Free Highlander in Her Dreams by Allie Mackay

told, to borrow the language of her medieval Highlander, the only sheep she’d spied so far were pleasant-looking woolly creatures seemingly content to keep to the verdant pastures rising from the impossibly narrow road.
    She sighed. Leave it to her to make such a journey at a time when tiredness fogged her brain and heightened her fright factor.
    Trying hard not to tremble and absolutely refusing to cry, she rolled down the window, hoping a good blast of clean and brisk air would bolster her confidence. Instead, the opened window only brought the approaching roar and passing whoosh of yet another speeding sports car.
    A locally licensed car, flying past the lay-by at breakneck speed and disappearing into the wilds of Rannoch Moor before she could even blink, much less wonder why she’d ever thought she could tackle such a drive without a good night’s sleep to recover from jet lag.
    And if she wished to ponder her plight, the equally speedy whooshes of two coach tour buses and an over-wide recreational vehicle dashed her hopes of wallowing in self-pity.
    â€œHoly guacamole,” she breathed, clutching the steering wheel.
    Maybe she would have to crawl on her knees to Castle Wrath. Pulling over to tremble and catch her breath each time some impatient driver zoomed up behind her wasn’t getting her anywhere. But maybe her handy-dandy map of the Highlands would. That, and her mother’s carefully written instructions to the Cairn Avenue shrew’s stepdaughter’s castle near Oban.
    Ravenscraig, the place was called if she remembered rightly, and it even boasted a re-created Highland period settlement—One Cairn Village—with craft shops, a tearoom, and tourist lodgings.
    Loosening her grip on the steering wheel, she twisted left, reaching for her purse, then digging inside its voluminous side pockets, searching for the folded piece of paper with her mother’s notes. A quick scan of them and a glance at her map brought her an instant boost. She need drive only a bit farther north, then veer west onto the A-85, straight through Glen Lochy and the Pass of Brander before continuing along Loch Etive until she reached Ravenscraig Castle. According to her mother, she couldn’t miss it, as the castle and its One Cairn Village were clearly signposted.
    Kira smiled. Signposted was good.
    Better yet, the A-85 would also take her along a short bit of Loch Awe, allowing her a nice view of that loch’s picturesque Kilchurn Castle. Her smile widened. Might as well enjoy the touristy stuff along the way.
    And Ravenscraig was a good deal closer than the Isle of Skye, where she’d booked a room at a small family-run inn. With her eyes feeling like sandpaper, sleep riding her hard, and her jaw beginning to ache from repeating the words stay left , a hot shower and a soft, clean bed sounded like heaven.
    Just how much like heaven astounded her when, a long but scenic stretch of Highland roads behind her, she stood in the heart of Ravenscraig’s One Cairn Village and felt herself transported to Brigadoon.
    This was Celtic whimsy at its finest.
    Fine enough to blunt the worst of her jet lag.
    â€œOh-my-gosh.” She stopped beside a large memorial cairn topped with a Celtic cross, the clutch of thick-walled, blue-doored Highland-y cottages surrounding it taking her breath and delighting her. A profusion of late-blooming flowers and heather rioted everywhere, spilling from rustic-looking halved wine barrels and crowding winding, moss-grown paths. Curling wisps of fragrant peat smoke rose from several of the thatched cottages’ squat chimney stacks, and although the afternoon light was failing, there was enough to cast a golden autumnal glow across the whole old-timey-looking village.
    She glanced about, letting the place’s magic close around her. It was like stepping into one of her books on Highland life, as if she’d blinked and suddenly found herself inside the sepia