Aisling stepped back inside, quiet as a prayer, the memory of her grandmother’s handwriting still imprinted behind her eyes.
One thing was clear: she hadn’t just inherited a house.
She’d inherited a story.
And it was time she figured out how it ended. It was time for her to learn all the secrets.
CHAPTER8
Aisling woke to the sound of chickens gossiping outside her window and a breeze that carried the scent of dew-soaked grass and goat mischief. For a moment, she lay there in silence, enjoying the kind of rural peace New York could only dream about—until her to-do list drop-kicked her back into reality.
Today was going to be busy: two contractors, a trip to Killaloe to meet with the lawyer and bank, and if the universe was feeling kind, maybe a few more family secrets unearthed in the form of missing journals. She’d promised herself that by evening, she’d unwind with a book and maybe a glass of wine in the library, pretending she wasn’t living in a crumbling estate with a goat terrorist for a roommate.
Speaking of which, at least Céilí hadn’t woken her up by headbutting the bedroom door this time. She’d managed to keep her out of the house. Small miracles.
With a sigh, she rolled out of bed, padded barefoot into the kitchen, brewed a strong cup of coffee, and reheated a slice of Bríd’s bread. She’d just sat down when the shouting started.
“AISLING!”
Her chewing slowed. No. No, no, no.
“AISLING!” Again, louder. And angrier.
She closed her eyes and muttered, “Please let it be a ghost. Or the village banshee. Literally anything or anyone but Ronan Gallagher.”
She opened the back door, toast in hand, and leaned against the door frame. And there he was.
Dressed like a damn equestrian calendar model: crisp shirt, tan riding pants, and boots that screamedI own horses and opinions…grumpy opinions.
“Aren’t you the sporty gentleman?” she said, biting into her toast.
“Where’s your goat?”
“Not my goat,” she replied without blinking.
He pointed at her. “Céilí belongs to this estate. This estate belongs to you. Therefore, your goat.”
“Objectively untrue,” she said, licking butter off her thumb. “She seems to belong to chaos, leaving it behind wherever she goes.”
He stomped toward her, his boots clicking dramatically on the stones. “She’s eaten my delphiniums. My lilies. My begonias. There are holes where plants used to live.”
“Oh no. Not the begonias.” She gave him a slow blink. “Do you have proof, or are you accusing based on species profiling?”
“I have trampled soil and a hoofprint trail,” he said, gesturing wildly.
“Give me proof that she’s the one eating your plants,” she said. “In America, you’re innocent until proven guilty. I need proof that she’s the animal destroying your prized flower beds. I’ll lock her up if I have proof. Maybe you should sample her poo to see what’s in it?”
She sipped her coffee.
His eyes narrowed. “Hilarious. Truly. A comedic genius.”
“You should see me do stand-up with a goat on a leash.”
“Keep her contained,” he snapped. “A pen. A fence. Something.”
She tilted her head. “Does Céilí even have a pen? I haven’t finished the barn walkthrough. I’ve been a little busy preventing this place from collapsing into the moss.”
She carried her toast and coffee to the rocking chair on the porch and sat with exaggerated comfort. The morning was crisp, her coffee was hot, and Ronan Gallagher was rapidly approaching an aneurysm from the look of his red face.
