Chapter 50
Heather—Present Day
T hey saw it before they reached the gate.
Flynn slowed the truck, heart pounding hard enough Heather could feel it in her bones.
Three black SUVs sat crooked in the pasture before the cottage with their tires sunk into churned mud and their doors flung open as if they’d stopped in a hurry.
Too much of a hurry.
“Oh, St. Andrew preserve us,” Eleanor breathed from the back seat.
Angus stood between the men and the cottage.
Not wandering.
Not grazing.
Guarding.
The great Highland bull had his head lowered, horns angled forward, massive chest rising and falling with slow, furious breaths. Around him, his cow brethren had formed a loose, shifting wall: bodies pressed flank to flank, hooves sunk deep into the earth like they’d grown there.
A living barricade.
One of Henderson’s men was halfway up the barn ladder, clinging to the loft rail like a trapped animal. Another had scrambled onto the stone wall near the fence, breathing hard, eyes wild.
The others stood clustered together near the pasture’s edge, knives glinting in their fists.
They looked terrified.
Good.
In the cottage window, Byrdie sat perfectly still on the sill—tail flicking once, twice—watching the chaos with regal disapproval.
Flynn killed the engine.
“Stay in the car,” he said automatically.
Heather was already opening her door. “Um, I think the fuck not. ”
He didn’t argue. He knew better.
They stepped out together.
One of the men spotted them and shouted, voice cracking, “CALL OFF YER DAMNED BLOODY BEAST!”
Angus snorted, pawing the ground. Mud flew.
Heather’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Flynn—they’ve got knives.”
“Aye,” he said grimly. “And Angus doesnae appreciate it.”
The man on the wall raised his blade, hands shaking. “We’re leavin’! Just—get him away from us!”
Flynn took a slow step forward, hands raised.
“Put the knives down,” he said coolly. “Ye’re trespassin’. And ye’re frightenin’ my stock.”
One of the men laughed hysterically. “Your stock nearly killed us!”
Angus took one deliberate step closer.
The cows shifted with him.
The ladder creaked as the man in the loft whimpered.
Heather’s chest burned. “Flynn, if they try to hurt him—”
“They won’t,” Flynn said, voice iron-clad. “They’re smarter than that.”
Still, his jaw was tight.
“Easy, lad,” he murmured—not to the men.
To Angus.
The bull flicked an ear but didn’t retreat.
“ANGUS,” Heather called louder. “That’s enough.”
Angus snorted again, stamping, but he held his ground—eyes locked on the knives.
Heather shook her head, bewildered. “He’s protecting the house.”
“Aye,” Flynn said softly. “He remembers.”
Because Angus had been there before.
Because Angus had watched Heather stumble up this pasture, soaked and shivering, the night she first met Flynn.
Because Angus knew what belonged here—and what didn’t.
The sound of sirens cut through the tension.
Every head snapped toward the road.
Blue lights flashed through the trees.
Relief hit Heather so hard, her knees nearly gave.
The men stilled, and the one with the knife dropped it into the mud so quickly, its as if it were on fire.
Angus lifted his head, snorting triumphantly.
Police vehicles rolled into view, lights reflecting off wet grass and black metal.
Flynn let out a shaky breath. “Good lad,” he murmured. “Good lad.”
As the authorized firearms officers spilled from their cars, weapons drawn, Angus finally stepped back, allowing the cows to part just enough for the men to be hauled out of the pasture.
The man in the loft slid down the ladder on trembling legs, hands already raised.
Byrdie flicked her tail and turned away from the window, bored, now that the entertainment was over.
Heather pressed her hand to her chest, laughter and tears tangling in her throat.
Eleanor wiped her face. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank God for the cows.”
Flynn glanced at Angus, who stood tall and smug in the fading light.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “He’s always been a good judge of character.”