Page 50 of Of Heather and Thistle

B y the time summer had swept into the Highlands, Heather had made more progress than she had ever expected. The storage unit—once an overwhelming cavern of dusty boxes and forgotten heirlooms—was nearly empty. Sorting, cataloging, and deciding what to keep or let go had become methodical.

She’d unearthed old family letters, some written in careful, slanted handwriting that she suspected belonged to her mother’s grandmother.

There had been faded photographs, sepia-toned, of people who looked like strangers but shared the same high cheekbones and unruly curls.

A delicate silver locket with a thistle engraved on the front, tucked away in a box of moth-eaten tartan fabric.

Some things she kept, others she carefully packed into donation bins or arranged for historical preservation. But with every box she emptied, the weight in her heart grew heavier because clearing out the storage unit meant that soon, there would be nothing left tying her there .

Nothing but Glenoran.

She had spoken to Flynn a handful of times since then, but only when necessary. It was strictly business: updates on the restoration, material approvals, and brief logistical check-ins. She kept every call clipped and every email impersonal, refusing to engage beyond what was necessary.

And he let her.

Never pushed. Never called her mo chridhe again. And maybe that was what hurt the most—that he’d believed her when she said it didn’t mean anything.

Now, with the storage unit nearly cleared, she had one last thing to do—find a buyer for Glenoran. Because the longer she stayed, the more it felt like Glenoran was trying to convince her to stay, too. And she couldn’t afford to listen to ghosts.

She’d already started looking into distant relatives—anyone from her mother’s side who might have more of a connection to the place than she did.

The last thing she wanted was to see it go to a developer or left to decay.

It needed someone who would care for it and see it for what it was.

Because that someone wasn’t her. Couldn’t be.

Even if, late at night, when she closed her eyes, she still dreamed of Glenoran’s stone walls and the scent of sawdust and rain.

Even if, no matter how much distance she put between them, she still thought about Flynn.

Heather stood at the entrance of the nearly empty storage unit, dust motes swirling in the golden evening light.

The final boxes were stacked neatly by the door, ready for donation or shipping, and all that remained was a battered old trunk that she hadn’t yet brought herself to open.

She exhaled, pressing her palms to her thighs. Almost done .

The thought should’ve brought relief, but it didn’t.

Instead, it left her feeling… untethered.

For months, this task had given her something to focus on.

It had given her a reason to stay long enough to sort through the past without getting lost. But once this was over, once the house had sold, there would be nothing left for her here.

She brushed her hands off on her jeans and grabbed her phone from her bag, scrolling to the latest email from Mr. Reid she had contacted about her distant relatives.

“There is a potential family connection on your mother’s side—a cousin twice removed, still living in Scotland. I’ve reached out and will follow up when I have more information.”

Heather clutched her phone tighter, her chest tightening with something that felt a lot like regret. This was the right thing to do. Glenoran deserved someone who would stay and tend to it like her mother’s family once had. Not someone who had spent her whole life running.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. Flynn.

She hesitated, staring at his name on her screen, before pressing accept.

“Campbell,” he greeted her, his voice as steady and familiar as ever.

Campbell. Not mo chridhe.

Not even Heather.

It was like he had drawn a line between them, and she had no one to blame but herself.

She ignored the sting of it.

“Mr. Duncan,” she said, keeping her tone even. “What’s the update?”

There was a beat of silence before he exhaled. “The new roof is nearly done. The new windows are in, and the stonework has been reinforced where needed. It should be all wrapped up next month.”

She nodded to herself, even though he couldn’t see her. “Good. That’s good.”

Another silence, heavier this time.

Finally, he spoke again, voice measured. “You’ve thought about what you’re doin’ next?”

Heather swallowed. “I have.”

“Yer selling it?”

Her grip on the phone tightened, fingers curling around the edge like it was the only thing tethering her to solid ground. The words were right there:

I don’t know yet.

But they felt too dangerous. Too real.

She glanced at the old trunk beside her, the faded initials carved into the lid. Her mother’s, maybe. Or someone before her. The past always left traces—whispering reminders of things she didn’t understand.

Flynn’s silence stretched on the other end of the line. Waiting.

Heather exhaled sharply, forcing steel into her spine. “Yes.”

Flynn was quiet for so long she thought the call had dropped. Then—finally, a quiet, resigned, “Aye. Figures.” His voice was quiet, but it scraped something raw inside her. She didn’t know what she expected—understanding? Disappointment? A fight?

Heather squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s the right choice.”

“For who?”

The words slammed into her like a punch, knocking the air from her lungs. For who ?

Heather’s heart stuttered.

Her nails bit into her palm, but she barely felt it. The answer should have been easy. It was logical, practical, the right choice.

Then why did it feel like a lie?

Her throat worked, but she shoved it down, smothering the flicker of doubt before it could grow into something she couldn’t control.

“For Glenoran,” she said, forcing the words out before she could take them back. “It needs someone who wants to be here.”

A beat. Then another.

“Right,” Flynn said finally, his voice unreadable again. “I’ll keep ye updated on the final work.”

She nodded again, uselessly. “Thanks… Flynn.”

He hesitated for half a second. Then, just before the call disconnected, she thought she heard him murmur something in Gaelic—low, rough, like the words had been torn from his throat.

Heather’s breath caught. It was quiet—barely more than a whisper—but she heard it.

“Chan eil seo ceart.”

This isn’t right.

Her chest tightened, a sharp, painful squeeze. She almost—almost—said something. But then the line went dead.

Heather stood there, still holding the phone to her ear like an idiot, as if she could pull back time, as if she could make him say it again.

She pressed her lips together, swallowing the ache threatening to spill over.

It didn’t matter .

It couldn’t matter.

And yet, long after she set her phone down, long after she turned away—those words still echoed in her bones.

This isn’t right.

And yet, she walked away.