Saturday, April 1st #2
“And that beautiful home right in front of us is Perry and Saoirse’s house,” Thomas says as we climb a small incline and pass a large barn on our left.
He drives about fifty yards more, then comes to a stop.
I spot Saoirse already waiting on the stoop of the wraparound porch; the smile on my lips is instantaneous.
She bounds down the steps like a teenager. I’m still struck by how young she looks. Mid-fifties isn’t old, sure, but “grandmother” feels like the wrong word for the vibrant woman pulling me into a tight hug.
“Oh, Cat, it’s so, so good to see you!” She holds me at arm’s length to examine my face. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but every time I see you, you’re even more stunning.”
My face heats up again. Great. Living furnace mode activated.
Saoirse turns to my parents. “Your daughter is such a beautiful young woman. Inside and out.”
My dad nods. “We’d have to agree.”
She waves us toward the house for a tour. Inside, it’s even more incredible. The rustic interior should feel heavy, all wood and stone, but thanks to floor-to-ceiling windows and an open floor plan, the space feels bright, spacious. Free, not confined.
I glance left, where a wide-open kitchen flows into a long dining room anchored by a table big enough to seat a small army. I can practically see the extended Soult family occupying each chair, the air filled with noise and clatter and the smell of hearty Irish food in the air.
A door stands open to my right. Boots are neatly lined against the wall, and jackets and hats hang from hooks above a sturdy bench. Mudroom, clearly. But somehow even that feels warm and lived-in.
Straight ahead, the living area unfolds like something out of one of my mom’s home design magazines.
A woven Native American-style rug centers the space, topped by a thick wood coffee table blooming with wildflowers nestled in a vase.
Dark leather sofas and chairs ring the table invitingly.
But what pulls me most is the staircase.
It’s wide and inviting, and yet I can’t look at it without remembering.
Ronan talked about this staircase at the trial. One of his earliest memories of abuse involved his mother pushing him down those stairs. Another time, she locked him in the barn outside after beating him. It was the middle of Montana winter.
Surprisingly, the house doesn’t feel haunted. Not like Frank’s. The air here is unadulterated. Steady. The hairs on my arms don’t stand like they do in that awful kitchen back in New York. Maybe the difference is that I know Ronan feels safe here. Maybe that’s enough to shift the energy.
Saoirse leads us on a practiced tour, her voice warm.
“Guests are always welcome to come and go. The kitchen’s open twenty-four hours.
I mean that. If you find yourself craving brownies at two in the morning like Stevie always does, come on in.
” She winks. “You’ll get a key to your cabin, and to this house too.
Just let yourselves in. You won’t bother us. ”
She rattles off meal times: seven-thirty for breakfast, noon for lunch, six for dinner. “We’re early to rise and early to bed,” she says. “Well, except for the boys. I swear they run on fumes.”
She gestures to a door beside the staircase. “That’s Perry’s and my quarters,” she says, before beckoning us upstairs.
I hesitate at the side table by the stairs, drawn to a cluster of picture frames. My fingers find one instinctively—a simple silver frame holding a photo of baby Ronan.
“His second birthday,” Saoirse says softly behind me, a smile curling on her lips. “Wasn’t he just the cutest little stinker?”
The grin on tiny, chicken-wrangling Ronan is so mischievous it punches the breath right out of me. Blond hair, wide green eyes, arms wrapped around a bird almost as big as he is.
“I still remember this.” Saoirse laughs. “I don’t know how, but he caught that chicken and schlepped it into the house like he’d just found himself a new pet. He was so proud of himself.”
“He still smiles like that when he’s up to no good,” I say.
Saoirse laughs. “Isn’t that the truth. That grin gives him away every time.” Then she nods toward the staircase again. “Come on. Let me show you to your room.”
“Isn’t Cat staying with us?” my mom asks.
“Well, I tried to figure out how to best accommodate everyone,” Saoirse says, folding her hands. “The cabin you’ll be in only has three bedrooms, and I figured a young woman like Cat might enjoy a little privacy. Unless that’s objectionable to you, of course.”
“Oh no, of course not,” my mom chirps, already trudging up the stairs beside my dad.
We follow Saoirse upstairs into a sunlit hallway. Four doors—two on each side—lead to the bedrooms, and at the very end another floor-to-ceiling window glows with golden light from the west.
