She closed the book gently and turned back to the display, her excitement winning out over caution. Before she could second-guess herself, she gathered the volume she’d held, the book from the window—The Lost Gold of the Highlands—and another on the history of Culloden.
The shopkeeper’s brows lifted as she approached the counter, but he only rang her up with a knowing little hum, as if he’d seen a thousand customers fall prey to the same irresistible shelves.
“Ooh, look at this one.” Heather excitedly pointed to an embossed hardcover emblazoned with the title,Nordic Dialects and Ancient Poetry,as they headed out arm in arm. “I took a seminar for my university lit course on old Norse and it’s use in storytelling—”
“Campbell…” Flynn jokingly warned, “if we grab any more wee tomes, I’ll have to build ye a new library off-site.”
“Ugh… fine.” Heather laughed and stuck out her tongue in mock defiance. “Though not your worst idea.”
Once outside, Flynn easily hefted the bag from Heather’s shoulder and shot her a sidelong grin.
“Told you this would be dangerous.”
Heather rolled her eyes, though her lips curved upward.
“It’s not dangerous. It’s research.”
“Mhm,” Flynn said. “And I’m only here for emotional support.”
Mist drifted low over the street as they walked on, the bag of books bumping against Flynn’s leg.
Chapter 4
Heather—Present Day
The kettle whistled, steam curling into the cool air of Glenoran’s kitchen. Heather set out two mugs, spooning in tea leaves while Flynn rummaged in the cupboard for rolled oats. It was a quiet morning, the kind that made the old house feel almost gentle, like it had finally settled into their presence.
Byrdie padded in then, tail high, leaping onto a chair and meowing imperiously as if to remind them the house was hers first. Heather reached down to scratch between her ears, earning a pleased rumble of purr.
“Good morning to you too, bossy.”
The crunch of tires on gravel broke the stillness.
Heather paused, mug in hand. “You expecting anyone?”
Flynn shook his head, grabbing a towel to dry his hands. “Not unless you ordered emergency scones.”
Byrdie’s ears flicked toward the sound, her tail giving one sharp lash before she hopped down and trotted out of the kitchen, as though she fully intended to handle things herself.
A knock followed—firm, quick, purposeful.
Heather wiped her hands on her jeans and headed for the door, more curious than worried. When she opened it, Eleanor stood on the stone step.
She was younger than Heather had first guessed, closer to fifty than seventy, with auburn hair streaked silver and pulled back in a loose knot, as if she’d opted for practical over polished. Fine lines framed her eyes, but they sharpened rather than softened her expression. Her gaze was quick, assessing. A fitted wool coat hugged her frame, practical boots planted squarely on the step.
For a beat, something in the tilt of Eleanor’s chin—the determined line of her mouth, the auburn threaded with gray—tugged at Heather. A flash of Eilidh, not as she’d been, but as she might have been.
“Eleanor?” Heather blinked. “I thought we’d see you at the pub today.”
“Aye, well, I thought better of it.” Eleanor brushed past her into the hall, mist clinging to her coat. “Didnae want an audience for what I’ve got to say.”
Heather glanced back toward the kitchen. Flynn had appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, watching with easy alertness.
Eleanor stopped in the middle of the foyer, eyes sparking.
“Ye’d do well to keep your nose out of this, lass.”
Heather’s brows shot up. “Good morning to you, too.”
