“I’m not here for either,” Heather replied. “I’m here because my mom died looking for something connected to them… thisF.CandH.M…”
The woman’s eyes sharpened in recognition.
“And what would ye do if ye found it?”
Heather didn’t hesitate.
“I’d make sure it was protected. Documented. Returned to the people it belongs to—Scotland.”
The archivist exhaled slowly.
“I see… so what is it yer after?”
Flynn answered this time. “A saddle.”
The archivist frowned. “A saddle?”
“A veryspecificsaddle,” Heather clarified. “Large. Eighteenth century. Possibly embossed… might have been passed through Flora MacDonald’s line.”
The woman stiffened.
A subtle thing—barely there—but Heather caught it.
“You know something,” Heather whispered.
Mrs. MacInnes exhaled slowly. “Aye. I might.”
Heather’s pulse thundered.
“But…” the woman said, voice dropping, “I also ken someone else’s been askin’ after it.”
Heather’s mouth went dry. “Dr. Henderson.”
The archivist flinched.
Which was answer enough.
Eleanor muttered, “Damn it.”
Flynn leaned in. “Where is it kept?”
Mrs. MacInnes hesitated long enough that Heather’s nails dug crescents into her palms.
Finally: “There’s an old croft museum at Flodigarry. Private foundation. Hardly anyone goes. Flora’s descendants kept a few items there, including tack and riding gear from the MacDonald estate.”
Heather’s heart stuttered.
This is it. This is it.
The archivist swallowed. “But ifthatwoman’s askin’ after it too…ye’d best hurry.”
Flynn straightened his jacket. “We’d best be off then.”
But before they left, Mrs. MacInnes reached beneath the counter and pulled out a plastic sleeve.
“I shouldn’t be showing ye this,” she whispered, sliding it toward Heather. “But if that vulture is set to be circlin’ Skye again, then it’s only a matter of time.”
Eleanor huffed softly. “Aye. Vulture’s a fair description.”
