Chapter 29
Heather—Present Day
T he rain had spent itself by dawn. Portree woke rinsed and quiet, the harbor glassy beneath a pewter sky. Heather blinked awake to the soft hiss of tires on wet cobbles and faint warmth where Flynn’s arm had been. The other half of the bed still smelled like soap and salt and sleep.
She reached for the journal on the nightstand, the one she’d found tucked behind the bookcase in Glenoran’s library during the reno, and traced the indented lines of her mother’s last entry.
If the thistle endures, follow it home.
Outside, seagulls cried like restless spirits. Somewhere below, a delivery truck backfired, anchoring the morning to reality.
The bathroom door clicked open. Flynn stepped out in a clean shirt, damp hair curling at the edges, two paper cups in hand.
“Coffee, lass. Liquid courage for antiquarians on the run.”
Heather smiled, still half cocooned in the duvet. “You bribed the front desk again, didn’t you?”
“Called it an early start for the hardworking restoration crew.” He set the cup on her bedside table and leaned down to brush a kiss against her temple: soft, domestic, the kind that lingered longer than planned.
“Crew buy it?” she asked.
“Aye. They think we’re takin’ a drive up north to see a chapel roof I might bid for. Which, as luck would have it, sits not far from Kilmuir Parish.”
She arched a brow. “So we’re still playing the world’s most scenic cover story.”
He grinned. “Till the credits roll.”
Heather slipped from the sheets, wrapped in his shirt, and padded to the window. The light outside was thin and clean, turning the harbor to quicksilver. “Do you think Mom ever came this far?”
Flynn joined her, resting a hand at her waist. “If she followed the thistle, aye. She’d have gone where it led.”
Heather sipped her coffee, eyes on the boats rocking below. “Then so will we.”
He squeezed her hip gently. “Eat first, then sleuth. You can’t fight legends on an empty stomach.”
The dining room smelled of toast and wood polish and sea air that refused to stay outside. A fire crackled in the grate though the morning wasn’t cold enough to need it. Flynn had already claimed a corner table, sleeves rolled, newspaper open but unread.
Heather joined him, hair still damp, notebook tucked under one arm. “You look suspiciously respectable,” she teased, sliding into the seat opposite him.
He glanced up, mouth curving. “Tryin’ to look like a man who restores roofs instead of conspirin’ to unravel centuries-old mysteries.”
“You’re failing spectacularly.”
“Good. I’d hate to lose my edge.” He reached for the teapot and poured her a cup, the action so domestic it almost startled her. “Eat. We’ll hit the road before the lunch crowds clog the ferry roads.”
She buttered toast mechanically, eyes roaming the window. Portree was shaking off sleep: delivery vans idling, shopkeepers flipping signs, gulls dive-bombing the pier for scraps. For once, it looked like a place untouched by secrets.
“Feels weird,” she murmured.
“What does?”
“Being still. Being normal.”
Flynn smiled into his coffee. “Normal’s a costume, lass. Wear it when ye need to.”
They left the hotel mid-morning, the truck rattling out of town as the sky cleared by degrees. The road North twisted along the coast, skirting cliffs and sheep-dotted fields. The Cuillins fell behind them, pale blue ghosts in the rearview mirror.
Heather kept Eilidh’s journal open on her lap, reading notes aloud between turns. “She mentions Kilmuir Parish more than once. Mentions a ledger and something called ‘the widow’s promise.’”
“Sounds ominous,” Flynn said.
“Or poetic.” She tapped her pen against the margin. “Mom said the old parish kept marriage and baptismal records for the whole northern isle. If Harris and… whoever F was… were connected, maybe we’ll finally place them.”
Flynn whistled low. “So the lady historian becomes the family detective.”
Heather smiled, eyes on the road curling toward a glint of sea. “Guess it runs in the family.”
They fell into comfortable silence after that—the kind built from shared air and motion. The truck smelled of coffee and rain and faint metal; the radio hummed low with some Gaelic ballad neither of them knew but both listened to anyway.
A hand-painted sign eventually pointed them toward Kilmuir:
OLD PARISH CHURCH a small stone church crouched against the horizon, the sea spread wide and pewter behind it.
Heather pressed her palm to the window. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
“Beautiful and forgotten,” Flynn said. “My favorite combination.”
The sign out front was half-swallowed by ivy:
Kilmuir Parish — Established 1691 — Heritage Archive Open by Appointment.
The car park was empty. A lone raven perched on the fence post, black against the gray.
Heather tugged her scarf tighter as they stepped out. The air was thin and clean, the kind that seemed to carry voices if you listened hard enough.
Flynn pushed at the heavy wooden door. It creaked open into a hush that smelled of dust, old paper, and rain leaking through stone. Candles flickered at the altar, left by tourists or believers—or both.
“Hallooo?” Flynn called softly.
An elderly man appeared from a side room, cardigan frayed, spectacles hanging from a cord around his neck. “You’ll be the visitors I was told to expect?”
Heather blinked. “Someone told you we were coming?”
“Aye,” the man said, unbothered. “Got a call yesterday. Said a pair from Duncan Restorations might be by to look at roof records.”
Flynn’s mouth tightened a fraction. “Right. Roof records, that’s us.”
The man smiled, either oblivious or kind enough to pretend. “Well, come along, then. The archives are through here.”
He led them down a short corridor into a small chamber lined with shelves. Boxes of brittle paper and cracked ledgers filled the space, the air thick with history.
Heather ran her gloved fingers along the bindings, reading the faded years: 1744 … 1745 … 1746. Her pulse quickened when she found the one marked 1747 – Marriages & Deaths.
“May I?”
The caretaker nodded. “Handle careful, aye? She’s older than half the graves out back.”
Heather opened the ledger on the central table. The pages sighed in protest. Neat ink lines marched across the parchment, the names of men and women joined by God or separated by time.
Then she saw what she was looking for—halfway down the page, written in a darker hand:
H. M. of Glenoran — F. C. of Achnacarry.
Heather’s heart pounded hard.
Harris Mackenzie.
Fiona Cameron.
“Flynn.”
He leaned over her shoulder. “You think that’s them?”
“The initials match,” she whispered. “But there’s no date, just this mark.”
Beside the entry, a faint marginal note:
Record sealed at widow’s request.
Heather frowned. “Widow?”
Flynn studied it. “Maybe the lass survived him. Maybe she wanted whatever they shared kept off the record.”
Heather flipped the page carefully. Another scrawl, nearly lost to time: Home kept in trust.
She traced the words, throat tight. “Mom mentioned a ‘widow’s promise in her notebook.’ This must be it.”
Flynn exhaled slowly. “Aye. A secret kept safe—maybe too safe.”
The caretaker appeared in the doorway again, smiling vaguely. “Find what you were lookin’ for?”
Heather managed a nod. “Pieces of it.”
Outside, the church bell tolled once, soft and hollow. Flynn’s hand brushed hers. “Come on, lass. Before the weather catches us.”
As they stepped into the wind, Heather looked back at the church.
If the thistle endures, follow it home.
Was home a destination… or a warning?