The voice came from behind them.
Heather stilled before she slowly turned around.
Dr. Flora Henderson stood in the doorway.
Wind-tossed hair. Coat still damp. Eyes bright—not surprised.
Expectant.
Flynn moved immediately, stepping between her and Heather.
Eleanor muttered, “Of course.”
Henderson smiled faintly. “Hello, Ms. Campbell.”
Heather’s heart slammed. “How did you know we were coming here?”
Henderson’s gaze slid—not to Heather, not to Flynn—
But to the saddle.
“I didn’t,” she said lightly. “Not until you did.”
An icy chill erupted in Heather’s veins.
“You see,” Henderson continued, stepping farther into the room, “I followed your patterns. Glenoran. The hearth. The map. Skye was inevitable.”
Heather’s mouth went dry.
Flynn said sharply, “Ye’re not touchin’ it.”
Henderson ignored him.
Her fingers hovered just short of the glass. “All these years,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Records. Songs. Inventories. Estates.”
She laughed softly. “I never once considered the saddle.”
Heather’s breath shook.
“You used me,” she said.
Henderson’s eyes finally met hers. “I trusted you to be curious, dear.”
Rage flared through Heather’s veins. “You listened to us. You watched us.”
Henderson tilted her head. “You always pace when you’re frightened, Heather.”
Heather’s stomach dropped.
“You did it the night you found the hearth.”
Flynn swore under his breath.
Heather saw it then, the truth slotting into place with sickening clarity.
The questions.
The timing.
