Page 31 of Of Heather and Thistle

H eather jerked awake, the cold clinging like a second skin—settling deep into her bones. The scent of dust and old wood filled her nose. It took her a moment to place the heavy quiet around her, the kind that only existed in places long forgotten.

Glenoran .

She groaned, rolling onto her back; the thin blankets she’d purchased barely warded off the chill that had seeped into the makeshift sleeping areas she had thrown together in the sitting room.

The grand, ornate fireplace was dark now, nothing but cold embers and lingering smoke curling through the air.

“This was a terrible idea,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling. The house didn’t feel empty. It felt aware. She shook the thought off, but couldn’t deny the eerie feeling that wouldn’t budge.

The wind whistled through the cracks in the stone, rattling the windowpanes. A creak echoed from somewhere upstairs. Heather froze, every nerve in her body going rigid. “It’s just an old house, Byrdie.” She whispered under her breath. “Old houses make noises.”

Byrdie, unbothered, released an exasperated mew as she stretched and rolled over, exposing her soft belly.

Every squeak and sigh of the walls made her jump, and she spent far too long staring into the dark, trying to convince herself it was just the house settling.

Still, it felt like the house was watching her.

The distant rain and wind against the windows didn’t help her sleep, either.

With a groan, she dragged herself out of bed, rubbing her eyes as she made her way to the kitchen.

She immediately froze when her feet hit something cold and wet on the floor.

Looking down, she saw the water—clear, but a puddle nonetheless.

A leak. Fantastic. She glanced up toward the ceiling, realizing the rain from the previous night had done more damage than she’d anticipated.

Heather stared at the puddle, her hands clenched at her sides.

It wasn’t just about the leak—it was about everything.

The peeling wallpaper, the eerie quiet, the way the house felt like it belonged to someone else’s past rather than her future.

She had come looking for a fresh start. All she had was a soggy towel, a leak she didn’t know how to fix, and the creeping suspicion that she was in way over her head.

What a joke. The only fresh thing about this place was the smell of damp wood and regret.

Was she out of her depth? Was this house going to fight her every step of the way?

“Well, this is just great,” she muttered, kneeling to inspect the puddle. She could already feel the frustration rising. Her mind immediately began ticking off everything else she would need to deal with—the roof, the plumbing, the fact that she hadn’t even had time to tackle unpacking yet.

She grabbed a towel and mopped up the water, the sound of it soaking into the fabric echoing in the empty room.

Heather knew this place needed work, but seeing it firsthand—the leaks, the dust, the old furniture left behind—made the weight of it all sink in.

There was no turning back now. This was her responsibility.

She had to make it work, no matter how overwhelming it felt.

After mopping up the last puddle, Heather took a deep breath and pulled out her phone.

The leak was just the beginning, and if she was going to tackle the repairs on this place, she needed professional help.

She remembered Mr. Duncan mentioning his son had a business restoring historic homes.

This was her chance to get some advice, at the very least. She dialed Mr. Duncan’s number, pacing the room while waiting for him to pick up.

After a few rings, his familiar voice came through.

“Good morning, Miss Campbell,” Mr. Duncan said, sounding cheery. “I trust you’ve survived the night in the house?”

Heather let out a small chuckle despite the frustration building up.

“I’ve survived, but it’s a challenge. I was hoping you could help me out with something.

” She hesitated before continuing. “You mentioned your son runs a business restoring historic homes. I was wondering if he could help with some repairs here. I’m starting to see just how much work this place needs. ”

There was a slight pause on the other end before Mr. Duncan responded. “Aye, that he does. He’s got a company in Inverness that specializes in these kinds of projects. The office is in Inverness. Duncan Restorations. I’ll send ye the address.”

“Thank you, Mr. Duncan. I appreciate it,” Heather said, feeling a glimmer of hope.

He replied, “I’ll text ye the details now. Best to pop in and speak with them directly. They can give ye a good idea of what’s needed.”

