Her Hot Highland Doc. Annie O'Neil
“There’s only a wee bit to go.” Ailsa tipped her head in the direction of an emerging roofline. “Let’s get you inside and see if we can’t find some dry clothes for you and a hot cup of tea.”
Tea!
Bright side.
* * *
Brodie had half a mind to drive straight past the clinic and up into the mountains to try to hunt down his brother. Burn off some energy Callum-style on a mountain bike. He was overdue a catch-up since he’d returned. And it wasn’t as if he’d be seeing any patients today anyway.
She would.
The new girl.
He tipped his head back and forth. Better get his facts straight.
The new woman.
From the looks of Dr. O’Shea, she was no born-and-bred Scottish lassie, that was for sure. Ebony black hair. Long. Really long. His fingers involuntarily twitched at the teasing notion of running them through the long, silken swathe. He curled them into a fist and shot his fingers out wide, as if to flick off the pleasurable sensation.
There was more than a hint of South Asia about her. Maybe... Her eyes were a startling light green, and with a surname like O’Shea it was unlikely both of her parents had been Indian born and bred. He snorted. Here he was, angry at the world for making assumptions about him, and he was doing the same thing for poor ol’ Kali O’Shea.
When he’d received the email stating a Dr. O’Shea was on her way up he had fully been expecting a red-headed, freckle-faced upstart. Instead she was strikingly beautiful, if not a little wind tousled, like a porcelain doll. With the first light-up-a-room smile he’d seen since he didn’t know how long. Not to mention kitted out in entirely inappropriate clothing, riding a ridiculous bicycle on the rough lane and about to begin to do a job he could ruddy well do on his own, thank you very much.
He slowed the car and tugged the steering wheel around in an arc. He’d park behind the building. Leave Kali and Ailsa guessing for a minute. Or ten, given the strength of the gusts they were battling. Why did people insist on riding bicycles in this sort of weather? Ridiculous.
He took his bad mood out on the gear lever, yanking the vehicle into Park and climbing out of the high cab all in one movement.
When his feet landed solidly on the ground it was all too easy to hear his father’s voice sounding through his conscience.
You just left her? You left the poor wee thing there on the side of the road, splattered in mud, bicycle covered in muck, and didn’t lend a hand? Oh, son... That’s not what we islanders are about.
We islanders... Ha! That’d be about right.
And of course his father, the most stalwart of moral compasses, was right. It wasn’t what Dunreganers were about.
He scrubbed at his hair—a shocker of a reminder that he was long due for a trip to the barber’s. He tipped his head up to the stormy skies and barked out a laugh. At least he was free to run his hand through his hair now. And scrub the sleep out of his eyes. Rest his fingers on his lips when in thought...
Not that he’d done much of that lately. A moment’s reflection churned up too many images. Things he could never un-see. So it was little wonder his hair was too long, his house was a mess and his life was a shambles ever since he’d returned from Africa. The only thing he was sure of was his status on the island. He’d shot straight up to number one scourge faster than a granny would offer her little ’uns some shortbread.
He slammed his car door shut and dug into his pocket for the practice keys, a fresh wash of rain announcing itself to the already-blustery morning. The one Ailsa and Dr. O’Shea were still battling against.
Fine. All right. He’d been a class-A jerk.
To put it mildly.
He’d put the kettle on. A peace offering to his replacement. Temporary replacement, if he could ever convince the islanders that he wasn’t contagious. Never had been.
Trust the people who’d known him from the first day he’d taken a breath on this bleak pile of rocks and earth not to believe in the medical clearance he’d received. A clearance he’d received just in time to be at his father’s bedside, where they’d been able to make their peace. That was where the first hit of reality had been drilled home. And then there had been the funeral. It was hard to shake off those memories just a fortnight on.
His brother—the stayer—had received the true warmth of the village. Deep embraces. Claps to the shoulder and shared laughter over a fond memory. Only a very few people had shaken hands with him. Everyone else...? Curt nods and a swift exit.
He blamed it on his time in Africa, but his heart told him different. No amount of time would bring back his mother from that sailing trip he’d insisted on taking. No amount of penance would give the island back its brightest rose.
He had thought of giving a talk in the village hall—about Africa, the medicine he’d practiced, the safety precautions he’d taken—but couldn’t bear the thought of standing there on his own, waiting for no one to show up, feeling more of an outsider than he had growing up here.
He shoved the old-fashioned key into the clinic’s thick wooden door and pushed the bottom right-hand corner with his foot, where it always stuck when the weather was more wet than cold.
The familiarity of it parted his lips in a grudging smile. He knew this building like the back of his hand. Had all but grown up in it. He’d listened to his first heartbeat here, under the watchful eye of his father. Just as he had done most of his firsts on the island. Beneath his father’s ever benevolent and watchful eye.
And now, like his father and his father before him, he was taking over the village practice in a place he knew well. Too well. He grimaced as the wind helped give the door a final nudge toward opening.
Without looking behind him he tried to shut it and met resistance. He pushed harder. The door pushed back.
“You’re certainly choosing an interesting way to welcome our new GP, Brodie.”
Ailsa was behind him, trying to keep the door open for herself and—yes, there she was...just behind Ailsa’s shoulder—Dr. Shea.
Dr. O’Shea?
Whatever. With the mood he was battling, he was afraid she’d need the luck of the Irish and all of...whatever other heritage it was that he was gleaning.
“Hi, there. I’m Kali.” She stepped out from behind Ailsa and put out a scraped hand.
He looked at it and frowned. Another reminder that he should’ve stuck around to help.
She retracted her hand and wiped it on her mud-stained coat.
“Sorry,” she apologized in a soft English accent. One with a lilt. Ireland? It wasn’t posh London. “I’m not really looking my best this morning.”
“No. Well...”
Brodie gave himself an eye roll. Was it too late to club himself in the forehead and just be done with it?
“Ach, Brodie McClellan! Will you let the poor girl inside so we can get something dry onto her and something hot inside of her?” Ailsa scolded. “Mrs. Glenn dropped some homemade biscuits in yesterday afternoon, when she was out with her dogs. See if you can dig those up while I try and find Dr. O’Shea a towel for all that lovely long hair of hers. And have a scrounge round for some dry clothes, will you?”
“Anything else I can do for you?” he called after the retreating figure, then remembered there was still another woman waiting. One not brave enough to shove past him as Ailsa had. “C’mon, then. Let’s get you out of this weather.”
* * *
Kali eyed Brodie warily as he stepped to the side with an actual smile, his arm sweeping along the hallway in the manner of a charming butler. Hey, presto! And...the