Heather—Present Day
The road curved along the edge of Loch Lochy, the water steel-gray under the fading light. Heather leaned her head back against the seat, the day at Culloden sitting heavy in her muscles more than her mind.
Flynn’s hands were steady on the wheel, his gaze flicking to the darkening hills. “We’ll not push on to Arkaig tonight,” he said at last. “Best we start fresh in the mornin’. I’ve no mind to come face to face with a kelpie in the dark.”
Heather huffed a quiet laugh. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
His mouth curved, quick and sly. “Och, Campbell. Doesnae matter what I believe, only that the loch’s no place to test stories at night.”
She wanted to tease him more, but the logic was hard to argue with. “So… Fort William, then?”
“Aye.” He cut her a sidelong glance, grin tugging wry. “And you’ll thank me when you’ve had supper and a bed instead of a boat and a water horse.”
Heather shook her head, fighting a smile as she looked back out at the dark water. “Fine. Fort William it is.”
By the time they rolled into town, lamps burned golden on the damp streets, music drifting from a pub at the edge of the square. Flynn parked in the gravel lot and tipped his chin toward the door.
“Pub’s got rooms upstairs,” he said. “We’ll get a meal, a wee dram, and maybe a song before the night’s out.”
Her lips curved, the edge of her tiredness loosening. “A song, huh?”
His grin went wicked, his brogue thickening. “Och, aye. Consider it… culture.”
The inn sat snug against the cobbled street, its windows glowing through the Highland mist. Inside, the air was warm with peat smoke and roasting meat, the hum of voices rolling through from the pub. Flynn booked them a room upstairs—a plain buttidy space with a broad oak bed and a narrow window over the square. Then he led her back down the creaking stairs toward the noise.
The pub was everything she’d hoped for: dark wood beams, brass lanterns, small tables crowded with locals and travelers. At the far end, a makeshift stage sat beneath a string of fairy lights, where a man tuned a guitar and a woman with a tumble of dark curls adjusted her stool.
She didn’t look like she belonged to a snug little bar so much as she belonged outside of time. Bare feet, simple dress belted at the waist, hair catching the firelight—earthy, unpolished, the kind of presence people turned toward without quite knowing why.
Even before she sang, the room seemed to lean her way.
Flynn guided Heather to a table near the back—far enough for space, close enough to see. “Two drams,” he told the barmaid when she came by, “and cock-a-leekie soup, if the pot’s still on.”
“It’s always on,” the woman laughed, jotting their order down before disappearing.
Heather shrugged off her coat, feeling the fire seep into her shoulders. “Cock-a-leekie?” she teased. “That’s really the name?”
Flynn leaned back in his chair, grin sly. “Of course. Chicken, leeks, barley. Fortifies a man against aquatic beasties and women who doubt his culinary wisdom.”
She rolled her eyes, though her mouth twitched. “You really have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Aye.” His eyes glinted. “Especially when you’re wrong.”
Their banter paused as the barmaid returned, setting down two generous pours of whisky and steaming bowls of soup that smelled like comfort. Heather wrapped her hands around the bowl, soaking in the heat, and took a careful spoonful. The rich broth was simple, but exceptionally good.
Flynn raised his glass. “To startin’ fresh in the morning. And not bein’ eaten by a kelpie tonight.”
Heather clinked hers against his, laughter warming her chest.
On stage, the woman leaned toward the crowd, her voice carrying clear. “This next one’s old,” she said. “Norse, passed down in the islands before it found its way here. The sort of thing a mother might sing over work or storm.”
Her companion set aside the guitar and lifted a small hand drum, his palm resting lightly on the skin. A low, steady beat thrummed into the air.
The woman’s voice rose unaccompanied—clear, steady, threaded with something ancient. The words rolled in a language Heather didn’t know, then slid unexpectedly into English, the melody turning familiar in a way that made her skin prickle.
“My mother told me…”
Heather stilled.
