Chapter 37
Heather—Present Day
H eather woke to the smell of tea and rain on pine.
For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The ceiling above her was low-beamed and familiar, the kind of place made for quiet things: books, mugs, the slow drip of a kettle.
Flynn’s cottage.
Safe.
The memories arrived a second later—blue lights, sirens, Kerr’s voice like oil in her ears. She winced and touched her cheek; the bruise ached beneath her fingertips.
“Easy,” Flynn’s voice came from the doorway. He winced as he leaned his injured shoulder against the frame, barefoot and rumpled, holding two mugs. “You were out cold for nearly ten hours. Thought I’d let you sleep.”
She sat up, the quilt sliding to her lap. “Ten hours?”
“Doctor’s orders.” He crossed the room and handed her a mug. “You were punch-drunk on adrenaline. Body needed the break.”
Heather took a sip, grimacing at the strength. “You brew this for masonry work?”
“Aye. Fixes what ails ye.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, his thumb brushing a stray curl from her face. The gesture was gentle, careful. “How’s the head?”
“Still attached,” She smiled faintly. “How’s your arm?”
Flynn’s expression softened, but his eyes were shadowed. “It’s mighty sore, but I’ll be alright.”
Heather sighed, trying and failing to push away the guilt she felt.
Patting her knee, he changed the subject. “The police called early. Kerr and his pal are both in custody in Inverness. You’ll need to give another statement later today.”
“Right.” Heather set her mug aside, the familiar dread settling back in. “Did they say anything else?”
“Only that Henderson’s already reached out to ‘express her shock and concern.’ ” His voice hardened around the words. “Apparently, she ‘had no idea David had gone rogue.’ ”
Heather snorted. “Of course she didn’t. That woman could script a scandal out of a massacre.”
Flynn’s brow furrowed. “You think she’s coverin’ her arse?”
“I think she’s been doing that for years,” Heather said. “And now she’s pretending she didn’t know her own second-in-command was hunting my mother before he came for me.”
He studied her for a long moment. “So what do we do?”
She pulled the quilt tighter, staring out the window. Rain streaked the glass, the world outside gray and quiet. “We go to Inverness. Tell them everything—about Eilidh, the hymn, the journal. Let them think we’ve given them all we have.”
Flynn’s voice dropped, cautious. “And what do we really do?”
She turned back to him, eyes steady now. “We finish what she started.”
Flynn exhaled, slow and certain. “Aye. Then we’ll start with what’s left of the ‘map.’”
Heather’s gaze drifted to the satchel near the bed, Eilidh’s journal was still inside, wrapped in a scarf. The edges of the old leather peeked through, worn and familiar. Outside, the rain eased to a mist.
The world looked clean again, but Heather knew better.
By the time they reached Inverness, the rain had cleared, but the weight in Heather’s chest hadn’t. Every mile closer to the city felt like stepping back into a lie.
The police station smelled of paper and stale coffee. Heather’s second statement sat open in front of her, the words swimming. Assault. Confession. Attempted murder. They didn’t sound like her life, but they were.
Across the desk, Dr. Henderson looked immaculate—hair pinned, voice smooth, sympathy polished to a mirror’s shine. Her pen tapped once against the folder before she smiled.
“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Ms. Campbell. Mr. Kerr’s actions were… unforeseeable. The museum will, of course, cooperate fully.”
Heather met her gaze and saw the lie glittering just behind the pity.
“I’m sure you will.”
Flynn’s hand brushed the small of her back. He signed the last page, closed the folder, and murmured, “I think we’re done here.”
They stepped into thin Highland sunlight and he opened the truck door for her, the gesture rough and protective.
“We’ll go back to mine again,” he said. “Need quiet. No mess to clean up yet. And you need more rest.”
“So do you.” She added, sucking her teeth at the bruising peeking from beneath his shirt collar.
The road wound North through damp hills. Heather’s head thudded dully against the window, her reflection ghost-pale in the glass. For a while, they didn’t speak.
