Chapter 35
Heather—Present Day
H eather woke to a sound somewhere between a groan and a trumpet.
For one blissful second she thought Flynn was snoring. Then it came again—long, mournful, and distinctly bovine.
“Is that—?” she croaked, voice still sleep-rough.
Flynn rolled onto his back with a groan that matched the one outside. “Angus. He’s remindin’ me breakfast is late. If I dinnae move soon, he’ll lead the others in open revolt.”
Heather buried her face in the pillow, laughing softly. “You have a fan club.”
“Aye. Hairy anarchists, the lot of them.”
Everything hurt—muscles sore, neck stiff, the bruise blooming where Kerr’s hand had connected, another where Flynn’s stubble had scraped her skin the night before. Despite all this, she felt human again. Bruised, but whole.
Flynn pressed a kiss to her shoulder before rolling out of bed. “I’ll go feed the coos before they storm the fence.”
“Tell them bon appetit for me,” she mumbled.
He chuckled and disappeared out the door.
Heather lingered in the warmth of the quilt another minute, then swung her legs over the edge. Flynn’s worn crewneck sweatshirt hung from the chair; she tugged it on, soft and oversized, hem brushing her thighs.
The record player on the counter caught her eye: a battered old turntable with a few vinyl sleeves stacked beside it. She flipped through until she found The Very Best of Fleetwood Mac , smiled, and set the needle down.
The opening chords of “Everywhere” filled the kitchen, bright and hopeful in a way that almost felt defiant.
She found eggs and a bag of pancake mix, deciding it was time to repay her host. It was the least she could do after dragging Flynn into this mess.
As the first sizzle hit the pan, she started to dance—bare feet on cool tile, the song lifting her somewhere lighter.
For a moment, she was six again, spinning through her mother’s kitchen, Eilidh humming along to oldies, banana pancakes perfuming the air. The memory ached, but gently this time.
“Morning concert, is it?”
She turned, startled, to find Flynn leaning in the doorway, muddy boots half-untied, watching her like she was the first sunrise he’d ever seen. His hair was damp, his grin half-awake.
“Caught me,” she said sheepishly.
“Didnae want to interrupt. Looked like sacred work.”
She flipped a pancake, pretending not to blush. “Breakfast. For the hero who saved Scotland from hungry cows.”
“A national service,” he deadpanned, crossing the room. When she tried to sidestep him, he caught her waist, spinning her once. “You’re a menace, Campbell.”
“So are you,” she whispered, laughing as flour dusted both of them. He stole a kiss, then another, until pancake batter smeared his jaw.
“Now ye owe me breakfast and a bath,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Guess we’d better multitask,” she said.
Steam billowed out of the tiny shower. Their laughter echoed against the tile, soft and unhurried. Their bruises looked worse in the light; she kissed each one of his anyway. When they finally emerged, damp-haired and flushed, the phone buzzed on the counter.
Flynn answered, listening. “Aye, Detective. We’ll be in Inverness again if needed.” Pause. “Naw, we’re all right. Bruised but breathin’.” Another pause, his eyes narrowing. “Understood.”
He hung up, exhaling deeply.
“They’re keepin’ Kerr and the other numpty under watch. Henderson’s been questioned but ‘cleared of involvement.’”
Heather groaned. “Of course she has.”
“She’ll lie low for now. But we’re not done.”
Heather sighed, irritated at the riot that was her auburn curls. She threw it into a messy bun. “Then we go home. To Glenoran.”
The house greeted them with silence. Afternoon light slanted through the broken shutters.
Flynn set down their bags and scanned the floor. “Let’s start with the library. It’s the worst of it.”
The room looked like a battlefield—books scattered, shelves gaping, dust floating in golden beams. Heather crouched near the hearth, fingers tracing the edge of the new oak planks where the old floor peeked through beneath.
“Flynn,” she said softly. “Look.”
He joined her, following her gaze. Some of the original boards were pried up and splintered at the edges, as if someone had been mid-search when they were interrupted.
“Did your crew replace this section?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said, crouching beside her. “We laid the new oak right over the originals. But these old planks—those would’ve been part of the foundation. Nobody’s touched ‘em since.”
Heather’s pulse quickened. “They must’ve found something, or were close to it.”
Flynn grabbed a pry bar and winced as he eased one of the loosened boards up—his shoulder still aching from the attack at Glenoran. The smell of dust and centuries spilled out as he shone the flashlight down.
At first, only shadows. Then… a glint.
“There,” Heather breathed.
Flynn reached into the hollow, lifted out a small wooden box, its surface carved with the same faded thistle motif she had become so acquainted with, and a faint F entwined with M.
Heather’s heart caught. “F? Mackenzie…?”
They carried it to the desk. The lid creaked when she opened it. Inside lay a small leather bound diary, a tarnished silver brooch in the shape of a Celtic knot, a thin gold ring, and a folded parchment originally sealed with what looked to be black wax, now crumbling and brittle.
Flynn lifted the ring, turning it in the light. “A wedding band.”
Heather opened the diary carefully. The first page bore a single inscription, ink faded to sepia:
For him, and for the ones yet to come.
— Fiona Cameron Mackenzie, 1748
Heather’s throat tightened. “Fiona. Harris’s wife. This is her.”
Flynn touched the parchment. “And this?”
Heather carefully unfolded the brittle paper, trying to preserve the crumbling wax seal upon it. Inside was a short letter, the handwriting unfamiliar but precise:
To the Widow Mackenzie of Glenoran,
By order of His Majesty’s Government, Harris Mackenzie, late of Glenoran, having been found guilty of High Treason in support of the Young Pretender, was executed at the Gallows of Inverness upon the 14th day of June, in the Year of Our Lord 1748.
His body hath been interred within the Kirkyard adjoining the prison.
May God have mercy upon his soul.
Enclosed are those personal effects returned by the custody of the Crown.
Folded inside the letter was a scrap of linen: faded tartan, definitely not Mackenzie colors, edges singed. Heather’s breath trembled.
Flynn’s voice came quiet behind her. “He never made it home.”
Heather closed the diary, hands shaking. “But she did. And for whatever reason… she hid it.” They stood wairly in the ruined library, surrounded by chaos and golden dust.
Flynn rested a hand on her back. “She left the trail. Now we follow it.”
Heather nodded, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. “For her. For all of them.”
The wind sighed through the broken window. Somewhere deep within the old house, the fireplace whispered like a heartbeat, and she felt something new rise through the ache.
Purpose.