Page 29 of Of Heather and Thistle

She picked one up—a collection of Scottish poetry—and set it aside for later.

By mid-afternoon, Heather was sweaty, covered in a thin layer of dust, and starving.

She took a break in the kitchen, slicing herself some bread and cheese she’d brought from town.

Byrdie padded over to sit by her feet, letting out a slight chirp as she bent down to stroke her head.

“Not bad for a day’s work, huh?” she said to her, glancing around the room. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

After lunch, she tackled the upstairs bedrooms. Most of them were in various states of disrepair, with peeling wallpaper and creaky floorboards.

She focused on tidying the ones closest to hers, sweeping out debris, and airing them out.

It was hard not to imagine what it must have looked like in its prime—bright and lively, with family bustling in every corner.

The final task of the day was the downstairs bathroom. The clawfoot tub was a masterpiece hidden under layers of grime, and Heather scrubbed at it until her arms ached. When she finally rinsed it clean, she stood back and admired her work, already picturing a hot bath to reward herself later.

Heather collapsed onto the small loveseat in the sitting room as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting the room in a golden glow. Byrdie hopped beside her, curling into a tight ball against her side. As she dozed off for a quick nap, Heather felt a quiet sense of purpose settle over her.

After the long cleaning day, Heather stood in the bathroom, peering into the streaky mirror.

Her face was smudged with dust, and her hair had escaped its messy bun in all directions.

She groaned softly, turning on the faucet to wash her hands and splash cool water onto her face.

“You look like you’ve fought the house and barely survived,” she muttered to her reflection, giving Byrdie, who sat perched on the side of the tub, a sideways glance. “Time to scrub up.”

She hopped in the archaic shower, letting the warm water rinse the sweat, dust, and grime from the day’s work.

She felt human again when she stepped out, wrapped in a towel.

She chose a casual but flattering outfit—dark skinny jeans, a soft navy sweater, and waterproof Chelsea boots.

Her hair, still damp, curled naturally around her freckled face.

She dabbed on a bit of concealer and mascara, her freckles still visible, and decided it was good enough.

As she grabbed her jacket, she paused to stroke Byrdie’s head.

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t wreck the place, alright?

” Byrdie let out a small, unimpressed chirp before curling back on the chair she’d claimed.

Heather headed downstairs and locked up, the cool evening air hitting her as soon as she stepped outside.

The sun was starting to set, painting the sky in hues of pink and orange.

She’d noticed a pub in town earlier that day—a cozy looking place with a wooden sign that swung gently in the breeze.

It wasn’t far, and after a day of sandwiches and scrubbing, the thought of a hearty meal (and maybe a glass of wine) was too tempting to resist.

When she arrived, the pub, The Highland Hearth, was precisely what she’d hoped for: warm, inviting, and filled with the murmur of conversation.

The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread greeted her as soon as she entered.

She found a small table near the fireplace, the flames crackling cheerfully.

As she waited for the bartender to take her order, Heather leaned back in her chair, taking in the surroundings.

The pub was quaint and rustic, with mismatched chairs, low beams, and walls lined with old photographs and faded maps of the Highlands.

A group of locals played darts in the corner, their laughter echoing through the room.

When the bartender finally came over, Heather smiled.

“I’ll have the steak pie, please. And a glass of red wine.

” He nodded, jotting down her order. “First time in town?” She nodded. “Just moved here. Sort of.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t pry, disappearing into the kitchen.

Heather sighed in relief and pulled out her phone, scrolling absently as she waited for her meal.

It wasn’t long before the plate arrived, steaming and delicious-looking, and she tucked in, savoring every bite.

She couldn’t help but feel the day’s tension melt away as she ate.

The pub’s warmth, the delicious food, and the hum of life around her were comforting in a way she hadn’t expected.

Heather allowed herself to relax for the first time since she arrived in Scotland.

As Heather polished off the last bite of her steak pie, she leaned back in her chair, cradling her glass of wine.

She let her gaze wander around the room, soaking in the relaxed atmosphere.

The fire crackled warmly, and the faint hum of a fiddle playing from the small sound system added to the pub’s charm.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this grounded, even after such a chaotic start to her new life here.

“Not bad for a solo dinner,” she murmured with a small smile.

She was about to wave for the check when the bartender came back over. “How was it?” he asked, his accent thick and friendly. “Absolutely perfect,” Heather replied, meaning it. “This might become a regular stop for me.”

He grinned. “Yer welcome anytime. We don’t get too many new faces in town, so you’ll be remembered, that’s for sure.” Heather chuckled softly, but his words reminded her of how small this community likely was. Moving to Glenoran might make her stand out in ways she hadn’t fully prepared for.

