Page 28 of Of Heather and Thistle

T he last rays of daylight faded over the hills, swallowing the house in shadow. Heather stiffened, scanning the room.

It had grown too dark.

Shadows stretched in long shapes across the cracked floors, and the faint creaks of the old beams settling in the cool night air set her nerves on edge. She glanced around the room, clutching her bag a little tighter.

Staying here overnight didn’t seem like the wisest choice—at least not yet. She wasn’t ready to sleep in a house with questionable electricity, no central heat, and an undeniable sense of abandonment. It wasn’t fear—just something she needed to ease into. One more night at the inn wouldn’t hurt.

She stepped back into the hallway, carefully locking the door to her mother’s childhood bedroom before heading downstairs.

As she passed the grand, decaying staircase, her footsteps echoed in the vast space.

The air felt thick—like it had been holding its breath for years, unsure what to do with the girl standing in its doorway now.

Pausing by the front door, she glanced back into the house one last time, feeling the weight of its silence.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she murmured to herself, as though reassuring the house itself—or maybe her mom’s lingering memory.

Heather pulled out her phone, checking the ride service app.

One bar. Barely enough, but she tapped ‘Confirm’ with relief.

She wrapped her jacket tighter around herself, the day’s weight settling into her shoulders. The house loomed behind her, its quiet emptiness pressing down like a sigh.

At last, headlights cut through the dark, bouncing down the uneven dirt road. She felt relieved when a modest sedan rolled to a stop at the gate near the bottom of the drive. The driver, a middle-aged man with short, blonde hair, leaned out the window with a curious expression.

“Are ye Heather Campbell?” he asked in a gruff Scottish accent.

“That’s me,” Heather replied, heading down the drive with her bag in tow. He popped the trunk as she loaded her bag. “Bit of an odd spot out here. What’s a lass like you doing all alone in a place like that?”

Heather hesitated. It was an innocent question, wasn’t it?

But something in the way the driver asked it—like he already had an answer in mind—made her stomach twist. Heather hesitated, glancing back at the shadowy silhouette of Glenoran House.

“Family property,” she said vaguely. “Still figuring it out.”

He nodded knowingly as Heather slid into the passenger seat. “Well, if you need a ride back tomorrow, let me know. Not many cars go this way. Name’s Curtis, by the way.”

“Thanks, Curtis,” Heather said, grateful for the kindness. As the car wound toward Thistle Haven Inn, Heather rested her head against the window, watching the rolling hills disappear into the dark. Her thoughts drifted to Glenoran, her mother, and the daunting task of what came next.

* * *

The drive back to the Thistle Haven Inn was quiet, the evening mist softening the Highland landscape.

By the time she arrived, the cozy lights of the inn were glowing warmly through the windows, promising comfort and familiarity.

Heather pushed open the door to the inn and was greeted by the smell of something delicious baking in the kitchen. Claire Kinnaird peeked out from behind the reception desk, her kind face lighting up at the sight of Heather.

“Och, back already?” she asked, smiling warmly. “How was the place, then?” Heather hesitated, giving her a sheepish grin. “It’s… something …” she admitted. “…needs a lot of work. I thought it might be better to clean some stuff up during the day before committing to an overnight stay.”

Claire chuckled knowingly. “Och, that place hasn’t had a proper soul in it for decades. Ye’d be braver than me to stay there at night.” She motioned toward the stairs. “Yer bed’s been made. Go on, make yourself comfortable. Dinner will be ready soon if you’re hungry.”

Grateful, Heather nodded and made her way up to her room. Byrdie chirped sleepily from her spot on the bed when she arrived at her room. “Don’t worry, girl,” she said, stroking her back gently. “We’re sticking with creature comforts tonight.”

After washing up, Heather settled into bed, the warmth of the inn wrapping around her like a cocoon.

With a sigh, she wrestled with the thought of heading downstairs for a bite to eat.

Nope. Too comfy.

Opting out of dinner was the right move.

She thought about the house—her house—and all it represented.

It felt overwhelming, a weighty blend of excitement and apprehension.

As she drifted off to sleep, she decided that tomorrow would be the start of her new beginning.

