She elbowed him. “If I fall, I’m taking you with me.”
“That’d make a grand obituary,” he said with a grin. “‘Local contractor tragically yeeted off cliff by historian girlfriend.’ I’ll haud ye responsible.”
Despite the wind snapping at them, she laughed—really laughed—releasing some of the weight that had settled in her chest.
But as they rounded a bend, Heather glanced back one more time.
A silhouette stood high on the ridge again.
Still.
Watching.
Waiting.
Her breath hitched. “Flynn…”
He turned, but the mist swallowed the shape whole.
Just emptiness. Nothingness.
Heather forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Just the light maybe”
But her hand clamped more tightly around the clasp in her pocket, Eilidh’s notebook pressing against it like a heartbeat.
Flynn squeezed her fingers. “Come on, lass. Let’s get somewhere warm.”
Heather let him guide her, but her eyes lingered on the ridge until the clouds finally hid it from sight.
The room was warm, windows fogged by the storm. Heather spread Eilidh’s notebook across the bed, flipping to the Skye pages again.
Her heart hammered as she reread the entry:
Storr ridge — stonework.
Variant thistle pattern.
Check on next trip
And below it, written smaller:
Don’t return alone.
Heather’s breath snagged.
She’d thought it meant weather. Safety. A hiker’s caution.
Now it felt like warning.
Another line—barely visible unless she tilted the page toward the lamp:
If the thistle endures, follow it home.
Her pulse stuttered.
She didn’t know what it meant yet, but she felt its weight.
Flynn knocked softly and entered with damp hair, takeaway cup steaming in his hand.
