Page 37 of Of Heather and Thistle

She glanced at him, surprised by the shift in his tone—how carefully he spoke to her now, how much attention he was giving this room, and what it meant.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Flynn met her gaze, holding it just long enough that something shifted between them.

“Some things are worth keeping the way they were.”

Heather swallowed hard and turned back to the room. She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling exposed under Flynn’s steady gaze.

“Anyway,” she said, waving a hand toward the peeling wallpaper in the hallway. “Let’s talk about something really tragic—this wallpaper situation. Did they even have color palettes in the seventies, or did they just throw random pastels at the wall and hope for the best?”

Flynn huffed a quiet laugh, crossing his arms. “Campbell, you’re dodging.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, already moving toward the door. “This is serious design trauma, Flynn. The people need answers.”

“Aye, well, the people need better taste.” He smirked, following her out. “Dinnae worry, Campbell. We’ll fix your tragic wallpaper crisis first thing. ”

“Oh, good. That’s obviously the most pressing issue in the entire house,” she tossed back.

Flynn scoffed. “While we’re working on that, you’ve got a job, too.”

“Oh? Are you about to hand me a hard hat?” she teased.

“Not quite,” he said with a chuckle. “This house is full of… well, history. You’ve got old furniture, boxes of who-knows-what, and probably some hidden treasures in the mix. You’ll need to go through it all and decide what stays, what goes, and what’s worth restoring.”

Heather’s gaze drifted to the shelves filled with dusty books and forgotten trinkets.

“That sounds like a full time job.”

“It probably is,” Flynn admitted. “But it’s your chance to put your stamp on the place. And hey, if you find any skeletons in the closet—literal or figurative—you know who to call.”

“Flynn Duncan, professional ghostbuster?” she said with a grin.

“Among other things,” he replied, winking.

Then he grabbed his tool bag and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow with the crew. You’ll probably hear us stomping around on the roof before you’ve had your morning coffee.”

Heather nodded, feeling slightly less daunted now that a plan was in place.

“Thanks, Flynn. For everything.”

He paused by the door, his smile warm.

“Anytime, Campbell. Don’t work too hard going through all that stuff. And remember—no lighting any more fires until I give you the all clear.”

“Oh, and Heather.” He glanced at her, something softer in his expression. “Just so you know.’ he said as if it were an afterthought. “I’ll take care of that room. Exactly the way you want it.”

Heather swallowed again, but this time, she managed a small smile. “Yeah. I know you will.”

And that was the problem.

With that, he headed out, leaving Heather in the middle of the room.

She looked around at the overwhelming amount of things to sort through, but finally, it didn’t feel so impossible.

Heather took a deep breath, turning in a slow circle as she surveyed the room.

The enormity of the task ahead loomed, but Flynn’s presence earlier had left her feeling more grounded, even a little energized. One step at a time, she told herself.

She grabbed a pair of gloves she’d found in a drawer earlier and started with a corner of the sitting room, where a large wooden trunk sat beneath a dusty throw blanket. Pulling the blanket off sent a cloud of dust into the air, making her cough. “Lovely,” she muttered before flipping open the lid.

Inside, she found stacks of yellowed letters bound with twine, their edges brittle with age. Faded photographs. A few antique-looking jewelry boxes. A wooden crate full of books. And an old tartan shawl.

Heather unfolded it carefully, running her fingers over the worn wool, frayed slightly at the edges.

Had her mother wrapped herself in this on cold nights, standing by this very window, dreaming of places beyond Glenoran?

Had she pressed it to her nose, breathing in the same faint scent of peat smoke and lavender that lingered now?

Heather stilled, her hands brushing over the fragile fabric. A scent clung to it—faint, familiar, something she couldn’t quite place. Age, memory, maybe time itself. But it made her think of open fields and hearth smoke.

She closed her eyes, picturing her mother here, fingers curled around this very shawl.

A whisper from the past—a reminder that her mother had once been a daughter, a dreamer. Someone who had walked these halls as a child, maybe pulling this same shawl tight around her shoulders on a cold Highland morning.

It was a side of her mother Heather had never known—a side erased by years and the version of herself she had become in America. The mother Heather remembered was busy, reserved. Distant. But this room held echoes of someone different.

The hush pressed in as Heather sat back on her heels, the shawl still cradled in her hands. For a fleeting second, she swore she could hear laughter—faint, far away—as though the walls had stored the voices of those who had come before her.

Her mother’s voice—younger, lighter—drifted through her mind, carrying an accent softer than the one she’d brought to the States. Had she once twirled in this room as a girl, laughing at nothing, dreaming of the world beyond these walls?

Heather’s chest tightened. There was no way to be sure.

Her mother had never spoken much about her life here.

A few offhand comments—names of relatives Heather couldn’t remember, stories that had felt distant, foreign, to a child growing up in the Midwest. But standing here now, holding this shawl, taking in the faint scent of old wool and memory, it felt different.

It felt real.

It felt personal.

