Page 115 of Of Heather and Thistle
She sat in Glenoran’s grand old library, beautifully restored, thanks to Flynn and his crew. After picking up the relics from Dr. Morrow that afternoon, she carefully spread the flag on the massive oak table before her. Even after Dr. Morrow’s call, she still couldn’t believe what she was looking at. The fabric was faded and delicate, but the worn stitching of the St. Andrew’s Cross was still strong. The scrap of Mackenzie tartan lay beside it, a silent witness to the history it carried.
This wasn’t just some forgotten artifact. It was proof that someone—her ancestor—had been there at Culloden, standing for what they believed in. And somehow, through centuries of loss and change, wars and rebuilding, it survived.
A knock at the doorway made her turn. Flynn stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his blue eyes sharp as they swept over the table. “That’s it, huh?” he said, stepping inside. “The flag?”
She nodded. “Dr. Morrow confirmed it. It hasn’t been seen since the battle.”
Flynn let out a low whistle. “Damn.” He studied it, then glanced at her. “What are ye gonna do with it?”
Heather swallowed, tracing a finger lightly over the tartan scrap. “The museum wants it. Dr. Morrow thinks it belongs to Scotland—to history.”
Flynn leaned a hip against the table. “And what do you think?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
But that wasn’t true. She did know. She just hadn’t let herself say it yet. Her fingers hovered over the faded flag fabric, its texture rough beneath her touch. This history hadbeen hidden in Glenoran for over two centuries, surviving war, time, and even the slow decay of forgotten things. It had belonged to her family, but it also belonged to Scotland.
The weight of that realization settled deep in her chest. She thought about all the people who had never gotten the chance to see it, to know that it had survived when so much had been lost at Culloden. It felt wrong to keep it locked away here, tucked into a private collection, or even just left within the walls of Glenoran. And more than that—it wasn’t what her mother would have wanted.
Eilidh Mackenzie Campbell had spent her life chasing history, uncovering lost stories, and ensuring the past was preserved, not buried. She had dedicated herself to Jacobite research—to understanding the echoes of Culloden and the people who had fought there. If she had lived to see this, she would have given everything to make sure it was shared, protected, honored.
Heather exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the edge of the flag. Her mother had kept so many secrets, but she had also left Heather with this. Maybe not as a burden—but as a choice. And now, Heather knew exactly what to do. She swallowed hard and looked up at Flynn.
“I’m giving it to the museum.”
His brow lifted slightly like he’d expected her to wrestle with it longer. “Yeah?” She nodded, firmer this time. “This isn’t just mine anymore. It belongs to something greater. It should be somewhere people can see it—where it can be remembered.” Flynn studied her, then gave a slow nod. “That’s a bonnie choice.”
Heather exhaled and felt at peace for the first time since she had found the flag. She’d come here thinking she wasclosing a door—fixing up the house to leave it behind. But instead, Glenoran had given her something back. A piece of herself, a piece of her family’s story, and now, the chance to do something that mattered. And she wasn’t ready to walk away from that.
She turned to Flynn, who watched her with his quiet, steady gaze—the one that always made her feel like he saw more of her than she was ready to admit.
* * *
Heather ran a hand along the banister, feeling the smooth wood beneath her palm. This house had been a burden. A weight. A reminder of everything she’d lost. But it was also a beginning.
She exhaled, grounding herself, letting the truth settle deep in her bones.
“I’m staying.”
Flynn stilled, just for a second. His lips twitched, but his eyes—his eyes softened, something flickering there she couldn’t quite name. “Yeah,” he said, like he’d been waiting for her to realize it. “I got that.”
Heather narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, you got that?”
Flynn shrugged, arms crossed over his broad chest. “You’ve been walking around here like ye own the place.”
“Idoown the place,” she pointed out.
His smirk deepened. “You do now.”
Heather rolled her eyes, but the warmth spread anyway, curling in her chest and wrapping around her heart.
For months, she had been running from this. Convincingherself that Glenoran was a stop on the way to something else, a project to finish and leave behind. But now?
Now, she couldn’t imagine leaving.
Not Glenoran.
Not Flynn.
