“Och aye,” he said. “Just… don’t I know you from somewhere, lass?”
Heat climbed Heather’s neck. She heard her own voice come out too fast, too bright. “Uh—no. Don’t think so.”
Her American vowels rang through the mist like a bell.
The man blinked, thrown for half a second, then gave a short, apologetic smile. “Och. My mistake, then.”
But he didn’t really look away. And behind him, the others had gone quiet, watching in that too-still way that made Heather’s stomach knot.
Flynn slid an arm around her shoulders, easy as anything, but the weight of it was deliberate. “Well,” he said pleasantly, “we’ll leave ye to it then.”
They walked on. Flynn didn’t rush, didn’t look over his shoulder, but he stayed half a step closer than usual, his body angled just enough to block her from the men’s line of sight.
“What the hell was that?” Heather muttered once they were out of earshot. Her voice came out thinner than she meant.
“Dinnae ken yet,” Flynn said under his breath. “But I don’t like it.”
They’d only gone a little farther when the crunch of tires on gravel made them both look up. Two trucks rumbled into view, mud spattering the wheel wells. One bore the logo of alocal excavation company. The other, a dark Land Rover, had a magnetic decal for the Scottish History Museum on its door.
Men in high-vis jackets climbed down, unloading tripods, measuring rods, crates of tools. Someone hauled out a portable generator; its sputter grew into a low, constant thrum.
Heather slowed. “They’re digging here?”
“Looks that way,” Flynn said quietly. His eyes flicked from the contractors to the men at the shore. “That’s a lot of equipment for a wee look ’round.”
The passenger door of the Land Rover opened, and a woman stepped down, raincoat cinched tight. Sharp features, dark hair swept back in a low knot, posture crisp even in the mud.
Heather knew her instantly. “Dr. Henderson?”
The historian’s face brightened. “Miss Campbell.” She crossed the distance with quick, efficient strides and offered her hand. “Twice in a year! You’re becoming quite the figure in our little corner of history.”
Heather flushed, shaking her hand. “I didn’t know there was a dig happening out here.”
“There wasn’t,” Henderson said, lips quirking. “Not until your discovery. The flag, the note—it gave us grounds to push for funding. Your mother would’ve been thrilled.”
Heather froze. “My… what?”
“Eilidh.” Henderson said it gently, as if the name should sit lightly. “We pulled out her research for this survey. She left extensive notes with the department after her field visits. Didn’t your father ever mention?”
Heather’s mind stuttered. “I was a kid,” she said. “She died when I was nine. Dad didn’t… talk about her work.”
Or anything.
“My dad never mentioned it,” she added thickly, the words smaller than she wanted.
Flynn’s fingers found hers. He didn’t speak, but the pressure of his hand steadied her.
Henderson’s expression softened. “A shame. She was on the brink of something remarkable. We all were. Then those… mysterious circumstances.” She gave a small, almost careless shrug, like she’d said too much. “Such a loss. For you. For the field.”
The phrase snagged. Heather’s thoughts scrambled to catch up. “Mysterious—?”
Henderson glanced toward the loch, as if remembering herself. “Well. Accidents in this landscape never are simple, are they?” She smoothed a hand over her clipboard, mask slipping neatly back into place. “In any case, your mother’s work laid a foundation we’re still building on. Seeing you here feels… fitting.”
Heather’s skin felt too tight. Her tongue felt thick. The questions crowded up, but none of them made it out.
On the shore, the man with the sluice box looked up again, eyes flicking from Heather to Flynn to Henderson. He said something to the man with the map; the others turned in unison.
Henderson followed Heather’s gaze. “They’re contractors,” she explained. “And a few… independent enthusiasts.” Her smile thinned. “The Jacobite gold tends to bring people out of the woodwork.”