Beneath the shawl, a bundle of letters waited, tied in fading twine. She traced her finger over the delicate handwriting, the ink faded but still legible.

She hesitated.

Opening them might shatter the fragile connection she had just found. But a part of her ached to know more—to uncover the pieces of her mother’s story that had been tucked away.

Still, she held back. Not now. Not tonight.

Instead, she tucked the shawl back into the box and placed the lid on top.

Even after all these years, her mother’s room still held so much.

It wasn’t just furniture and trinkets.

It was a piece of her mother’s soul.

A piece she hadn’t known was missing.

Heather ran her fingers along the spines of the old books stacked inside the worn wooden crate. Most were familiar—dusty history texts, a few classic novels—but one stood out.

It was smaller than the others, its deep green cover worn at the edges, the gold lettering on the spine faded with time. When she pulled it free, the binding creaked in protest.

She turned it over in her hands. Anam agus Cuimhne .

Heather swallowed. She didn’t need a translation to feel the weight of those words. Soul and Memory .

Her stomach twisted. She knew some of the language, or at least pieces of it. Enough to understand. Enough to feel the meaning settle in her bones.

She hesitated, thumb resting on the edge, before flipping it open .

The text inside was old-fashioned, the letters flowing in a script that felt impossibly foreign—and yet, not entirely unfamiliar.

‘Chan eil’… Not something.

‘Mo chridhe’ … My heart.

A prickle ran down her spine. She knew that phrase.

Chan eil seo ceart.

It’s not right.

The words slipped out before she could stop them, halting, uncertain. But the moment they left her lips, her chest clenched, because she knew them.

A memory flickered, clear as day—her mother’s voice, soft yet insistent, correcting her pronunciation at the kitchen table.

“Again, a ghràidh. Chan eil seo ceart.”

Heather sucked in a breath. She hadn’t thought about that moment in years.

She had been—what? Five? Six? Barely old enough to string the words together, twisting her tongue around the unfamiliar sounds while her mother guided her through them.

But at some point, the lessons had stopped.

At some point, English had swallowed everything else.

She snapped the book shut like she had burned herself.

For a long moment, she just sat there, staring down at it, feeling the weight of something she couldn’t quite name settle in her chest.

Had her mother read this? Had she run her fingers over the very same pages?

Had she whispered these words to herself, the same way Heather just had?

She exhaled sharply and shoved the book back into the crate.

She wasn’t here to get lost in nostalgia.

She was here to pack up a past that didn’t belong to her.

Heather turned to the letters. The handwriting was elegant, the ink slightly faded, but the words were still evident.

Most were addressed to her great-grandmother, Fiona MacKenzie.

Heather traced the name with her fingertip, a quiet awe settling over her.

How many women in this family had stood where she was standing?

Had they felt the exact weight of history pressing down on them?

Had they wondered if they were strong enough to carry it forward?

She spent the next hour lost in the letters, reading snippets of her family’s life from decades past. There were mentions of celebrations at the house, notes of hardship during the world war, and tender exchanges between Fiona and her husband, Callum, her great-grandfather.

It was a window into a life she never knew, making her feel oddly connected to the place.

The afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky when she pulled herself away from the trunk. Byrdie padded into the room, meowing in protest, and Heather smiled. “Alright, alright. Dinner time.”

She fed Byrdie, then pieced together a quick meal from her limited groceries.

Her thoughts wandered back to Flynn as she ate at the ragged kitchen table.

How he’d worked so effortlessly, been both professional and charming, and made her feel more at ease in just a few hours than she’d felt in weeks.

It wasn’t just his looks—though those certainly didn’t hurt.

It was his warmth, his humor, and how he genuinely cared about her and the house.

Her thoughts drifted again. What would Ivy think of him?

Heather snorted softly at the thought. Ivy would probably try to sweep him off his feet the moment she laid eyes on him.

But would Flynn be charmed by Ivy’s larger-than-life charisma?

Or was he the kind of man who noticed quieter things?

She shook her head, pushing the thought away.

Flynn was here to work on the house, and she was here to figure out her life—not to get distracted by a man, no matter how much he smiled at her or teased her in a way that made her stomach flip.

Still, as she cleaned up her plate and headed upstairs to her room, she couldn’t help but glance at her reflection in the mirror.

She tucked a curl behind her ear, then caught herself. What was she even doing?

It wasn’t like Flynn was looking at her that way. Not really. Sure, he was charming. Sure, he teased her like it was his full time job. But that didn’t mean anything.

Did it?

She leaned closer to the mirror, studying herself: the freckles she never quite liked, the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the way her curls never seemed to behave.

The thought slipped in uninvited, and Heather hated it instantly.

Ivy wouldn’t stand here second-guessing whether a man found her interesting. She’d just know.

Heather shook her head to clear the thought. She wasn’t here to be noticed. She was here to rebuild something—her life, her future, her family’s home. And if Flynn noticed her along the way? Well, that was his problem, not hers.