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towing a fishing boat, and besides, he had a cute border collie riding with him. In a split second of decision-making, I applied a partially formed opinion of his character, using good old intuition to decide he was A-OK. What animal lover (an assumption I made based on his canine friend) could possibly be a bad guy? Besides, I figured I had to trust him. Who else did I have to turn to out here in the middle of nowhere? Still, I planned to remain alert to any trouble.
    I rubbed the back of my neck, considering the symptoms of whiplash after so many sudden starts and stops. I’d heard it takes a few hours for aches and pains to settle in. “I’m fine, really,” I told him.
    “Ye don’t look so fine,” he said, then, apparently realizing that I might misinterpret his remark as a critique of my personal appearance, amended, “I mean,
ye
look fine, but . . . uh . . . yer situation doesn’t.” He gave me a slightly crooked smile. “Did ye use yer mobile to call for help?”
    It wasn’t as though I hadn’t considered that option, but my cell phone hadn’t worked since I’d landed (not a fact I wanted to broadcast to unfamiliar men; it would be like using a black magic marker to write
Helpless Prey
on my forehead). Never mind that I hadn’t the faintest idea who to call. Ami, back in Chicago? Not much help there. What was the magic number for emergencies here anyway? It certainly wasn’t 911.
    “And how exactly do I do that?” I said instead, immediately realizing I’d made a stupid mistake in showing my ignorance.
    “In the future, ye call nine-nine-nine,” he informed me. “Yer from the States, then?”
    I strained to catch a tone of disdain in his voice, but, to my relief, didn’t hear anything negative. He was simply making a statement. I was aware that we Americans weren’t exactly beloved worldwide. Trying to beat up an innocent car was a perfect example of how not to act in a foreign country.
    I admitted I was, and he studied the car situation while I covertly studied him. He really was a nice guy, I could tell. And it didn’t hurt that he was also tall and attractive, with sandy blond hair and a little natural red facial hair, like he hadn’t had time to shave this morning. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing well-muscled arms, and he smelled nice, too, like fresh air and open fields—unless that really
was
the great outdoors giving me sensory overload. And he had those Scottish blue eyes I’d been admiring since landing.
    Everything about this guy seemed relaxed, from the casual way he wore his clothes to the hair on his head (just a little too long, which happened to be just right in my book). I wanted to think I had the same sense of self-confidence that wafted from him, but I had to admit, in the short time since I’d arrived in Scotland, some of my poise—all right, most of it—had bailed on me.
    He opened the driver’s door, slid in, started it up, and tried to shift through the gears. Yup, they were locked in place for him, too.
    “Can you fix it?” I asked anxiously, wrapping my cardigan a little tighter around my body, realizing that the temperature here was much cooler than a July afternoon back home. I’d have to replace it with one made from Scottish wool.
    “Did ye hear any loud noises?” he asked, a hint of amusement twitching his lips.
    “Yes. A big bang.”
    He got out and tinkered under the hood. The internal workings of cars have always baffled me, so instead of observing I walked over to the rover’s partially open passenger window and introduced myself to the border collie. “Eden Elliott,” I said as the dog stood up and wagged her tail madly. I reached in and gave her a pat on the head along with an ear scratch. “You’re a sweetie.”
    I heard the hood close, and I walked back to my car for the damage report.
    “Eden, is it?” the guy said, inclining his head to the dog. “I overheard ye introduce yerself to