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 withThe Crofter’s Kilnswung 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.”
