woman's lips, nodded as she sipped. "That's a good lass," he said
approvingly. "I'm Geordie MacGregor, and who may you be?"

The woman hesitated, hiding it with another sip of whiskey. They
hadn't identified her from her uniform; should she . . . no. See what
they were really like, first. "Lindner . . . Sue Lindner. My plane
went down, and when I made it ashore, I saw your lights." She turned
to the old man Geordie had called Uncle. "I'm sorry to be a bad omen,
sir, but it may be I won't be that bad."

"Ach, lass, I'm the one to be sorry," Geordie's uncle replied. "'Tis
superstition, I know, but 'tis tradition as well. It's rest you should
be getting."

"I would like to warm up a bit, then if you have a phone, I should call
and let the people expecting me know where I am. I'll pay for the
call, of course; it's long distance."

"You'll do no such thing," the old man retorted. "I'll not have it
bruited about that Donal MacGregor's lacking in proper hospitality. A
plane crash, you say, and your clothes half gone . . . are you hurt?
Will the Rescue Service not be looking for you?"

"I doubt it; my flight wasn't scheduled. And I'm not hurt, except for
a few scratches and bruises. There's no need to disturb your party."
She'd discarded her boots and equipment belt for the swim ashore, and
sometime during that swim or her wandering--probably coming ashore over
those rocks--she'd lost her badge and pretty well shredded her uniform.
It was no wonder they didn't recognize her; she doubted she'd be able
to recognize herself, huddled under a blanket with her hair plastered
down by salt water.

Another knock on the door brought laughter, especially from the woman
who opened it to admit a kilt-clad man bearing a piece of coal and a
bottle of whiskey.

"'Tis a few minutes late you are, Angus," Donal MacGregor called. "Our
first guest of the year is this poor cold lass here."

"And half drowned, by the look of her," Angus replied. He scowled
ferociously--a half-grin betraying his apparent ferocity--at the woman
tending Sue. "Tara, you know she needs something hot, not whiskey."

"Bridget's making cocoa, as you should be able to smell," Tara
retorted.

"It's made," the young woman entering the room said, going straight to
Sue and handing her the steaming mug.

Sue traded her whiskey glass for it, wrapping her hands around the mug
to warm them and taking a deep breath of the chocolatey steam, while
her ho