Page 65 of Of Heather and Thistle
She parked beside Flynn’s truck but stayed in the seat, gripping the wheel with white knuckles, eyes locked on the house. Glenoran stood before her—weathered, waiting. Hers.
A minute later, she opened the door and sighed, “Well… here we are.”
Flynn didn’t reply right away. He climbed out of his truck, shutting the door with a quiet thud. He stood, taking in the house, the land, the sheer weight of it all.
Heather hesitated before finally pushing her door open. “It’s mine,” she said, stepping out onto the gravel. “But I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”
Flynn glanced at her, then back at the house, his expression unreadable. “Nobody’s ever ready for something like this.” He leaned against the side of his truck, arms crossed. “But you’re here. That’s the part that matters.”
Heather huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Guess we’ll find out if that’s enough.”
A flicker of amusement passed over his face. “Aye. I guess we will.”
Flynn pushed off the truck, ambling toward her with that easy confidence, nodding toward the house. “You know, Campbell, this place isn’t just a house. It’s a bloody time capsule.”
Heather arched a brow. “A time capsule?”
He smirked. “Aye. Built in 1725. It’s stood through rebellions, betrayals, maybe even hid a few fugitives. If these walls could talk, they’d have stories older than most countries.” His gaze drifted over the weathered stone, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes. “It’s stood through it all—fights, losses, the rise and fall of names long forgotten.”
Heather looked back at the house, a new weight settling over her. “And now it’s mine.”
Flynn glanced at her, lips twitching. “Aye. No pressure.”
She stared at the house, her mind racing to comprehend the magnitude of what Flynn was saying. It wasn’t just an old house. It had been a silent observer of one of the most significant periods in Scottish history. The weight of it settled in her chest like a stone.
How many lives had passed through these halls? How many secrets had these walls swallowed whole? The idea that her family—her blood—had been part of something so monumental made her feel both deeply connected and impossibly small. “I had no idea. That’s… incredible.”
Flynn chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s more than just stone and timber, you know.” His voice dipped slightly, a quiet reverence threading through it. “Places like this… they don’t just stand through history. They carry it. Every wall, every beam—it’s a reminder of a time when people risked everything for what they believed in.”
His gaze flicked back to her, steady. “If you bring this place back, you’re not just fixing up an old house, Campbell. You’re keeping a piece of Scotland’s past alive.”
Heather shifted, smoothing her hands over her hips, her gaze climbing the stone walls with something like awe. It was strange—how something so old, so deeply rooted in the past, could suddenly feel like it was reaching for her. She thought of her mother. Had she known about this? Had she ever walked through these halls and felt the weight of history pressing down as Heather did now? She wished she could ask.“I didn’t expect it to be… so important. So much bigger than I thought.”
Flynn glanced back at her, his smile easy, steady. “History’s like that—heavy… But yer not in this alone, Campbell. You’ll have help.”
Heather took a slow breath, her gaze tracing the worn stone, the weathered windows. It wasn’t just an old house—it was a story waiting to be uncovered. She exhaled, glancing at Flynn. “If I’m doing this… I’m glad I don’t have to do it alone.”
Flynn’s grin widened. “Ye won’t be. Not while I’m around.”
Heather’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. The words shouldn’t have meant as much as they did. But standing here, in front of this house—her house—she felt the weight of them settle deep, steady, and certain.
Together, they walked toward the house, the weight of its history—and the weight of the future—looming over them, but there was a quiet understanding between them. Whatever the challenge, they’d face it together. As they approached the front door, Flynn looked over the house, his gaze sweeping over the crumbling facade and the overgrown yard.
He tilted his head, hands in his pockets, his brow furrowing slightly as he assessed the damage. “This place has potential, no doubt about it,” he said thoughtfully, running a hand through his hair. “But it’ll need a lot of work. Let’s start with the roof and foundation—can’t have the auld place collapsing before ye unpack yer suitcase.”
Heather swallowed, taking in the enormity of what he was saying. What if she failed? What if she poured herself into this place, only to find it would never feel like home? Or worse—what if she started to care too much, only to lose it? She’d known the place was a mess. But hearing it laid out so plainly still made her stomach twist.
Still, she must admit, Flynn knew what he was talking about. He glanced back at her, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it sorted. It’s justa matter of time and effort.”
Heather nodded, trying to keep her anxiety in check. “Right. Time and effort. Sounds… doable, right?”
“Absolutely,” Flynn said with confidence. “Once we start on the basics, it’ll be like piecing together a puzzle. One step at a time.”
He walked along the side of the house, inspecting the aging siding and the overgrown ivy that had claimed one of the walls. Heather followed, her mind racing with everything that needed doing.
“How long do you think it’ll take to get it livable?” she asked, her voice filled with uncertainty.
“Depends on how much you’re willing to throw at it,” Flynn replied, his voice turning businesslike. “But I’d say a solid six months to a year, depending on the scope of work. It’s not a quick fix, but it’s definitely doable.”
