Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
A isling awoke to the sound of something chewing and the pitter-patter of rain hitting the window.
Not metaphorically. Not dreamily. Something very real was gnawing its way through her morning.
She sat bolt upright in bed, hair tangled, heart thudding. Where was she? And then she remembered falling into bed.
In the doorway stood a goat.
A goat.
No, she had not been drinking the night before. No sleeping medications. Nothing unless she was hallucinating.
It stared at her, mid-munch, with enormous dark eyes and her favorite straw hat clamped between its teeth.
“No!” she shrieked, scrambling out of the covers.
The goat baaa’d with zero remorse.
“That’s mine!” She yanked the mangled hat free, inspecting the crescent-shaped bite marks on the brim. “I brought this to work outside—not feed your fiber cravings!”
The goat responded by pooping on the wooden floor.
“Seriously?” she groaned. “We just met, and you’re already making deposits?”
It blinked at her, utterly unbothered. A bell jingled gently from the red collar around its neck. Did everyone in Mountshannon wake up to a goat in their house?
“Who put that on you?” she muttered, inspecting it. “Was it my grandmother? Do you live here now? Are we roommates?”
The goat attempted another bite of the hat.
“Absolutely not.” She tucked it behind her back. “Let’s find you something edible that isn’t part of my wardrobe.”
Luring him like a four-legged toddler, she held the hat out as bait and led him out of the bedroom and down the narrow hallway. Her stomach growled—a loud, hollow protest. She hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, and her head was starting to float.
The kitchen appeared the same as when she’d collapsed the night before—quaint, dusty, and older than sin. But this time, a cake sat on the table. A pale sponge dusted with sugar and, next to it, a folded note.
She narrowed her eyes at the goat. “So anyone can just waltz into this house now?”
The goat attempted to climb the table.
“Back off, Baa-bie,” she said, gently pushing him away. “That’s my cake.”
She unfolded the note.
Aisling,
I’m thrilled you’re here. I let myself in and found you fast asleep—hope you don’t mind. Brought you a little cake for breakfast. I’ll be by for tea this afternoon. I’d love to hear about Maeve, and about you.
I miss your mother terribly. And Noreen…Talk soon.
Bríd Ní Riain
Aisling blinked.
People just let themselves in around here?
Was this a normal Irish thing or Mountshannon-specific madness?
The goat bleated again. She grabbed the hat and opened the back door.
“Go. Outside. Eat a bush or something.”
The goat sprinted for the hat. She tossed it like a Frisbee and slammed the door once he was over the threshold, latching it firmly.
She leaned against it and exhaled.
“That’s something you don’t see in New York.”
After a moment of gathering herself and dignity, she rummaged through the cupboards, found a chipped kettle, and managed a pot of coffee that tasted surprisingly decent. She cut a slice of cake and chewed in silence.
Today, she had a house to inventory. Grocery shopping could wait. Right now, she needed to know exactly how bad things were.
She returned to the bedroom, pulled out her notebook, and began a list:
Deep clean.
New plumbing?
Modern kitchen appliances.
Kitchen remodel.
Goat deterrent system.
Possible exorcism or ghost removal?
Notebook in hand, she wandered the estate.
Room by room, she took notes. The place was massive. Much bigger than it looked online. Grand fireplaces in every bedroom, all with en suite bathrooms—rare and wildly marketable. But everything was coated in dust, and the paint peeled like sunburned skin.
The kitchen needed a full gut. Several light fixtures dangled like broken limbs. The floors creaked ominously in the west wing. One closet had spiders the size of hamsters.
Still—potential .
This place, once restored, would be spectacular. Elegant. Valuable.
Sellable.
The faster she finished renovations, the sooner she could return to the States and reboot her career. New York wouldn’t wait forever. Neither would rent.
She checked the time--almost noon. Tea with Bríd loomed.
Back in the kitchen, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. She wiped down counters, washed two mugs, brewed fresh coffee, and put the kettle on just in case her guest insisted on tea.
The knock came not at the front, but at the kitchen door, sharp and impatient.
She opened it to find a woman who looked like she’d walked straight out of Irish legend—silver braid, heavy cardigan, and kind, piercing eyes that sparkled like storm light.
