Page 41 of Of Heather and Thistle

Then, beneath the parchment, she found something else: a tattered piece of Mackenzie tartan.

The fabric was frayed and torn, but Heather could still make out the green, blue, and black pattern.

Her heart raced as she realized what this was.

Her mother’s family had roots in the Highland clans, but the tartan…

wasn’t just a family connection. It was a piece of history, a reminder of the past her mother had left behind.

Heather swallowed hard, holding the items carefully in her hands.

A part of her felt like she had uncovered something monumental.

Flynn had been standing nearby, watching her sort through the boxes, and stepped closer when he noticed the items in her hands.

“What have ye got there?” he asked, his voice low with curiosity.

Heather held the flag up, gently unfolding the fabric further.

“I… I’m unsure, but I think this is an old Scottish flag.

And this parchment— And this”—she gestured to the piece of tartan—“this looks like Mackenzie tartan. It has to be…” Heather’s fingers brushed over the parchment, and her breath hitched.

The ink was faint, the numbers ghostlike—but something about it slid cold down her spine.

It felt… important. Familiar, almost. Like a word on the tip of her tongue that she couldn’t quite say.

She glanced at Flynn. “Does this date mean anything to you?” Flynn’s brow furrowed as he leaned in.

“April 16… that’s the day of the Battle of Culloden.

” Heather’s pulse quickened. She knew little about Scottish history, but she knew that name.

Culloden. The battle that had crushed the Jacobite uprising.

And now, somehow, it was tied to her family.

Flynn’s eyes widened as he examined the items in her hands.

He reached out to touch the fabric of the flag with reverence.

“This is something special, Campbell. The date, the tartan… this could be from the time of the Ja cobite uprising in 1745. These flags were battle standards. Ye don’t just find them lying about. ”

She whispered, “But why was it in the house? Shouldn’t this be in a museum or something?”

“I’m not sure,” Flynn said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

“But I’d guess it’s tied to yer family history.

The Mackenzies were deeply involved in the Jacobite cause.

This flag might have belonged to someone who fought in that rebellion or supported it.

” Her mind raced as she absorbed Flynn’s words.

It felt almost surreal to think that this small piece of fabric, this relic from the past, was somehow connected to her bloodline.

Her mother had never mentioned anything about this part of their heritage.

The only knowledge Heather had of Scottish history came from her high school World History class, and it barely scratched the surface.

The weight of the discovery felt both exhilarating and overwhelming. How had she never known?

Flynn noticed her pensive expression and smiled gently.

“If ye want to know more, I’d suggest talking to Dr. Morrow in town.

He’s a historian who specializes in the Jacobite period.

He could tell ye more about the flag and its significance.

” Heather nodded, still holding the items with a newfound reverence.

She had no idea what she’d just uncovered, but it was clear that her connection to the past ran deeper than she had realized.

As she carefully placed everything back in the box, her thoughts shifted, momentarily pulled back to the present. The ping of her phone startled her out of her reverie. She pulled it out and saw a message from the realtor:

Your father’s house outside Millhaven has sold. Congratulations. The new owners are excited to move in .

The words didn’t register at first. Just a blur of black text against a glowing screen. Your father’s house outside Millhaven has sold. Heather blinked. Read it again.

Then—impact. A gut punch. Sharp. Breath-stealing.

It was the last piece of her mom she still had.

The house had held her voice. The scent of her baking still clung to the old curtains, the bookshelves still carried the dust of her hands.

And now? It belonged to strangers. People who would repaint the walls, change the floors, erase every piece of her mom until there was nothing left.

Her mother had filled that house with warmth and care.

But after Eilidh died, it was like someone had flipped a switch.

The light went out. The warmth evaporated, replaced by the coldness of her father’s bitterness.

The man who had once been a loving husband had turned into someone unrecognizable—angry, volatile, consumed by alcohol.

And Heather, still a child, had borne the brunt of it.

There had been nights when she had hidden in her room, afraid to come out.

Her father’s yelling would echo down the halls, and she would shrink into herself, wishing to disappear.

He would take his anger out on everything around him, sometimes on her.

She remembered the sting of the words he’d hurled at her, the silence that followed the chaos, and the hollow feeling that lingered long after.

And yet, somewhere in that house, there were memories of love—small, quiet moments when her mother would sit beside her, brush her hair, and tell stories of faraway places.

When the world outside felt like it was falling apart, her mother had been the one constant, the one person who made Heather feel like she was enough.

Those memories had been her lifeline through the years of her father’s abuse.

They were the good parts of the house, which Heather tried to hold on to even after her mom was gone.

But now, those memories felt like they belonged to someone else.

The words hit her harder than she expected.

The house had sold. The house where she had lived through so many difficult years, the place she had spent so much of her childhood and young adulthood, was no longer hers.

It felt like an ending, a door closing on something she hadn’t fully processed.

There was a finality to it, an unspoken acknowledgment that the weight of that house, of everything it symbolized, was no longer her burden to carry.

