Chapter 26
Heather—Present Day
T he ferry docked with a hiss of hydraulics and a groan of steel on steel. Flynn eased the truck down the ramp, tires thumping onto Skye’s wet tarmac, and the island smell rushed in: salt, seaweed, and something wilder underneath.
Heather leaned out the window as they followed the narrow road into town. The landscape was sharper here, carved by wind and rain; the kind of place that felt old enough to remember the things people forgot.
“You weren’t joking,” she said softly as Portree unfolded below them.
The harbor gleamed like a paintbox—pink, blue, yellow, white—all the little buildings pressed shoulder-to-shoulder along the curve of the water.
Gulls wheeled. The tide sighed against the stone pier.
“It looks like someone built it out of candy and secrets.”
Flynn grinned. “Both’ll rot your teeth if you stay too long,” he remarked.
He turned the wheel down the hill, and she noticed the way his posture changed to be looser, familiar. “You’ve been here before,” she realized.
He shrugged. “Couple o’ times. Got a crew workin’ a restoration job right now.”
She blinked. “Wait, really? You weren’t just using that as our cover?”
He shot her a sidelong smile. “Cover’s always cleaner when there’s truth baked in.”
“So what are we restoring?”
“The roof of that wee pink one down by the pier.” He nodded toward the rainbow row. “Portree’s most photographed gutters, apparently.”
When they pulled into the harbor lot, two men were already unloading timber from a flatbed. One waved when he saw the truck. The other, tall and broad-shouldered with wind-tangled hair, looked up from a clipboard.
Flynn parked, and Heather climbed out into the wind. It whipped her scarf against her cheek and tasted like salt.
The foreman recognized her first. “Heather Campbell!” he called, voice booming across the street. “How’s Glenoran treatin’ ye? Flynn said you’d moved in for good.”
She laughed, caught off guard by the casual normalcy. “Still standing, mostly. One of your boss’s gutters tried to eat me, but we’re making peace.”
“Sounds about right,” he chuckled. “Heard you’ve got the old kitchen broken in. Flynn’s been braggin’.”
Heather glanced at Flynn, who only shrugged unapologetically. “He lies,” she said lightly. “But I’ll allow it.”
The foreman grinned. “You two here for the weekend, then?”
Flynn answered easily. “Checking progress. Might hang about a bit, see if the tourists’ll fund the next project.”
“You’ll find them everywhere this time of year,” the man said with a nod. “Good luck gettin’ a table anywhere near the harbour tonight.”
With that, he clapped Flynn on the shoulder and returned to shouting up at the roofline.
For the first time since Dingwall, Heather felt her shoulders ease. Ordinary noise filled the air—the clang of scaffolding, laughter, the slap of waves. Nobody was watching. Nobody cared.
Flynn came around the truck, hands in his pockets. “Better?”
She smiled up at him, wind in her hair. “Almost like we’re just… normal people.”
“Normal’s overrated,” he said, eyes glinting. “But it does have its uses.”
She looked back at the harbor, the riot of color reflected in the dark water, and exhaled. “Then let’s blend in. Just for a bit.”
He nodded toward a sign that read Harbour View Rooms — Vacancy. “I’ll see to the crew, get us checked in after. You find us somethin’ warm and edible that isn’t deep-fried air.”
Heather grinned. “No promises.”
She turned toward the cobbled lane leading up from the quay, boots clicking in rhythm with the gulls’ cries and the surf’s slow breath.
Heather drifted through Portree like a tourist in a dream.
The harbor glittered with color: boats tugging at their ropes, the bright-painted houses reflecting in the water. The air smelled of salt and diesel and baking bread. A radio played a Celtic reel low and sweet from somewhere unseen.
She passed a souvenir shop full of tartan scarves, a fishmonger calling prices into the wind, a gallery with a storm-painted Cuillin mountainscape. Every few steps, she wondered… had Eilidh stood here? Had she watched this same harbor, chasing truth or simply chasing quiet?
Heather slowed outside a café tucked beneath a hanging sign: The Coffee Bothy . Warm amber light glowed through the windows; steam fogged the glass. Inside, people laughed over chipped mugs. A blackboard promised pastries still warm from the oven.
Perfect.
Something simple, normal; something to bring Flynn before he ended up living on crisps and coffee again.
She stepped inside. A bell jingled softly. Warmth wrapped around her—cocoa, cinnamon, sugar—and she unwound her scarf, the chill melting from her hair.
Then she froze.
Across the room, by the window—
David Kerr.
