Chapter 4
Heather—Present Day
T he kettle whistled, steam curling into the cool air of Glenoran’s kitchen.
Heather set out two mugs, spooning in tea leaves while Flynn rummaged in the cupboard for rolled oats.
It was a quiet morning, the kind that made the old house feel almost gentle, like it had finally settled into their presence.
Byrdie padded in then, tail high, leaping onto a chair and meowing imperiously as if to remind them the house was hers first. Heather reached down to scratch between her ears, earning a pleased rumble of purr.
“Good morning to you too, bossy.”
The crunch of tires on gravel broke the stillness.
Heather paused, mug in hand. “You expecting anyone?”
Flynn shook his head, grabbing a towel to dry his hands. “Not unless you ordered emergency scones.”
Byrdie’s ears flicked toward the sound, her tail giving one sharp lash before she hopped down and trotted out of the kitchen, as though she fully intended to handle things herself.
A knock followed—firm, quick, purposeful.
Heather wiped her hands on her jeans and headed for the door, more curious than worried. When she opened it, Eleanor stood on the stone step.
She was younger than Heather had first guessed, closer to fifty than seventy, with auburn hair streaked silver and pulled back in a loose knot, as if she’d opted for practical over polished.
Fine lines framed her eyes, but they sharpened rather than softened her expression.
Her gaze was quick, assessing. A fitted wool coat hugged her frame, practical boots planted squarely on the step.
For a beat, something in the tilt of Eleanor’s chin—the determined line of her mouth, the auburn threaded with gray—tugged at Heather. A flash of Eilidh, not as she’d been, but as she might have been.
“Eleanor?” Heather blinked. “I thought we’d see you at the pub today.”
“Aye, well, I thought better of it.” Eleanor brushed past her into the hall, mist clinging to her coat. “Didnae want an audience for what I’ve got to say.”
Heather glanced back toward the kitchen. Flynn had appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, watching with easy alertness.
Eleanor stopped in the middle of the foyer, eyes sparking.
“Ye’d do well to keep your nose out of this, lass.”
Heather’s brows shot up. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I mean it.” Eleanor’s voice rang sharp, her brogue clipped. “You don’t know what you’re stirrin’ up. Glenoran’s not some fairy-tale treasure chest waitin’ to be unlocked. It’s ruin. Secrets better left buried.”
Heather’s spine stiffened, but she kept her voice steady. “With respect, Eleanor, it’s my family. My home. If there are secrets, I’d rather know them than trip over them in the dark.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightened. “That’s what your mother thought, as well. And it led her down roads you don’t want to follow.”
For a moment, her eyes softened, something old and tired flickering there, before they shuttered again.
“Your mother and I—aye, we knew each other well.” She hesitated, her tone roughening. “She was my best mate at Uni. Closer than a sister. We were in the history department together. Jacobites, mostly.” A humorless huff escaped her. “She could argue circles around the lot of them.”
Heather could almost see it: her mother young and fierce in some echoing lecture hall, all sharp wit and stubborn conviction. A whole version of her life Heather had never been handed.
“But clever as she was,” Eleanor went on, “Eilidh made mistakes. Big ones. She started chasin’ shadows she couldnae control. You’re too much like her, and I’ll no’ stand by and watch ye run the same path.”
Flynn pushed off the wall, tone level but edged. “Sounds more like you’re hiding something than warning her.”
Eleanor’s jaw flexed. At last she muttered, “All I’ll say is this—Culloden wasn’t the end of the story.
That battle broke men, aye, but it birthed secrets too.
Secrets that have teeth.” Her gaze fixed on Heather, steady and unflinching.
“And the folk who’ve chased them before you haven’t always come back. ”
The hall fell quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock.
Heather swallowed, but didn’t look away. “I appreciate the warning. Truly. But I’m not walking away from this. Not now.”
Eleanor studied her for a long moment, grief and exasperation warring in her expression. Then she shook her head and pulled her coat tighter.
“Too much her mother’s daughter,” she murmured.
Heather took a step forward. “Then help me. If you cared about her, if you care at all about what happens next, don’t just tell me to stop. Give me something real.”
Eleanor’s jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like she might turn and leave. Then her shoulders sank, as though something heavy had finally settled on them.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
Heather shook her head. “No.”
Flynn’s hand brushed her elbow, a quiet, steadying touch.
Eleanor let out a low, humorless laugh. “Stubborn, the lot of you. Fine.” Her voice dropped, threaded through with history. “I’ll give you this… a place to begin. You remember I said Culloden didn’t finish the story? That wasn’t just talk.”
Heather’s fingers curled loosely at her sides.
“After the battle, word spread of gold—Spanish, maybe French—meant for the prince. Some say it was carried West.” She paused, eyes glinting. “Hidden in caskets near Loch Arkaig in Lochaber.”
Heather tasted the name, rolling it over once. “Loch Arkaig…”
“Aye.” Eleanor leaned in slightly, voice grim. “But the loch’s as dangerous as the stories. Folk said the treasure was cursed, guarded by the waters themselves. And those who went lookin’.”—Her gaze sharpened—“…most didn’t come back.”
The clock ticked on, unbothered.
