They looked terrified.
Good.
In the cottage window, Byrdie sat perfectly still on the sill—tail flicking once, twice—watching the chaos with regal disapproval.
Flynn killed the engine.
“Stay in the car,” he said automatically.
Heather was already opening her door. “Um, I think the fucknot.”
He didn’t argue. He knew better.
They stepped out together.
One of the men spotted them and shouted, voice cracking, “CALL OFF YER DAMNED BLOODY BEAST!”
Angus snorted, pawing the ground. Mud flew.
Heather’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Flynn—they’ve got knives.”
“Aye,” he said grimly. “And Angus doesnae appreciate it.”
The man on the wall raised his blade, hands shaking. “We’re leavin’! Just—get him away from us!”
Flynn took a slow step forward, hands raised.
“Put the knives down,” he said coolly. “Ye’re trespassin’. And ye’re frightenin’ my stock.”
One of the men laughed hysterically. “Yourstocknearly killed us!”
Angus took one deliberate step closer.
The cows shifted with him.
The ladder creaked as the man in the loft whimpered.
Heather’s chest burned. “Flynn, if they try to hurt him—”
“They won’t,” Flynn said, voice iron-clad. “They’re smarter than that.”
Still, his jaw was tight.
“Easy, lad,” he murmured—not to the men.
To Angus.
The bull flicked an ear but didn’t retreat.
“ANGUS,” Heather called louder. “That’s enough.”
Angus snorted again, stamping, but he held his ground—eyes locked on the knives.
Heather shook her head, bewildered. “He’s protecting the house.”
“Aye,” Flynn said softly. “He remembers.”
Because Angus had been there before.