She felt a bit lighter after the conversation and was starting to see a path forward, even if it was still hazy.

The house wasn’t going to fix itself, and while she didn’t know exactly how much needed to be done, she was confident she couldn’t take on such a vast project alone.

“Thanks again, Mr. Duncan. I’ll head over soon. ”

“Aye, take care now.” With that, Heather ended the call, quickly pulling up her messages to find the text from Mr. Duncan.

Sure enough, he had sent the address for Duncan Restorations in Inverness.

She glanced at the clock—mid-morning already.

Maybe it was time to make a trip into town.

The house had enough work to keep her busy, but she needed a professional opinion.

It would also allow her to explore the city more and get a feel for things.

Heather’s car hummed steadily as she drove down the winding road toward Inverness, her thoughts still swirling around the house.

The rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh and crisp, with the scent of wet earth clinging to the ground.

The town was only a short drive away, and she felt a slight sense of relief at the thought of a change of scenery.

The roads leading into Inverness were lined with tall trees and scattered cottages, giving way to the quaint, cobbled streets as she approached the heart of the town.

It felt like a mix of modern life and old world charm, with its small shops and cafes nestled between towering stone buildings.

She found a place to park near a bustling square.

She took a moment to appreciate the town’s vibrancy—people walking along the sidewalks, a market setting up in the corner, and the faint sounds of music spilling out from the pub she visited the night before.

As she walked down the street, she passed by a few stores, her attention briefly caught by the mix of antiques and local wares.

The town had a certain warmth, a welcoming quality that contrasted with her isolation when she first arrived at the estate.

It reminded her of the cozy little bookstore she used to manage back home, with the smell of fresh paper and a sense of familiarity.

Duncan Restorations was located just a few blocks down, a modest office nestled between two more significant buildings.

The name on the door was simple and understated, but Heather felt a jolt of hope seeing it.

Heather pushed open the door to Duncan Restorations, her thoughts already spinning with the possibilities of restoring Glenoran House.

The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, the scent of wood and freshly printed plans filling the air.

Her eyes scanned the office, filled with framed blueprints and historical photographs of buildings.

She hadn’t expected much—but what she saw was beyond anything she imagined.

The room was a perfect blend of professionalism and comfort.

But what honestly threw her off was the man sitting behind the desk.

Flynn.

Her heart stuttered. What the hell was he doing here?

He looked just as surprised to see her as she felt, his eyebrows raising in genuine astonishment.“Well, if it isn’t Miss Campbell,” Flynn said, his voice warm with surprise.

Heather blinked, completely thrown off. “Flynn? What are you doing here? ”

Heather’s brain felt like it had short-circuited. The man who had seen her in transparent pants was now supposed to fix her house? A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, though something about how he looked at her told her he was trying to mask a more profound recognition.

He straightened, offering her a slight bow as he leaned against the desk. “I work here,” he said casually, a soft chuckle escaping him as he spoke. “I own the company.”

Heather stared at Flynn, her brain momentarily freezing as she tried to process the information. Flynn—the guy who’d rescued her from the rain-soaked, cow poop fiasco—was running Duncan Restorations? Her mind finally caught up, and the realization clicked.

Flynn Duncan.

“Wait,” she blurted, pointing at him. “Your dad—Charles Duncan—is the one who sent me here?”

Flynn gave a lopsided smirk, amusement flickering in his blue eyes. “Aye. He mentioned someone would be coming by, but he didnae say it was you, the woman who made the most dramatic entrance into Scotland I’ve ever seen.” He let out a low chuckle. “I’d have rolled out the red carpet if I’d known.”

Heather huffed a laugh, shaking her head as the full picture settled in.

Of course, Flynn was Mr. Duncan’s son. She should’ve put that together sooner.

It wasn’t exactly a common last name. And yet, looking at him now—yeah, she could see it.

The resemblance was there. Same sharp jawline. Same assessing gaze.

Heather raised an eyebrow. “Would it have changed anything?”