Saoirse stops at the first door on the left and lowers her voice. “That’s Stevie’s room. Poor kid got in on a red-eye this morning. Looked like he hadn’t slept a wink on the plane. I haven’t seen him since he vanished in there.” She glances at her watch. “He’ll be up soon, I imagine.”
The next door opens to a sleek, spacious bathroom with a glass shower, a big soaking tub, and double sinks, all sparkling clean. “Shared bath,” she says with a smile. “But plenty of space.”
Finally, she opens the last door on the left.
“Here’s your room.”
It’s beautifully simple: a queen bed with a soft white comforter, a dark wood dresser, and a matching desk beneath a wide window that frames a stretch of pasture.
“Thomas will bring your bag up in a minute,” Saoirse says. “Jen, Bobby, let’s get you to your cabin. Give Cat a minute to freshen up.”
My parents offer their thanks and file out, but Saoirse lingers at the door.
She turns to me, a twinkle in her eyes, then says in a hushed tone, “Ran’s room is right across the hallway.
He warned me not to meddle, but I can’t help myself.
I think you two need a proper talk. And knowing Ran, he’s the kind who needs to be trapped into it. ”
She pats my cheek and disappears down the hall.
***
Fascinating what an extended, warm shower can do for the body and soul. I’m refreshed when I emerge from the bathroom, dressed in a t-shirt and freshly washed jeans. The house is quiet as I pad down the hallway, hair still damp, bare feet muffled against the floorboards.
The door to Ronan’s room is wide open. I stop at the threshold, not daring to cross it, just…
taking it in. His scent is in the air—clean, masculine, a little wild.
My heart stutters. There’s a white t-shirt tossed carelessly on the bed, and something in me wants to pick it up, press it to my face, maybe even slip it on like it could somehow bring him closer.
If this isn’t stalker behavior, I don’t know what is.
“Cat!” Steve shouts from behind me, scaring me half to death.
I jump and whirl around.
He strides toward me, then throws his arms around me and lifts me off the ground in a back-cracking hug. “Is it weird that I missed you? It’s kind of weird, right?” he chuckles.
“Not weird,” I say, hugging him back. “I missed you, too. How have you been?”
“Really, really great,” he says enthusiastically. I beam at him, at how happy he seems to be. “What are you up to right now?”
I stammer awkwardly. “Uhh, I’m not totally sure.”
“Has anyone given you the tour of this place yet?”
“Thomas pointed out some stuff when he drove us up.”
Steve shakes his head. “Nope, that won’t do. Come on, I’ll give you the real tour.”
We’re out of the house and in a dark-blue truck five minutes later, the tires kicking up dust with Steve’s quick acceleration down the uneven dirt road.
We ramble along for a while, along dirt paths and off-road, with Steve pointing out random spots, each accompanied by a story. He gestures at the remains of an old wood shed, barely standing, roof caved in.
“Ran and I used to jump off those support beams. I sprained my ankle so bad once I thought it was broken.”
A bend later, he points toward a break in the trees. “The creek’s great for fishing. And really nice to cool off in during the summer, but you have to be careful because the rapids can get crazy with the winter runoff.”
We pass a narrow stretch of trail, and Steve laughs, shaking his head.
“I got bucked off my horse around here once. Inkspot took off like his tail was on fire and ran all the way back to the barn. I had to limp a mile on foot because Ran, that asshole, refused to let me ride double with him on Reaper.”
“Inkspot?”
“My horse. Black-and-white paint. He looked like someone splattered ink all over his coat. He was old. Usually bombproof unless he randomly decided to flip the hell out and—”
Steve abruptly slows the truck to a crawl. I glance past him, out the driver’s side window. A girl rides toward us on a brown horse, another following behind on a lead rope.
Sunlight filters through the clouds, lighting the copper-gold strands in her braid as it falls over her shoulder.
A felt cowboy hat shields her eyes, though I can see the smile playing on her lips as she approaches.
She’s wearing a blue-and-black flannel shirt, light-wash boot-cut jeans, and scuffed brown boots. Effortless. Totally at ease.
Steve stops the truck and rolls down the window, throwing me a quick look. It’s almost sheepish. “So… you’re about to meet Randi.”
My stomach drops. Oh god. She’s even prettier than I imagined.
She’s petite, but there’s a quiet confidence in the way she rides—the fluidity of her posture, her sure grip on the reins. I scan her face: big, ocean-blue eyes fringed with lashes, a delicate nose, pouty lips.