But there was also relief, a sense of release.

The house had been under constant stress and uncertainty for a long time.

Now, it was gone—no more worrying about repairs, no more wondering whether she should keep or sell it, no more reminders of the man her father had become.

It wasn’t a simple relief, though. It was bittersweet, tinged with grief for the mother she had lost, for the little girl she used to be in that house, and for all the parts of her past she wasn’t sure she could ever truly let go of.

She looked up, lost in thought when Flynn’s voice gently broke through her trance.

“You okay?” His gaze was soft, his concern evident as he noticed the shift in her expression.

Heather swallowed hard, feeling a lump in her throat.

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, just… a lot going on. My father’s house sold.

It’s done. It feels… final.” Flynn’s gaze softened, and Heather could feel the weight of his understanding pressing down on her.

She appreciated his concern, but something about his kindness and closeness made her chest tighten.

She didn’t want to be vulnerable, not with him now.

She couldn’t afford to be. With a quick, forced smile, Heather stepped back, clutching the old box tighter in her hands.

She could feel herself retreating into the familiar walls she’d built around her heart.

“I should get going; it’s getting late,” she said, her voice a little too sharp.

“I’ll pay Dr. Morrow a visit later.” Flynn’s jaw tensed briefly—so quickly that Heather almost missed it.

Almost. But she did see it. The flicker of something in his eyes.

Not just confusion. Not just frustration. Something closer to… disappointment.

It was subtle. A tightening of his shoulders, a beat too long before he nodded.

But it was there. Like he already knew she was slipping away.

The flicker of something behind his eyes, something close to frustration, but not quite.

He wanted to say something—but she’d already shut the door.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone. He nodded, stepping back.

“Alright,” he said lightly. “I’ll check in later. ”

He turned toward the crew, but Heather felt the shift.

The moment where Flynn stopped reaching.

She had seen him leaning in all this time, effortlessly closing the distance she never knew she had let exist. But now?

He wasn’t leaning in. He wasn’t trying to understand.

Because she had shut the door before he even had the chance to ask what was wrong.

She barely remembered the walk to the car, the cool air brushing against her skin as she set the box down in the passenger seat.

Her mind was a whirl of emotions, and the tightness in her chest wouldn’t loosen.

* * *

When she reached the Thistle Haven Inn, she didn’t even bother to check in with Ms. Kinnaird.

She went straight to her room, locking the door before collapsing onto the bed.

Her breath was uneven, her thoughts scattered.

The house had sold. She had thought she was ready for it, but she wasn’t.

And Flynn had been kind and understanding, but that made it worse.

She wasn’t sure how to handle someone like him, who seemed so steady—while she felt as though she could barely keep it together.

Heather sat up slowly, picking at the edge of the box, her thoughts drifting to the items inside. Her mother’s life was there, the past she had never fully known. But now, with the house gone, what did that even mean? What was left for her to hold onto?

She sat there for a long moment, staring at the box in her lap—the room’s stillness pressing around her.

The items inside were so small, so insignificant on their own—tattered pieces of fabric, old parchment, a flag—but they held so much weight.

She clung to memories she wasn’t sure she could face.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table, breaking the silence.

She glanced at it but didn’t move to pick it up.

She already knew who it was. Flynn. He was probably checking in, making sure she was okay, wanting to ensure she didn’t shut him out.

But that was the problem. She didn’t know how to let him in either.

She sighed, sinking back into the pillows.

The house was gone. Her father’s house was no longer hers.

She hadn’t realized how much of her still lived in that house.

As painful as it had been, it was still a part of her story, and now that chapter had closed.

It felt like losing another piece of her mother, another piece of her childhood that she wasn’t ready to let go of.

But it wasn’t just the house that was hard to let go of—it was the guilt—that corrosive ache that she hadn’t been enough to fix him—couldn’t save him from the demons that had slowly consumed him.

And now, all of that was gone. The house, the memories, and the weight of responsibility that had followed her for so long were all just… gone.

The tears threatened, but she blinked them back—too stubborn to let grief win. She had already cried enough in her life. She wasn’t doing it again.

She looked at the box again, her fingers brushing the items’ edges. The tartan, the old flag, the parchment—things that meant nothing to her, yet everything. She had to figure it out. She owed that much—to her mother’s memory, and to the girl still learning how to live without her.

But not today.

Today, she was done with decisions. She was done with heavy emotions that threatened to drown her.

Today, she needed peace, something simple.

Pulling the box closer to her, Heather tucked it away on the shelf, promising that tomorrow, she’d take another step forward.

But not tonight. Tonight, she just needed a break—a quiet moment to breathe without the weight of her past on her shoulders.

She climbed beneath the quilt like armor and silence, pulling it tight around the frayed edges of herself. She allowed herself a final glance at the window before closing her eyes.

Tomorrow .

Tomorrow, she’d rebuild the walls.

But tonight, she let herself disappear.