Then, rounding a bend, Flynn slowed and pointed toward a fenced field where a massive Highland cow stood knee-deep in buttercups, ginger hair tangled over its eyes, horns like polished driftwood.
“He looks… familiar.”
“That’s Angus,” Flynn said. “Mean look, heart of gold—gentle enough—so long as ye belong. But he doesnae suffer strangers lightly.”
Heather blinked. “You’re kidding. The guy who stared me down last year in the rain?”
“Lass, I wouldnae dare. He’s the true laird around here.”
Flynn climbed the fence and whistled low. The great beast snorted and ambled closer. Heather laughed despite herself, tension cracking. Flynn pulled a crab apple from his pocket, split it, and handed her half.
Angus accepted it with a delighted huff, brushing his velvet nose against Heather’s palm.
“Good boy,” she whispered, voice breaking on the words.
“He’s partial to redheads,” Flynn said softly. “Has taste.”
Surprisingly, she laughed; a real, startled laugh that drew color back into her cheeks. Flynn’s eyes warmed with it.
His cottage crouched against the hillside, slate roof beaded with rain. Inside, it smelled of his signature pine soap and woodsmoke. Flynn kicked off his boots and tossed his jacket over a chair.
“You sit,” he ordered gently. “I’ll make some tea.”
Heather obeyed, watching him move: broad shoulders and the stiffness in his right arm where Kerr’s blow had landed. When he brought the mugs, she caught his wrist.
“Let me see,” she said gently.
He tried to brush it off, but she didn’t let him.
She turned his arm beneath the lamplight: bruises bloomed purple and yellow, and there was a shallow cut near the elbow.
Not to mention his shoulder, which bore the brunt of the abuse.
She dabbed at the cut with gauze from his first-aid tin, her fingers steady until they weren’t.
“You could’ve died,” she whispered.
The words frightened her the moment they left her mouth.
The thought came fast and cruel: This is your fault. If she had never opened the journal, never started chasing whispers of gold and ghosts across the Highlands, Flynn wouldn’t be sitting here bruised and bleeding because of her stubborn curiosity.
The guilt cinched around her ribs like a corset pulled too tight.
Heather swallowed hard and forced her hands to stay steady as she pressed the gauze to his arm. There would be time later to wrestle with that thought. Right now, all that mattered was that he was here. Alive.
Flynn’s hand came up, cupped her cheek, thumb tracing the bruise there.
“But I didn’t. Because of you.”
The words landed deeper than any bruise.
He meant them. Every syllable.
The air shifted. Her eyes raised to his; whatever wall had been holding them upright since the attack at Glenoran simply wasn’t there anymore. A charged silence consumed them both.
He leaned in first, slow enough for her to stop him. She didn’t.
The kiss was soft, searching, tasting faintly of tea and apology. When it deepened, her hands slid into his hair, his found her waist, and the world shrank to breath and heartbeat.
They broke only when the fire popped, startling a laugh out of both of them.
“You’re hurt,” she murmured.
“Yes. But not enough to stop this.”
He brushed her hair back and kissed the bruise on her temple, the corner of her mouth, the hollow of her throat—each one slower, surer, until thought dissolved into need.
Heather tugged his shirt loose, fingertips skimming the ridges of the bruising; he inhaled sharply, then framed her face again, eyes dark and tender.
“I love you,” he said, low and certain.
“I love you,” she breathed, then kissed him back like a vow.
The rest unfolded in silence and rain—the careful way he lifted her, the way she guided his hands as if to say:
I’m here, I choose this.
Outside, the storm gathered itself again. Inside, they met it with warmth and skin and the fragile miracle of being alive.
Later, tangled in the quilt, Heather traced the bruise on his jaw with a fingertip.
“Reckon Angus heard us,” she murmured.
“Poor lad’ll never recover,” Flynn replied, smiling into her hair.
The fire burned low. Beyond the window, the cow lowed once into the night.
Heather closed her eyes, the ache in her body fading under the steadier ache of love.
“It’s not over,” she whispered.
“No,” Flynn said, kissing her temple. “But we’ll face what’s left, together .”