Page 58 of Of Heather and Thistle

S he wasn’t ready to make a decision—but she wasn’t prepared to leave either. So, she settled in. For now.

Mornings at Glenoran started slow, with Byrdie curling up at the foot of her new king-sized bed as if she belonged there, her snores filling the quiet room.

The primary suite was something out of a dream, a space Flynn had built with his hands.

Expansive bay windows overlooked the misty moors, and the whirlpool tub—that glorious whirlpool tub—quickly became her sanctuary.

But it wasn’t just the suite that felt different. The entire house had changed.

When she first arrived, Glenoran had felt like a tomb—hollow, haunted by time and loss, its grand rooms filled with shadows and whispers of the past. The walls had creaked beneath the weight of history, and every darkened hallway had felt like a reminder of all the things she’d lost. She had tiptoed through its halls like a stranger, like she didn’t belong, like she was just passing through .

Now, warmth had seeped into the very bones of the place.

The once-drafty corridors no longer felt cavernous but cozy, touched by the scent of fresh wood and the soft glow of light filtering through restored windows.

The hearth in the sitting room crackled each evening, filling the space with golden light—not a relic of the past, but a steady, welcoming presence.

The kitchen—where she had once stood feeling out of place—had become a second home, a place where she and Flynn made tea in the evenings, where Byrdie perched on the counter like a queen overseeing her domain.

Heather had never lived anywhere quite like this. Evenings were spent unpacking—truly unpacking, not just living out of suitcases, not just existing in a place, but making it her own.

She found little ways to claim the space: a vase of fresh wildflowers on the windowsill, a stack of well-loved books beside the bed, one of her mother’s old sweaters draped over the chair in the corner.

There was a candle on the nightstand that smelled like cedar and rain, a fuzzy throw blanket on the couch, and boots left by the front door—not because she was visiting but because she belonged here.

Glenoran had been lost and forgotten once. So had she.

But now, both of them had been restored.

Flynn had stopped raising his brows when he found her curled up on the massive bed, wrapped in blankets, Byrdie tucked beside her.

He smirked, muttered something about her “settlin’ in nicely,” and kissed her before heading downstairs.

Heather ignored how her heart twisted whenever he said things like that.

She wasn’t staying. And she wasn’t going either.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the soft morning light spilling through the bay windows. Byrdie stretched beside her, flicking her tail lazily, but Heather barely noticed. Her phone was in her hand. Ivy’s name was on the screen. For a long time, she just stared at it.

Ivy had called her months ago, voice dripping with regret, with nostalgia, with all the little hooks that made Heather believe—just for a second—that maybe, maybe they could go back to the way things were.

But now? After everything? She wasn’t that girl anymore.

Heather took a deep breath and hit call.

Ivy answered on the second ring, her voice bright, effortless.

“Well, well. Look who finally remembered I exist.”

Heather ignored the jab. “I’ve been busy.”

“I bet.” Ivy let out a little sigh. “Living in your Highland castle with your hunky contractor, I assume? I saw the pictures you posted. You’re basically in a damn fairy tale.”

Heather’s stomach tightened. She hadn’t expected this Ivy. The teasing Ivy. The charming Ivy. The Ivy who made her feel like they were just two best friends catching up, like nothing had ever happened. Like she hadn’t betrayed her.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Heather said, cutting straight to the point.

“Oh, God. You sound serious.” Ivy’s laugh was light but tinged with something sharper. “Are you dying? Did you elope with a sexy Scotsman? Are you role-playing Outlander with Sam Heughan? Please tell me it’s something good!”

Her fingers clenched the bedsheets. “I think we need to stop this.”

Silence.

Then, Ivy scoffed. “Stop what?”

Heather exhaled slowly. “This. Us. Pretending like we can just go back to how things were.”

Ivy’s voice lost its playful lilt. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Heather. Are we really doing this again?”

Heather swallowed. “I forgave you.”

“Then why the hell are we having this conversation?”

Heather hesitated. “Because I’m not the same person I was.”

Ivy let out a dry laugh. “Oh, so what, you found yourself in the Highlands? Is this your Eat, Pray, Love moment?”

Heather ignored the jab. “I used to think I needed you.” Her voice was quiet, but steady. “That I wouldn’t survive without you in my life. But Ivy… I don’t need you anymore.”

Ivy went silent again. This time, the silence was dangerous. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, but laced with something cold. “So that’s it? You’re just… done with me?”

