The one stolen hours earlier on Skye. The one Harris had reforged by hand. The one that carried the gold through war.
Heather lifted a shaking hand toward it.
“May I?”
A nearby officer nodded.
“We recovered it from the rear truck. It’s evidence… but since it’s tied to your land and your historical claim, we’re permitted to let you inspect it.”
Flynn and Heather pulled the canvas aside.
The leather was dark and cracked along the edges; the thistle stamp faint, but still proud.
A relic of rebellion.
A witness to death and devotion.
Eleanor breathed, “Bloody hell. You can feel the history on it.”
Heather ran her fingers gently along the underside, following the seam Harris had once cut and stitched back together.
She whispered, “This is where he hid it. This is what they chased him for.”
Flynn crouched beside her.
“Look here.”
The inner lining wasn’t fully flush against the frame.
A tiny sliver, barely a finger-width, had come loose over the centuries.
Flynn slid a hand inside the gap.
He grasped something and eased it out—carefully, reverently—until a folded sheet of parchment lay in his palm.
Heather’s breath caught.
“Is that—?”
Flynn unfolded it.
The script was elegant, slanted, unmistakably 18th century.
A name was signed at the bottom in ink so faded it looked like memory itself:
Flòraidh NicDhòmhnaill
Flora MacDonald.
Eleanor’s jaw dropped. “No way.”
Flynn cleared his throat, reading aloud.
“To the one who finds this in the years after us—
Dubh, the great horse of Harris Mackenzie, lived the rest of his days at Glenoran.
He served Fiona Cameron Mackenzie faithfully until his final breath.