A voice interrupted her thoughts as she gathered her things and paid her bill. “Excuse me, miss.” She turned to see a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a welcoming smile near her table. “Sorry to bother you, but I couldn’t help overhearing you’re new around here. Are you staying in town?”

Heather hesitated her instinct to guard her privacy clashing with her desire to meet people. “Sort of,” she said with a polite smile. “I recently inherited a property nearby—Glenoran House?”

The woman hesitated for too long, her fingers tightening around the napkin she held. “Aye, well… it’s a grand auld place. Full of history.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Heather tilted her head. “I’m sorry… I didn’t catch your name.”

The lady’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Not bad, just… well, Glenoran’s been empty a long time. Some places don’t like being left behind— and the name’s Eleanor, hen.”

Heather smiled politely, but Eleanor’s unease lingered.

As Heather reached for her glass, she noticed the bartender had gone quiet behind the counter, wiping down an immaculate spot with a bit too much focus.

At a nearby table, an older man who had been chatting animatedly only moments ago fell silent, his tankard frozen mid-air.

A slow sip, a glance toward her, then away—too fast, like he didn’t want to be caught looking.

The bartender wiped an already clean spot on the counter, his shoulders a touch too stiff.

The air shifted.

Not much. Just enough for Heather to notice. Heather cleared her throat, forcing a light tone into her voice. “I take it people don’t exactly line up to buy the place?”

Eleanor chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No, lass. They don’t.” She wrung a napkin in her hands, then gave her a nod. “You enjoy your meal now.”

Heather watched as Eleanor walked off, her back straight but her pace slightly quicker. She let out a low whistle to herself, swirling the last of her wine in its glass. What the hell was that about? Heather blinked. “What does that mean?”

Eleanor chuckled, shaking her head. “Nothing to worry about, love. Just auld ghost stories. Ye take care out there.”

“Thank you,” Heather said, a bit confused.

“I appreciate that.” Eleanor nodded and waved, leaving Heather to collect her things.

The wind tousled her curls as Heather entered the crisp evening air, and she pulled her Barbour jacket tighter around her.

The streets were quiet, most shops closed, their windows dark.

As she walked to her rental car, her thoughts drifted to Eleanor’s reaction.

It wasn’t the first time someone had seemed wary when Glenoran was mentioned.

She slid into the driver’s seat, Byrdie’s empty carrier still tucked into the back. “Ghost stories,” she murmured aloud, repeating Eleanor’s word with a smirk. “That’s not ominous at all.”

The narrow road wound through the hills, the headlights carving brief light tunnels in the darkness.

The radio crackled softly, but Heather kept the volume low, preferring the sound of the tires against the gravel.

The headlights carved a narrow path through the darkness, illuminating the mist swirling low over the road.

Heather adjusted her grip on the wheel, keeping her focus ahead.

Then—movement. Just a flicker at the edge of her vision, gone almost before she could process it.

Her heart jumped, her foot easing off the gas as she peered into the rear-view mirror. Nothing but an empty road behind her. She scanned the trees lining the narrow lane, searching for an animal, a stray branch swaying in the wind—anything.

The radio crackled—a sudden burst of static that sent a shiver down her spine.

The movement at the edge of her vision was gone. Nothing but trees and mist.

But for one breathless second, she could have sworn…

No. She shook her head, forcing out a laugh.

Okay, Heather. No creeping yourself out on day two.

She pressed her foot back to the gas and kept driving.

Heather drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, Eleanor’s words still circling in her head.

First Alastair, now Eleanor. Even the bartender had raised an eyebrow when she’d mentioned the place.

It wasn’t just the repairs that made Glenoran an “ambitious” project.

People here had opinions about it. She sighed, pressing the accelerator again as the town lights faded behind her.

“Guess I’ll find out why soon enough.” She exhaled, shaking her head.

Once she arrived, she turned the key in the lock, the heavy wooden door groaning as it settled into place.

Heather lingered momentarily, her fingers resting against the old brass handle. She could walk away—take the money, sell the place, and never look back. That would be the easy thing.

But something in her hesitated.

Maybe it was because her mother had once lived here. Perhaps it was because she wanted answers that she didn’t even know how to ask yet. Maybe—just maybe—it was because she wanted something that belonged to her, only.

“It’s just a house,” she murmured.

She lingered on the threshold, fingers resting against the old brass handle. The estate stood in silence—not empty, but waiting. Steadying herself, she squared her shoulders and stepped inside.