Flynn’s hand rested near hers on the bench seat, thumb tracing the seam of his jeans in a habit she recognized now as nerves.
“You’re quiet,” she said softly.
He huffed a small laugh. “Tryin’ not to spook you. You look like you’re thinkin’ five things at once.”
“Five?” she muttered. “Try fifteen.”
“Aye,” he said, glancing over with that warm half-smile she’d come to love. “But you usually come out the other side o’ them.”
She gave him a look. “You’re very confident in your investment.”
He shrugged. “You’re worth it.”
Heat rose in her throat, fragile and unexpected. She looked out the window. Sheep dotted the wet fields; a ruined tower loomed like a half-forgotten guardian. Everything she saw felt heavier now. More connected.
“You ever think that there’s so much history under our feet we’ll never understand?” she wondered.
“All the time,” Flynn said simply. “Some of it’s meant to stay buried. Some isn’t.”
She glanced at him. “You think my mom’s story is one that shouldn’t?”
Flynn didn’t look away from the road. “I think hers deserves the truth.”
Her fingers tightened over the paper.
By the time they reached the River Conon, her heart was beating like something caged. The lane narrowed, hedged by gorse and wild thistle.
“That’s the place,” Flynn murmured.
The cottage looked like it had grown from the hillside: ivy swallowing its stone walls, smoke curling from the chimney, windows glowing faintly.
Heather stepped out before she lost her nerve.
Flynn joined her without a word.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m here anyway.”
He squeezed her hand. “That’s good enough.”
Eleanor answered on the first knock.
Gray-haired. Sharp-eyed. Wrapped in a cardigan that looked older than time itself. She took one look at Heather and let out a long, tight breath.
“Heather Campbell.”
Not a question. Not even surprise.
Just inevitability.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside. “No use lettin’ the whole glen watch.”
The cottage smelled of peat smoke and lavender. Books overflowed every surface, archaeological tools jumbled beside teacups. A fire glowed low in the hearth.
“Sit,” Eleanor instructed, gesturing to mismatched armchairs.
Heather didn’t. Flynn did—for peacekeeping points.