But tonight, she was content to let herself rest and dream of what Glenoran might become.

* * *

The following day, Heather woke with a renewed sense of purpose.

After a hearty breakfast of porridge, fresh scones, and tea at Thistle Haven Inn , she made a list on a scrap of paper.

It felt satisfying to list what she needed: linens, cleaning supplies, groceries—and maybe a few cozy touches to make it feel like home.

She went to the town’s car rental office, a modest building just off the main street.

After some paperwork and a friendly chat with the attendant, Heather drove off in a small but sturdy hatchback, its tires crunching along the gravel road as she navigated the countryside.

Her first stop was a local shop that specialized in home goods.

Inside, she found shelves lined with colorful bedding, plush towels, and simple kitchenware.

She paused in front of a display of quilted duvets, her fingers brushing over the soft fabric before selecting one in a soft cream color.

“ Something simple,” she murmured, adding matching sheets and pillows to her basket.

Next came a quick stop at the grocery store, where she filled her cart with essentials: bread, eggs, milk, coffee, and a few treats for Byrdie.

She also picked up a collection of cleaning supplies—bleach, mops, scrub brushes—and then wandered down the candle aisle, where she chose a lavender-scented one for good measure.

Her trunk was packed when she returned to the car, and seeing it all made her feel oddly accomplished.

Byrdie, safely nestled at the inn, was next on her list. Heather carefully packed Byrdie’s food, dishes, a small blanket, and a litter box when she arrived at Thistle Haven.

The cat let out a questioning chirp as she scooped her into his carrier.

“I told you I’d take you with me,” she said softly, scratching her head through the mesh.

“It’s time to see your new home for the time being. ”

The drive back felt lighter—or so she told herself. The sun had broken through the clouds, and the rolling hills seemed less imposing, more welcoming.

As she turned onto the familiar dirt road leading to the estate, Heather glanced in the rear-view mirror at Byrdie. Her green eyes were wide, taking in the sunlight streaming through the car windows.

When they arrived, Heather parked near the front of the building and began unloading the car.

“Alright,” she said, gently setting Byrdie’s carrier down on the porch. “Home sweet home.”

Inside, the house was still as dusty and dim as she’d left it, but now, with supplies in hand, it felt like she could begin making it her own.

She opened all the windows to let in fresh air, her curls whipping in the breeze as she swept cobwebs from the corners and wiped down surfaces.

When she finished unpacking the groceries and setting up the bed with new linens, the bedroom upstairs felt almost… welcoming.

Byrdie padded across the floor cautiously, sniffing at the furniture before hopping onto the bed and curling up in a sunbeam. Heather leaned against the door frame, her arms crossed as she took in the sight. “What do you think, Byrdie?” she asked softly. “It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.”

The cat purred in response, her contentment echoing her tentative optimism.

Hair in a messy bun, sleeves rolled, she surveyed the task ahead.

Dust motes danced through the open windows, and every surface seemed coated in a thick layer of grime.

It was daunting, but Heather was determined to reclaim the space, room by room.

She started in the kitchen, scrubbing the countertops until they gleamed beneath years of neglect.

Byrdie perched on the windowsill, watching her wide eyed as she attacked the ancient sink with a sponge and some elbow grease.

She unearthed a small stack of old tea towels in one of the cabinets and smiled, imagining her mom drying dishes in this room as a little girl.

Moving on, she hauled a mop and bucket into the main hall, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell that lingered in the corners.

The floors were beautiful underneath all the dirt—a dark wood that, once cleaned, reflected the light pouring in from the tall windows.

She worked her way up the staircase, pausing occasionally to catch her breath and marvel at the intricate banister.

“You’re starting to look alive again,” she muttered to the house, almost feeling a sense of camaraderie with its tired walls.

The living room took the longest. The fireplace was clogged with ash, and the furniture was draped in sheets so stained they were beyond saving.

She tossed them into a pile by the door and wiped down the worn leather armchairs underneath.

There was a small bookshelf in the corner, and as she dusted it off, she found an assortment of faded books, their spines cracked with age.