Eleanor straightened, her face smoothing over again. “Be careful, lass. Curiosity’s a fine thing in a classroom. Out here, it can cost you dearly.”
With that, she turned and stepped back out into the mist, boots crunching over the gravel as she disappeared from view.
Heather stood in the doorway for a moment, more stunned than shaken.
Eleanor hadn’t just known her mother, she’d studied beside her, argued with her, built a life alongside her.
And now she’d tied her warning, and the first real thread of a clue, to Culloden and a loch Heather had only ever read about.
A soft brush against her calf made her look down. Byrdie had reappeared, winding around her legs as if to anchor her. Heather scooped the cat up, burying her face briefly in warm fur.
“Yeah, girl,” she murmured. “I’m still catching up, too.”
Flynn let out a low whistle behind her. “Well. That was quite the mornin’ guest.”
Heather turned back into the hall, setting Byrdie gently down. “She knew Mom,” she said, the words coming out a little dazed. “ Really knew her. And she finally admitted it.”
Flynn slipped an arm around her shoulders, solid and sure. “Aye. Which means she’ll know more. Question is when she’ll be willin’ to share.”
Heather leaned into him, her mind already turning over the new names, the places. Culloden. West. Loch Arkaig. Eleanor had given her just enough to make the trail feel real.
And that, Heather thought, was more than enough to start.
Heather sat at the long oak table in Glenoran’s library, the books she’d bought in Inverness spread before her. The spines creaked as she flipped through them—Culloden histories, Jacobite legends, maps of the Highlands. Her mother’s missive lay beside them, edges softened by handling.
Byrdie hopped onto the table, sprawling across one of the open books like a furry paperweight. Heather absently stroked her back.
“Not helping, Byrd,” she muttered, affection warming the words.
Flynn dropped into the chair across from her, setting down a steaming mug of tea. “You’re going to drill a hole in that page if you keep staring at it like that.”
Heather glanced up, brow furrowed. “She gave us Loch Arkaig, Flynn. That’s not just pub gossip. I’d read about it before she even said the name. The Jacobite gold was supposed to go West. Nobody ever found it.”
“Aye, and from the way Eleanor tells it, a few folk broke themselves tryin’.” He blew on his tea, eyes steady on her. “You sure this is a road you want to walk?”
Heather traced a fingertip along the edge of the missive. “I already am,” she said quietly. “It was Mom’s path first, but I’m the one standing on it now. If Loch Arkaig is the starting line, then… that’s where we go.”
Flynn set his mug down and reached across the table, catching her hand. His thumb traced slow circles across her knuckles.
“Campbell,” he said, voice low and sure, “I’ll go wherever you point the car.” His eyes gleamed with affection.
Something in her eased at that. The buzz of nerves and the ache of missing her mother tangled together, but didn’t feel quite so sharp with his hand around hers.
Without overthinking it, she rose and slid into his lap, looping her arms around his neck.
Flynn let out a surprised laugh, muffled against her hair. “Well, that’s one way to say thank you.”
“I just need you close for a minute,” Heather murmured. “That okay?”
He tipped her chin up until her eyes met his, the teasing fading to something softer. “Aye. As long as you like.”
The kiss that followed wasn’t rushed. It was steady, grounding, the kind that made the rest of the room fall away. For a little while, the books and maps and looming questions blurred at the edges. All she felt was the warmth of him, the solid beat of his heart beneath her hand.
When they finally pulled apart, Heather drew in a slow breath. “Tomorrow we head West,” she said. “Culloden first. Then Loch Arkaig.”
Flynn pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “We’ll take it slow. Let the past talk to us a bit before we go trampin’ after its riches.”
Heather rested her cheek against his shoulder, the wordless hum of agreement sinking deep. Safe wasn’t the word she would’ve chosen often for her life, but wrapped up in him, in this house, it nudged at her all the same.
Byrdie purred louder from her perch on the books, as if putting her official seal on the moment.
Flynn glanced at the cat, a grin tugging wide. “Even the wee beastie approves. Though I’ll admit, I’m still a bit jealous of how quick she gets your affection.”
Heather snorted against his shoulder. “Jealous of a cat?”
“Aye,” he said solemnly, though his eyes glinted. He reached over to scratch under Byrdie’s chin, earning a pleased rumble. “She doesnae even have to kiss you to keep ye.”
Heather swatted at his chest, cheeks warming. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re smiling,” he murmured, stealing one more soft kiss before letting her tuck herself back against him.
His hand traced idle lines along her back, soothing without effort. After a while, he said, “Culloden, then. We’ll give the history its say before we chase its shadows.”
Heather closed her eyes, picturing the battlefield she’d only ever studied in books, now no longer just a place in her mother’s research, but a stop on her own route.
“I want to see it,” she said quietly. “For her. For me.”
“Aye,” he answered into her hair. “And I’ll be there when you do.”
They stayed like that for a long while, wrapped together in the hush of Glenoran’s library, the fire crackling low. Outside, fog slipped over the hills, soft and unassuming, as the day wore on toward whatever came next.
Tomorrow, they’d point the car West—toward Culloden, toward Loch Arkaig, toward a story her mother had never finished. The path ahead didn’t feel like a legend anymore.
It felt like a plan.