Chapter 48
Heather—Present Day
T he Flodigarry Croft Museum didn’t look like a place capable of holding secrets.
A low stone cottage crouched at the edge of a wind-battered cliff. Heather half expected it to be locked and shuttered for the season.
It wasn’t
The door creaked open beneath Flynn’s hand. A thin bell chimed overhead: lonely, almost apologetic.
Inside, the air was cold and stale. Dust motes clung to the light. The displays were old-fashioned: typed placards curling at the corners, maps yellowed with age, glass cabinets warped just enough to remind you they hadn’t been disturbed in decades.
Heather’s pulse ticked louder with every step.
Eleanor leaned close and murmured, “This place feels like it should come with a ghost child and a warning.”
Flynn snorted softly, but his eyes were already scanning—exits, corners, shadows.
They moved deeper.
The back room sat beyond a narrow doorway, marked by a rusted sign:
TACK some hung openly, others were protected behind thin glass.
But one display case stood alone in the center.
Heather knew before she reached it.
Her body knew.
Her blood knew.
The case was long. Rectangular. The glass fogged at the corners with age.
Inside—
A saddle.
Massive. Darkened with time. Rawhide reinforced in a way that wasn’t just decorative.
And there, faint but unmistakable beneath the wear—
The Glenoran thistle.
Heather’s knees nearly buckled.
Flynn’s hand came to her back, steady and sure.
Eleanor exhaled. “Christ.”
Heather leaned forward until her forehead touched the glass.
Fiona had sat beside this.
Harris had ridden with it.
Dubh had carried it across glens and blood and exile.
Flynn crouched, eyes sharp. “See the stitching?” he murmured. “Reinforced, but not for weight-bearing.”
Eleanor leaned closer. “Hidden panel.”
Heather swallowed hard. “Fiona didn’t put everything in the hearth. Some of it—”
“—was never meant to be found there.”
The voice came from behind them.
Heather stilled before she slowly turned around.
Dr. Flora Henderson stood in the doorway.
Wind-tossed hair. Coat still damp. Eyes bright—not surprised.
Expectant.
Flynn moved immediately, stepping between her and Heather.
Eleanor muttered, “Of course.”
Henderson smiled faintly. “Hello, Ms. Campbell.”
Heather’s heart slammed. “How did you know we were coming here?”
Henderson’s gaze slid—not to Heather, not to Flynn—
But to the saddle.
“I didn’t,” she said lightly. “Not until you did.”
An icy chill erupted in Heather’s veins.
“You see,” Henderson continued, stepping farther into the room, “I followed your patterns. Glenoran. The hearth. The map. Skye was inevitable.”
Heather’s mouth went dry.
Flynn said sharply, “Ye’re not touchin’ it.”
Henderson ignored him.
Her fingers hovered just short of the glass. “All these years,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Records. Songs. Inventories. Estates.”
She laughed softly. “I never once considered the saddle.”
Heather’s breath shook.
“You used me,” she said.
Henderson’s eyes finally met hers. “I trusted you to be curious, dear.”
Rage flared through Heather’s veins. “You listened to us. You watched us.”
Henderson tilted her head. “You always pace when you’re frightened, Heather.”
Heather’s stomach dropped.
“You did it the night you found the hearth.”
Flynn swore under his breath.
Heather saw it then, the truth slotting into place with sickening clarity.
The questions.
The timing.
The way Henderson always knew where they’d been.
“You were listening,” Heather whispered.
Henderson didn’t deny it.
She reached into her coat.
Flynn surged forward. “Don’t.”
Henderson smiled thinly, and produced a small iron key.
“You should never have brought this mess out of Glenoran,” she said. “You made it visible.”
Heather stepped forward despite Flynn’s grip. “The gold doesn’t belong to you.”
“Oh?” Henderson’s voice sharpened. “Then to whom, exactly? A dead laird? A widow erased from history? Your mother—”
“Don’t,” Heather said, low and shaking, “say her name.”
Henderson’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Eilidh was brilliant. And reckless.”
Heather’s throat closed. “You sent them after her.”
“I told them to stop her.” A shrug. “She ran.”
Grief punched the air from Heather’s lungs.
Flynn moved, but Heather held him back with both hands.
Henderson stepped closer to the case. “This ends tonight.”
“No,” Heather said. “It doesn’t.”
Henderson’s gaze flicked to her—cool, appraising. “You won’t make it back in time.”
Flynn went still. “Back where?”
Henderson’s lips curved. “My people left Edinburgh an hour ago.”
Heather’s blood iced.
“The coal cupboard,” Flynn breathed.
Heather shook her head. “Flora MacDonald didn’t entrust this to you .”
Henderson smiled—not cruelly. Almost kindly.
“She entrusted it to history.” She stepped toward the display case. “And I am history.”
Henderson slid the key into the lock.
The lights went out.
Total darkness.
Glass shattered.
Heather screamed as someone slammed into her shoulder.
Flynn roared her name.
Eleanor shouted something—lost to the chaos.
Footsteps pounded. A door slammed.
Then—
Silence.
The lights flickered back on.
The display case stood open.
Empty.
The saddle was gone.
Heather stared at the hollow space it had occupied, heart pounding, breath ragged.
Henderson was gone.