“Aisling, love, I’m so happy to meet you,” she said, pushing past her and into the kitchen.
“I’m Bríd,” she said, setting a basket on the table. “I brought bread, butter, and jam. You must be starving. I took care of your grandmother up until her last day.” She let out a heavy sigh. “I miss that old woman so much.”
“Thank you,” Aisling said, not knowing how to respond. But she was glad that someone helped her grandmother since no family was here.
“Mary, Mother of God, you are álainn .”
Aisling stared at the woman. “álainn?”
“Beautiful,” she said in her Irish lilt. “Give me a hug. You look just like your mother did at your age.”
Aisling laughed in spite of herself. “You knew my mother?”
“Of course, I did,” Bríd said, pulling out a chair. “We grew up together. Went to school side by side. Thought we’d spend our lives growing old in this town—until she left. But more on that later. Sit. Eat. Talk.”
The woman moved with the confidence of someone who ruled her own queendom and maybe kept a wooden spoon tucked in her bra for discipline.
“Tea or coffee?” Aisling asked, already knowing the answer.
“Tea. Always.”
They sat.
“I didn’t even know my grandmother was alive,” Aisling said, wrapping her hands around her mug. “My mother never talked about her. Or this place. Or anything Irish.”
Bríd exhaled slowly. “They were both as stubborn as bulls. Fell out over things neither could forgive. Pride does strange things to people.”
“I just wish I’d met her,” Aisling said quietly. “And my grandfather?”
“Gone before Maeve was grown. Car crash. Broke Noreen’s heart.”
“She never remarried?”
“No need. The land was her husband and the village her family. We take care of our own here in this small town.”
It felt strange to hear details about people she should have known but didn’t. Like reading a book where you were born halfway through the story.
“What about you?” Bríd asked, eyes twinkling. “No husband? No children?”
Aisling snorted. “Nope.”
Bríd tsked. “You young people make it so hard. When I was your age, we were all matched up by twenty-two.”
“I was engaged,” Aisling said, stabbing her bread with unnecessary force. “But then he played hide the sausage with my boss, and that was the end of that.”
Bríd winced. “Ah. One of those. You’re well rid of him.”
Aisling nodded, appreciating the easy solidarity. It had been three weeks since that terrible morning. Three weeks and now her life was quite different.
“I’m just here to fix the place, then head back. Maybe sell it.”
That got Bríd’s full attention.
“You’re not staying?”
“I don’t know,” Aisling said honestly. “I haven’t decided. It’s just... a lot.”
Bríd studied her, expression unreadable. “What’s left for you back in the States?”
Aisling hesitated. “Nothing. But that doesn’t mean this is home.”
“In Mountshannon, we become family,” Bríd said softly. “It’s how your grandmother managed. It’s how you will too. Here you are, the prodigal daughter we’ve longed to see.”
She made the sign of the cross, fingers trembling slightly. “Your mother, we all so wanted her to return, but she never did.”
Aisling sipped her coffee. The warmth steadied her, but her mind spun. There were so many things she didn’t know. So many silences Maeve had wrapped around her like armor.
“There are things you need to know about your family. Things that happened that are the reason why you’re here today,” Bríd said suddenly. “Things that shaped all of this.”
That was a strange series of statements. “Like what?”
Before Aisling could ask more, a l oud knock rattled the back door.
She jumped.
Bríd looked amused.
“Local welcome committee?” Aisling asked, already heading to the door.
She opened the door and came face-to-chest with a man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Stormy eyes, the color of thunderclouds and mischief. His dark hair curled slightly at the ends, and his expression was somewhere between outrage and disbelief.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
His arrogant manner immediately turned her off.
Aisling blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t live here,” he snapped. “And if you’re squatting, I’ll call the Garda right now.”
Oh. Hell no.
She crossed her arms. “Well, thank God, because I hate squatters.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. My name is Aisling O’Byrne. I own this house. Who in the name of rain-soaked arrogance are you?”
He stared at her. Blinked. Swallowed hard.
Then he grinned, slow and maddening.
“Ronan Gallagher,” he said. “Your betrothed.”
Stunned, Aisling stared.
“And that is one of the things you need to know about. Your betrothal,” Bríd said behind her. “Welcome to Ireland.”