Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
A isling 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 screamed I 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.
“I’m not changing the subject,” she said sweetly. “I’m simply prioritizing my inner peace.”
“We have a goat problem , Aisling.”
“Correction: you have a goat problem. I have warm toast and sunlight.”
He stomped up the steps, standing over her like some furious garden gnome with knee-high boots. “Fine. I’ll go to Killaloe and buy a camera. I’ll catch her on film, and then you’ll have your proof.”
“Perfect,” she said with a grin. “Then we can do a goat lineup. Like Law & Order: Livestock Unit.”
He rolled his eyes, clearly regretting every life choice that led him to this porch. And she was enjoying watching him suffer.
“You know,” she added casually, “I read my grandmother’s journals last night. Your family’s feud résumé is... impressive.”
“Let me guess. You got to the part where my great-grandfather relocated your family’s roses.”
“You mean stole them in the dead of night and replanted them on Gallagher land? Yes. And then claimed they ‘walked toward better soil’? The man was the original delusional landscape artist.”
Ronan snorted. “Darragh Gallagher was a devout Catholic and a certified lunatic. Even the bishop stopped taking his confession.”
She laughed despite herself.
“I was six when I watched him and your grandfather shout over property lines for an hour. I genuinely thought one of them would duel with shovels. I’m not convinced they didn’t.”
A breeze drifted through, teasing her hair. She tucked an auburn curl behind her ear and leaned back, eyeing him.
“Have you ever had this much drama growing up?” she asked. Drama did not happen at the O’Byrne apartment. Not even when the rent was past due.
He blinked. “Are you kidding? We have drama for breakfast. I’ve got a younger brother and a mother who once banned arguing at the dinner table because someone launched mashed potatoes over a disputed chess game.”
“Wow. That’s… impressive. It was just me and my mom. Quiet. No mashed potatoes flung in the name of justice.”
He hesitated. “No siblings?”
“Nope. Just me, myself, and Maeve.” Her voice softened, just a bit. “She wanted me close. Didn’t even want me to go to college. Now I wonder if it was about more than just missing me.”
Ronan’s gaze shifted, thoughtful.
“She was afraid,” Aisling said, more to herself than him. “Afraid I’d leave and never come back. Just like she did to her mother.”
Now, Aisling wondered if her mother was afraid she’d come back pregnant.
A long pause stretched between them.
Then he cleared his throat. “Well, if nothing else, you’ve inherited the drama. And the goat.”
“You keep bringing her up like she’s plotting your demise.”
“She is . She sleeps in tall grass and waits until I’m out of sight, and then she attacks my flowers.”
Before she could fire back, a rumble echoed up the gravel drive.
A truck.
Ronan squinted toward the driveway. “You expecting company?”
“Yes,” she said, standing. “Contractors. Darren McCarthey and Fergal Kenny. May the best man win.”
“Fergal’s your guy,” Ronan said immediately. “No question.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And why should I trust your judgment? Maybe you’re trying to sabotage me.”
“Or maybe I know Darren uses duct tape like it’s a sacrament,” he said with a shrug. “You’ll see for yourself. I tried to help. That’s my good deed for the day.”
“Impressive. Want a medal? Or a thank-you goat?”
He smirked. “Nah. Just keep her out of my tulips.”
As the truck pulled up, he paused at the top of the steps.
“Before you get too far into renovations,” he said casually, “I want to make an offer.”
Her brows rose.
“I’ll give you a million. Right now. For the whole estate. No paperwork yet. Just a handshake.”
Aisling blinked. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“No.”
He blinked. “Just like that? Don’t you want to think about it?”
“You think I’d sell this place to a Gallagher? After all this drama? After you threatened my goat? Wanted to make stew out of my precious Céilí?
He grinned, cocky and maddening. “Worth a try.”
“Get off my porch, Gallagher.”
Two men approached, one older, with silver hair and laugh lines, the other probably his son.
“Ronan,” the older man greeted. “Didn’t expect to see you this early.”
“Fergal,” Ronan nodded. “Watch out for the goat.”
“I’ll keep my guard up,” Fergal said with a wink.
Aisling stepped forward, extending her hand. “I’m Aisling O’Byrne. Thanks for coming.”
“A pleasure, Miss O’Byrne. Your grandmother was a fine woman. Restoring her house will be an honor.”
Ronan turned as he descended the steps. “Try not to let her goat trample you.”
“It’s not my goat,” she called after him.
But, of course, he didn’t miss a beat. “Tell that to my begonias.”
She rolled her eyes so hard she almost saw the back of her brain.
Turning back to Fergal and his son, she smiled. “Come in, gentlemen. Let’s get this beast of a house back to glory. After you’ve seen the house, I’d like a written estimate on the remodel.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fergal said.
As they walked through the door, she whispered under her breath, “And if Céilí wants to eat a few more of his roses... I won’t stop her. After all, she’s a growing goat.”