Heather swallowed hard. She had imagined this moment so many times—breaking away. But she hadn’t expected it to feel like this. Like mourning.

Like losing something she had spent her whole life holding onto. But she wasn’t losing Ivy. She was letting her go.

“I love you, Ivy,” she admitted. “And I always will. But I can’t keep making excuses for you. I can’t keep pretending that what you did didn’t hurt me.”

“I apologized —”

Heather cut her off. “You manipulated me.”

Ivy let out a frustrated noise. “Holy shit, Heather. It wasn’t that deep.”

Heather’s chest tightened, but she kept her voice even. “It was to me.”

Ivy exhaled sharply. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. After everything.”

Heather’s throat ached. “I know. ”

Ivy was quiet for a long time. When she spoke again, her voice was detached. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

Heather closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. “It is.”

Another pause. And then, in a voice t oo sweet, too practiced, too Ivy, she said, “You know, whoever this guy is— he won’t stick around forever. They never do.”

Heather’s stomach twisted.

“You’re a runner, babe,” Ivy continued, her voice light and sharp as a blade. “You always have been. And maybe you’re playing house now, but sooner or later, you’ll get scared, and you’ll leave. And when that happens? Don’t come crawling back to me.”

Heather’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Goodbye, Ivy.”

She hung up before Ivy could say another word.

Her hands were shaking. Byrdie let out a quiet chirp, rubbing against her arm.

Heather reached for her, burying her fingers in the soft fur, grounding herself.

She had done it. She had cut the tether that had kept her bound for so many years. It should have felt freeing.

Instead, it just felt quiet. But maybe… maybe that was okay. Maybe peace was supposed to feel like this. Heather exhaled slowly, setting her phone aside as the weight of it all settled in. The air in the room felt still, like the moment after a storm when the world is holding its breath.

Ivy had been in her life for so long, woven into the fabric of her memories. Every late-night phone call, every inside joke, every whispered secret between them—it was all still there. But that history wasn’t enough anymore.

Heather wasn’t that girl anymore. She pulled the blankets tighter around herself, curling into their warmth as exhaustion crept in, heavier than before. Her body ached—not from physical strain but from the emotional toll of finally letting go .

Sleep didn’t come easily, but when it did, it was deep. And when morning arrived, she was still wrapped in that strange, aching quiet.

* * *

The sun had barely risen when her phone rang.

Heather groaned, rolling over to fumble for it on the nightstand. Byrdie grumbled in protest and buried herself more deeply into the blankets. Heather rubbed her eyes and squinted at the screen.

Dr. Morrow.

A flicker of anticipation ran through her as she answered. “Hello?”

“Ms. Campbell,” Dr. Morrow’s voice came through, brimming with excitement. “I have news about your flag.”

Heather stilled. She hadn’t stopped thinking about that fragile piece of history since the day she’d found it tucked away in the attic, along with the torn scrap of Mackenzie tartan and that cryptic note:

April 16th.

“Go on,” she urged, gripping the phone tighter.

Dr. Morrow chuckled softly. “You may want to sit down.”

Her anxiety flared. “Just tell me.”

“After deep research and consulting with a few experts on Jacobite artifacts, we’ve confirmed that the flag you found is a battle standard from Culloden. ”

Heather’s stomach dropped. “Culloden? As in the Culloden?”

“The very same,” Dr. Morrow confirmed. “The note, the tartan, and, most importantly, the flag’s design all line up. It’s been missing for over 270 years—presumed lost or destroyed after the battle.”

Heather pressed a hand to her forehead. “Are you saying this—this relic—belonged to the Mackenzies at Culloden?”

“Not just the Mackenzies,” Dr. Morrow said, his voice lowering. “To your Mackenzies. This could have been carried by one of your ancestors that day.”

A lump formed in her throat. “But how did it end up at Glenoran?”

“We can only speculate,” he admitted. “It’s possible someone in your family smuggled it out after the battle, hidden away for generations. We know this is an astonishing discovery—not just for your family but for Scotland itself.”

Heather turned toward the window, looking out over the snow-dusted hills. Glenoran had always felt like a place steeped in history, but this… This changed everything.

Dr. Morrow hesitated before adding, “Ms. Campbell, museums will want to see this. The Scottish National Museum is already interested in an official assessment.”

She swallowed hard, heart pounding. “You’re saying I should hand it over?”