Because Angus had watched Heather stumble up this pasture, soaked and shivering, the night she first met Flynn.
Because Angus knew what belonged here—and what didn’t.
The sound of sirens cut through the tension.
Every head snapped toward the road.
Blue lights flashed through the trees.
Relief hit Heather so hard, her knees nearly gave.
The men stilled, and the one with the knife dropped it into the mud so quickly, its as if it were on fire.
Angus lifted his head, snorting triumphantly.
Police vehicles rolled into view, lights reflecting off wet grass and black metal.
Flynn let out a shaky breath. “Good lad,” he murmured. “Good lad.”
As the authorized firearms officers spilled from their cars, weapons drawn, Angus finally stepped back, allowing the cows to part just enough for the men to be hauled out of the pasture.
The man in the loft slid down the ladder on trembling legs, hands already raised.
Byrdie flicked her tail and turned away from the window, bored, now that the entertainment was over.
Heather pressed her hand to her chest, laughter and tears tangling in her throat.
Eleanor wiped her face. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank God for the cows.”
Flynn glanced at Angus, who stood tall and smug in the fading light.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “He’s always been a good judge of character.”
Chapter 51
Heather—Present Day
By the time the police finished detaining Henderson’s men, twilight settled over the cottage in a violet hush. Angus stood guard near the fence line, chest puffed out, as if expecting a medal, and possibly a knighthood.
Heather would give him one if she could.
The lead officer approached them, clipboard in hand.
“We found something in the back of their vehicle. Bagged in protective cloth. Looks… antique.”
He gestured toward the rear SUV.
Flynn’s breath stilled.
Heather felt it too: a tug low in her ribs, like an invisible thread pulling her toward the trunk.
The officer opened it.
Wrapped in oiled canvas—
—was the saddle.
Dubh’s saddle.
