon I was before everything fell apart.
And if that means spending the winter learning to navigate snow and ice and stubborn, infuriating mountain men?
Fine.
I’ll do it.
I’ll follow their rules, learn their systems, and find a way to make this work.
Even if it kills me.
Even if Duncan Roberts spends the entire time looking at me like I’m a liability he didn’t ask for.
Because maybe, if I’m honest, that’s exactly what I am.
I pull the duvet tighter and wait for sleep.
Outside, the mountains wait in the dark.
And somewhere out there, so does he.
