Chapter 47
Heather—Present Day
H eather didn’t sleep.
Not after Dr. Henderson’s email.
Not after the way Flynn’s jaw clenched when he read it.
Not after Eleanor walked into the kitchen that morning, travel mug in hand, hair in a messy bun, announcing:
“Right, then. I’m coming with ye. No arguments.”
She meant it.
Now the three of them sat in Flynn’s truck bouncing over the winding Skye roads, the Cuillin rising stark and grey in the distance.
Eleanor drummed her fingers on the dash. “So, yer thinking the saddle still exists?”
“Pieces of it, maybe?” Heather corrected, scanning the mist-hazed hills as if Dubh himself might gallop out of them. “Panels. Fiona said they forged some out of the bulk of the gold. Hid one ingot and a Jacobite coin in Glenoran’s hearth. If Flora kept anything…it’ll be here.”
“And if anyone knew Flora’s descendants,” Flynn added, “it’s Henderson.”
Heather’s stomach knotted. “Which means Henderson might already be looking.”
Eleanor scoffed. “Let her look. She won’t find anything without us.”
Flynn shot her a sideways glance. “Yer awfully bold for someone who swore days ago she dinnae want tae be involved.”
“I wasnae involved then.” Eleanor sipped her coffee. “Now I’m bloody livid.”
Heather’s laugh was thin, nervous. “Good. We need livid.”
They reached their first stop on Skye: a tiny historical society tucked above a pottery shop. A hand-painted sign adorned with The Crofter’s Kiln swung in the wind as Heather hesitated on the threshold.
Eleanor nudged her. “Hey…”
Her voice softened. “You found a centuries-old myth in yer fireplace. You can handle a room full of retired hobby historians.”
Heather breathed out. “Okay. Right. Okay.”
Inside, a silver-haired archivist named Mrs. MacInnes peered at them like they might be lost hikers in need of tea.
“What can I do for ye?”
Heather slid the printed scan of the parish marriage entry across the counter.
H.M. of Glenoran
F.C. of Achnacarry
Record sealed at widow’s request.
Mrs. MacInnes blinked. Then looked up sharply. “Where did ye get this?”
“From the Kilmuir parish office,” Heather said.
“And ye’re…?”
“Their descendant,” she said quietly.
Mrs. MacInnes studied the paper for a long while, then slid it back across the counter.
“We get folk claimin’ descent every season,” she said mildly. “Most of them are comin’ lookin’ for a myth… or a souvenir.”
“I’m not here for either,” Heather replied. “I’m here because my mom died looking for something connected to them… this F.C and H.M …”
The woman’s eyes sharpened in recognition.
“And what would ye do if ye found it?”
Heather didn’t hesitate.
“I’d make sure it was protected. Documented. Returned to the people it belongs to—Scotland.”
The archivist exhaled slowly.
“I see… so what is it yer after?”
Flynn answered this time. “A saddle.”
The archivist frowned. “A saddle?”
“A very specific saddle,” Heather clarified. “Large. Eighteenth century. Possibly embossed… might have been passed through Flora MacDonald’s line.”
The woman stiffened.
A subtle thing—barely there—but Heather caught it.
“You know something,” Heather whispered.
Mrs. MacInnes exhaled slowly. “Aye. I might.”
Heather’s pulse thundered.
“But…” the woman said, voice dropping, “I also ken someone else’s been askin’ after it.”
Heather’s mouth went dry. “Dr. Henderson.”
The archivist flinched.
Which was answer enough.
Eleanor muttered, “Damn it.”
Flynn leaned in. “Where is it kept?”
Mrs. MacInnes hesitated long enough that Heather’s nails dug crescents into her palms.
Finally: “There’s an old croft museum at Flodigarry. Private foundation. Hardly anyone goes. Flora’s descendants kept a few items there, including tack and riding gear from the MacDonald estate.”
Heather’s heart stuttered.
This is it. This is it.
The archivist swallowed. “But if that woman’s askin’ after it too…ye’d best hurry.”
Flynn straightened his jacket. “We’d best be off then.”
But before they left, Mrs. MacInnes reached beneath the counter and pulled out a plastic sleeve.
“I shouldn’t be showing ye this,” she whispered, sliding it toward Heather. “But if that vulture is set to be circlin’ Skye again, then it’s only a matter of time.”
Eleanor huffed softly. “Aye. Vulture’s a fair description.”
Heather’s lips pressed into a firm line.
All those polite smiles. The careful words. The way Henderson had hovered around her after Heather had given the missing Mackenzie artifacts to the museum.
It had all been a mask.
Henderson had a reputation.
And the whole of Scotland seemed to know it.
Inside the sleeve was a series of faded black-and-white photographs.
A museum display case.
And inside it—
A massive leather saddle panel.
Black leather. Scuffed. Incredibly old.
And stamped with a barely visible thistle.
The Glenoran Thistle.
Heather’s hand flew to her mouth.
Eleanor breathed, “Holy—”
Flynn whispered, “Dubh.”
Heather’s pulse roared in her ears.
“Let’s go,” she said.
No hesitation. No fear left.
Just fire.
Flynn squeezed her hand.
Eleanor grabbed the keys.
And together, they stepped out into the Skye wind—toward the museum, toward the saddle, toward the truth.
Completely unaware that Henderson was already on the island.