He was alone at a corner table, newspaper folded beside a half-empty cup. No museum badge. No notebook. Just a man in a dark jacket, sleeves pushed up, eyes lifting the exact moment hers did.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Heather’s stomach dropped through the floor.
He can’t be here.
A cold instinct skittered down her spine.
She forced her face into something resembling polite surprise and turned toward the counter, fumbling for the menu. Her pulse hammered loud enough to drown the café chatter.
Maybe he hadn’t seen her properly. Maybe—
“Ms. Campbell.”
His voice cut through her thoughts. Low. Unmistakable.
She turned slowly, wearing casual surprise like a mask. “Oh! Mr. Kerr. Small world! Do you—do you have family in Portree?”
He studied her a beat too long. “Something like that.”
“Well, what are the odds?” she said brightly. “Flynn’s company is restoring the roof on the pink building down by the pier. I begged him to bring me along; I’ve seen Portree in pictures for years.”
Kerr’s mouth tilted, not quite a smile. “How fortunate.”
“Isn’t it?” she said, trying not to wring her gloves. “The island’s every bit as beautiful as I imagined.”
“Beautiful,” he echoed softly. Then, almost absently: “And treacherous.”
The silence that followed felt thin enough to tear.
A prickle crawled down Heather’s spine—old, familiar. Beautiful things often hid danger best.
She cleared her throat. “Well. I should order before they run out of pastries.”
He stepped aside. “Of course.”
She crossed the space, ordered two hot chocolates and pastries with touristy cheer she didn’t feel. When she turned back, Kerr was still watching her. Like someone trying to solve a puzzle that refused to stay still.
“Enjoy your stay,” he said at last.
“Thank you,” she managed. “I intend to.”
She slipped past him into the street, the bell above the door giving her away with its bright, traitorous ring.
Outside, she walked faster, clutching the pastries like a lifeline. The harbor looked the same, but something had shifted.
A thread had tightened.
A net was quietly closing.
Flynn waved from across the quay. “Campbell! Did ye bring the peace offerings?”
She lifted the cups, smiling as if nothing had happened.
But the café door opened behind her.
Heather didn’t look back as the blood drained from her face.
She crossed the cobbles to Flynn, handing him a hot chocolate.
“Tell me that’s caffeine or sugar.”
“Both.” She passed him a cup. “You’re welcome.”
He took a sip and winced. “Christ, that’s lava.”
“Miracles come at a cost,” she said nervously, still on edge.
Before he could tease her, the rhythm of the street shifted.
A hush. Barely a ripple—but a warning all the same.
Footsteps behind her. Unhurried. Steady.
Flynn’s gaze tracked over her shoulder as hers lifted—
David Kerr.
A wool flat cap shadowed his eyes, takeaway cup in hand. He didn’t stop. Didn’t linger. Just tipped his cap toward Flynn, too casual to be meaningless.
“Afternoon,” he said evenly.
Flynn’s reply came low, steady. “Aye.”
Their eyes met just long enough to confirm what neither would say aloud.
Then Kerr disappeared around the curve of brightly painted houses.
Silence settled like fog.
Flynn exhaled slowly. “Right, well. This just got more complicated.”
Heather grabbed his arm, whisper-sharp. “You think?!”
Flynn’s hand brushed hers. “Shh, mo chridhe. We are just two lovers on a wee holiday. Nothing suspicious about that,” he soothed.
She hated how quickly fear made her feel small—like everyone else held the truth while she clutched shadows. Like she was always a few steps behind someone else’s danger.
“Okay… You’re right…” She inhaled hard. “Tourists. Lovers. Roofs. Totally normal…” A pause.
“…And the very inconvenient truth of a stolen, priceless artifact in our getaway vehicle,” she whispered.
Flynn chuckled, half warning, half fond. “Lass, it’ll take more than that to ruffle me. Play it cool. Give us a wee kiss. We’ll reevaluate upstairs.”
Heather blinked. “A wee kiss?”
“Aye,” he confirmed, grin slow and wicked. “Helps sell the story, doesn’t it? Plus, I just like kissin’ ye.”
She huffed a breathless laugh and kissed him. From a distance, they were nothing more than a couple framed against a postcard harbor.
But her pulse hammered against his hand.
And he kissed her back with a steadiness that anchored them both.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Now smile, and pretend we’ve never lied in our lives.”
Heather did—sun catching her red curls as if it believed her.
Flynn turned back to shout directions to his crew.
Kerr was gone.