"It's inconsiderate of us," Rogan agreed. "There's no need to talk of women at all. Did I hear your bay mare's breeding?"
"Hey." Gray held up a hand. "Mare, woman. Female."
"Damned if you aren't right." Agreeably, Rogan cast around for another topic. "We got a fine sculpture in today, from an artist in County Mayo. He used Conemarra marble, and it's lovely work. A nude."
"Shit, Rogan, there you go again." Grayson's exasperated disgust sent Murphy off into gales of laughter.
Being generous friends, they poured Murphy into bed when the bottle was finished, then parted, satisfied that they'd accomplished their mission.
Staying away from her was difficult. Even with the demands of the farm, Murphy found it hard to go day after day, and night after night, knowing she was just across the fields. And so far out of his reach. It helped to think he was doing it for her.
Nothing soothed the soul like martyrdom.
Well-meaning friends didn't help. A week after he'd watched her walk away, he came into Brianna's rear yard and saw Shannon standing at her easel. She was wearing her college sweatshirt, splattered and smeared with paint and a pair of baggy jeans that were torn at the knee.
He thought she looked like an angel.
With her eyes narrowed, and the tip of her brush tapping against her lips, she studied her work. He knew the moment she sensed him from the change in her eyes, her careful movement of lowering her brush before she turned her head.
He didn't speak. He knew his tongue would tangle. After an awkward moment, he walked closer and stared hard at her painting.
It was the inn, the rear view with its pretty stonework and open windows. Brianna's gardens were flows of color and shape. The kitchen door was open wide in welcome.
Shannon wished she hadn't set her brush aside, and picked up a rag more to keep her hands occupied than to worry off paint.
"So, what do you think?"
"It's nice." He couldn't think of the words. "It looks finished."
"It is. Just."
"Well." He shifted the cartons of eggs he carried. "It's nice."
She turned, fiddling with the tubes and brushes on the little stand Gray had rigged for her. "I guess you've been busy."
"I have, yes." She glanced up, into his face, and his brain seemed to disconnect. "Busy." Furious with himself, he scowled down at his cartons. "Eggs," he muttered. "Brianna called for eggs. Said she needed them."
"Oh." In turn, Shannon stared at the cartons. "I see."
From her perch at the inside corner of the kitchen window, Brianna rolled her eyes. "Look at them, the two of them. Acting like ninnies."
Because they seemed so pathetic, she changed her master plan of leaving them alone and hurried to the door.
"Ah, there you are, Murphy, and you've brought the eggs. Bless you. Come in and have a taste of this strudel I've made."
"I need to-" But she had already hurried back into the kitchen, leaving him staring disconcertedly at the door. Shifting the cartons again, he looked at Shannon. "I've, ah..." Damn his slow wits, he thought. "Why don't you take them in, and I'll be on my way."
"Murphy." This had to stop, Shannon told herself, and tested her ground by laying a hand on his arm. He stiffened, and she couldn't blame him. "You haven't come around in a week, and I know that you're used to dropping in to see Brianna and Gray often, and easily." He looked down at her hand, then back at her face. "I thought it best to stay away."
"I'm sorry for that. I don't want you to feel that way. I thought we were friends still."
His eyes stayed on hers. "You haven't come into the fields anymore."
"No, I haven't. I thought it best to stay away, and I'm sorry for that, too." She wanted to tell him she'd missed him, and was afraid to. "Are you angry with me?"
"With myself more." He steadied himself. Her eyes, he thought, and the quiet plea in them, would undo any man. "Do you want some strudel?" Her smile spread slowly. "Yeah. I do." When they went inside, Brianna stopped holding her breath. "Thank you for the eggs, Murphy." Bustling now, she took the cartons from him and went to the refrigerator. "I need them for a dish I'll be making for the ceili. Did you see Shannon's painting? It's grand, isn't it?"
"It is." He took off his cap, hung it on a peg. "This strudel's from a recipe a German woman gave me last week when she was here. You remember her, Shannon, Mrs. Metz? The one with the big voice."
"The Stormtrooper," Shannon said with a smile. "She lined up her three children in the morning for inspection -her husband, too."
"And neat as a pin they were, every one of them. You'll tell me if the strudel's as good as she claimed."
Brianna was dishing it up when the phone rang. Shannon reached for the receiver on the wall phone. "I'll get it. Blackthorn Cottage." She hesitated a moment, brows lifting in surprise. "Tod? Yes, it's me." She laughed. "I do not sound Irish."
Unable to keep his lip from curling, Murphy sat down at the table. "Tod," he muttered when Brianna set the strudel in front of him. "Sounds more like an insect than a name."
"Hush," Brianna ordered and patted his arm.
"It's beautiful," Shannon continued. "Very much like Local Hero. Remember? Burt Lancaster." She chuckled again. "Right. Well, I'm doing a lot of walking, and eating. And I'm painting."
"That bored, huh?" His voice was amused, and faintly sympathetic.
"No." Her brow creased. "Not at all."
"Doesn't sound like your kind of deal. Anyway, when are you coming back?"
She caught the curling phone cord in her fingers and began to twist. "I'm not sure. A couple of weeks, probably."
"Christ, Shan, you've been there a month already."
Her fingers worried the cord, twisting it tighter. Odd, it hadn't seemed like a month. "I had three weeks coming." She heard the defensiveness in the tone, and hated it. "The rest is on me. How are things going there?"