Chapter 18
Heather—Present Day
D awn came pale and thin, too gentle for how sharp her nerves still felt. Glenoran glittered with dew as if the night had rinsed it clean. Except for the faint fan of tire tracks at the gate.
Proof.
She’d stood there in her robe and boots at first light, breath ghosting in the cold, staring at the marks softening under the morning damp. Seeing them steadied her. She hadn’t imagined the flashlight. Or the way it froze. Or the hasty retreat.
Inside, she packed quickly and deliberately:
Eilidh’s working notebook she found buried among the stacks in Glenoran’s library.
The leather folio of dates and place-names.
Eleanor’s letter, folded to show the Dingwall address.
Laptop. Clothes.
Byrdie supervised from the bed, then naturally climbed straight into the overnight bag.
“Not this time, girlypop,” Heather murmured, lifting her out. Byrdie purred, unbothered. “You’re going to the Thistle Haven. Vacation time for you.”
By the time Heather washed her mug, secured each latch on the windows, and texted Flynn a simple:
Morning, love. Heading to Edinburgh. Will text when I’m there xx
—the sky had settled into its familiar Highland gray. The kind that didn’t look gloomy so much as honest.
She locked the door, slid the brass key into her pocket, and carried Byrdie down the steps. She told herself not to check the gate again.
But of course she did.
The tracks were still there, faint yet undeniable.
The inn smelled like butter and wood polish and the steady comfort of someplace that refused to rush. Ivy climbed the whitewashed stone. Smoke curled from the chimney as naturally as breath.
“Look what the mist blew in,” Claire MacKinney said with a grin from behind the counter. “And you’ve brought our favorite guest. Come here, Y our Grace. ”
Byrdie mewed imperiously from her carrier.
“Couple nights, like I said on the phone.” Heather said wryly. “I’ve got to be in Edinburgh. Thanks again for watching my girl.”
Claire’s eyebrows lifted—not nosy, just perceptive. “Chasing answers again?”
She shrugged. “Trying to.”
Claire crouched to release Byrdie. “Well, we’ll spoil her rotten. You go do what you need.”
Heather hesitated. “If anyone asks—”
“Who would be asking?” Claire cut her off, though her tone softened. “You all right, love?”
Heather nodded once. “Just being careful.”
“Good. Edinburgh’s a fine place to be careful and clever.”
Outside, Heather paused beside her car. The inn sign creaked lightly. The hills breathed around her.
She drove South.
Miles unwound beneath her, rain slicked and steady. The Highlands softened into lowlands; traffic thickened like morning fog.
Her phone buzzed near Perth.
Flynn:
Running late, Campbell. Crew found rot in a beam. I’ll meet you at the museum as soon as I can. Promise.
She typed back:
Don’t rush. I’m fine. See you there.
A small heart blinked beside the message before she could overthink it.
Edinburgh rose in confident layers—castle, spires, and tight passageways. She loved it differently today: not as a wanderer, but as someone on a mission.
She parked near Chambers Street. The museum swathed her in its bright, echoing atrium. Children’s laughter bounced off marble. A docent recited dates with ritual precision. Through a gallery she glimpsed the tartan display—the one that had first pulled the thread of everything she now carried.
At reception, she asked for Dr. Flora Henderson.
“Of course,” the woman said. “She can see you just now.”
The corridor was quiet, carpeted and bright. Photographs of dig sites lined the walls, displaying ancient soil, ancient bones, and skies that never quite cleared.
The receptionist knocked on a door. “Ms. Campbell.”
“Ah,” came the familiar voice. “Ms. Campbell.”
Henderson rose—perfectly coiffed hair, precise posture, eyes that missed nothing. The office was curated clutter made of maps, tray labels, and artifacts mid-catalog.
Three things struck Heather at once:
Henderson’s steady gaze.
A flicker of surprise beneath the welcome.
And the man seated by the window.
He looked up when she entered. Recognition hit her hard.
The loch.
The sluice box.
That watchful, unsettling stillness.
Last night’s flashlight beam slicing through the dark.
The same build. The same quietness. A scar along his jaw—thin, pale, familiar. And on his boot: a dusting of Glenoran’s sandy grit.
“Ms. Campbell,” Henderson said warmly, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “A treat to see you.”
Her voice was stiff as she replied, “Thank you for meeting me.”
“This is Mr.David Kerr,” Henderson added. “One of our senior field archaeologists.”
He stood, forcing a smile. “A pleasure.”
Heather matched his politeness. “Likewise.”
Her pulse tripled.
Henderson dismissed him lightly. “David, we’ll continue later.”
He closed his notebook. As he passed Heather, his sleeve brushed hers—barely—but enough. Too deliberate to be accidental. Too calm.
The door shut quietly.
Heather sat before she meant to.
“What brings you to us today?” Henderson asked.
Heather measured her expression. Guarded, polite, calculating. A woman trained to handle artifacts—and people—with gloves.
“I’m researching a family story,” Heather replied carefully. “The Mackenzies of Glenoran. I found some more references to a Harris Mackenzie in my mother’s notes.”
“Ah, yes. Quite the stir from your previous find.”
Heather smiled. “So I’ve gathered.”
“And what draws you back to Harris specifically?”
“My mother,” Heather lied. “Eilidh Campbell.”
“Our Eilidh,” Henderson repeated softly.
Heather’s stomach tightened.
Not our.
Not anymore.
“She worked with Eleanor McRae,” Heather said carefully. “I’m trying to understand Where I fit in the puzzle. Family tree research, and all that.”
Henderson’s lips tightened with sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss, dear.”
“Thank you.”
The woman reached for a pencil. “Well, our archives will help place your Mackenzies. Out of loyalty to your mother, I’ll arrange access to our restricted materials, David can show you the way.”
Heather froze inside.
Restricted materials.
Access supervised by Kerr.
“Thank you,” she said aloud, trying to appear calm and collected.
“If you find anything relevant to Glenoran, or the Jacobite gold, do keep me updated. Our case went cold after your mother… passed. That is, until you came along with your findings.”
Heather’s throat tightened, but she kept her face smooth. “Of course.”
Henderson rose. “Let me fetch Erinn from archives.”
The door opened before she could take a step.
Mr. Kerr.
“Erinn’s ready for her,” he said.
“Good,” Henderson replied serenely. “Walk her down.”
Kerr gestured to the hall. “After you.”
Fine.
She stepped through the stairwell door, bright museum lights washing over her.
If he was watching, let him watch.
Heather Campbell knew how to walk straight into daylight with a secret burning in her pocket.