“I do.” Rogan nodded sagely. “I can say I do know precisely.”

“And it doesn’t bother them much. They’re . . .” Gray gestured grandly. “Nesting. So I’m making it up, and I’m not getting drunk.”

“Too late,” Murphy muttered and scowled into his glass.

“You think we don’t know what’s wrong with you?” In fellowship Gray punched Murphy on the shoulder. “You’re horny.”

With a snorting laugh, Murphy tossed back another shot. “It should be so easy.”

“Yeah.” On a windy sigh Gray went back to his cigar. “When they’ve got you, they’ve got you. Ain’t that the truth, Sweeney?”

“Sterling truth. She’s painting up a storm, you know.”

Murphy eyed him owlishly. “My misery, your profit?”

Rogan only grinned. “We’ll have her first show in the fall. She doesn’t know it, but we’ll work around that. Do you know she went head to head with Maeve Concannon?”

“What d’ya mean?” Preferring his cigarettes to Rogan’s cigars, Murphy lighted one. “They have a brawl?”

“No, indeed. Shannon just marched up to the woman and said her piece. When she was done, Maeve said she was a sensible woman, then went along into the inn to see the baby and young Liam.”

“Is that a fact?” Drenched in admiration and love, Murphy took another drink. “Jesus, she’s something, isn’t she? Shannon Bodine, hard of head and soft of heart. Maybe I’ll go tell her myself right now.” He pushed himself up, his constitution strong enough to keep him from swaying. “Maybe I’ll just go on up there, fetch her, and bring her back where she belongs.”

“Can I watch?” Gray wanted to know.

“No.” Heaving a sigh, Murphy dropped back into the chair. “No, I promised her I wouldn’t. I hate that.” He picked up the bottle, filled his glass again until the whiskey danced to the rim. “I’m going to hate my head in the morning, that’s the truth of it. But it’s worth it.” He drank deep. “To share my sorrow with two of the finest friends God gave a man.”

“Damn right. Drink to it, Rogan.”

“I’m thinking I might be wise to make up that time you were speaking of before now—as I’ll be losing it in seven months.”

Gray leaned conspiratorially toward Murphy. “This guy is so sharp, it’s scary.”

“I’d appreciate it if the two of you would stop blabbering on about bedding women. I’m suffering here.”

“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.”