It was just past midnight when the woman in wet, torn forest green saw what had to be the light from windows of a small house. She stumbled toward it gratefully, hoping for warmth and some sort of communications. Dammit, equipment failure and a plane crash were no way to start New Year's Day!
As she neared the house, she heard party sounds, and grinned. It seemed that someone, at least, was having fun here on -- if she remembered her charts right -- the Isle of Skye. The North Sea in winter . . . yes, she was lucky to be alive.
When she knocked on the door, the party sounds got louder -- until the door opened, and someone saw her.
"Och, we have a soaked lass out here!" the young man exclaimed. He turned back into the house, called for blankets and a hot drink, then put his arm around
The piece seems more a chapter of a novel than a short story. The writing is good enough, but there's an odd sense of it taking place nowhere in particular. It's set on a farm on the Isle of Skye, but nothing, save a few names and the odd "Och!" gives any flavor of the place.