“She never stopped loving him.” Again she folded the letter. “Even loving my father as much as she did, she never stopped. He was on her mind when she died, just as she was in his. They both lost what some people never find.”

“We can’t say what might have been.” Tenderly Brianna tied the ribbon around the letters again. “Or change what was lost or was found. But don’t you think, Shannon, we’ve done our best for them? Being here. Making a family out of their families. Sisters out of their daughters.”

“I’d like to think that she knows I’m not angry. And that I’m coming to understand.” There was peace in that, Shannon realized. In understanding. “If he’d been alive when I came here, I would have tried to care for him.”

“Be sure of it.” Maggie gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“I am,” Shannon realized. “Right now it’s about the only thing I’m sure of.”

Fresh weariness dragged at her when she stood. Brianna stood with her and held out the letters. “These are yours. She’d want you to have them.”

“Thank you.” The paper felt so thin against her hand, so fragile. And so precious. “I’ll keep them, but they’re ours. I need to think.”

“Take your brandy.” Brianna picked up the glass and held it out. “And a hot bath. They’ll ease mind, body, and spirit.”

It was good advice, and she intended to take it. But when she walked into her room, Shannon set the snifter aside. The painting drew her now, so she turned on the lamps before crossing to it.

She studied the man on the white horse, the woman. The glint of copper and a sword. There was the swirl of a cape, the sweep of chestnut hair lifted by the wind.

But there was more, much more. Enough to have her sit carefully on the edge of the bed while her gaze stayed riveted on the canvas. She knew it had come out of her, every brushstroke. Yet it seemed impossible that she could have done such work.

She’d made a vision reality. She’d been meant to do so all along.

On a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes and waited until she was sure, until she could see inside herself as clearly as she had seen the people she’d brought to life with paint and brush.

It was all so easy, she realized. Not complicated at all. It was logic that had complicated it. Now, even with logic, it was simple.

She had calls to make, she thought, then picked up the phone to finish what she’d started when she’d first stepped onto Ireland.

She waited until morning to go to Murphy. The warrior had left the wise woman in the morning, so it was right the circle close at the same time of day.

It never crossed her mind that he wouldn’t be where she looked for him. And he was standing in the stone circle, the broach in his hand and the mist shimmering like the breath of ghosts above the grass.

His head came up when he heard her. She saw the surprise, the longing, before he pulled the shutter down—a talent she hadn’t known he possessed.

“I thought you might come here.” His voice wasn’t cool; that he couldn’t manage. “I was going to leave this for you. But since you’re here now, I’ll give it to you, then ask if you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

She took the broach, was no longer stunned or anxious when it seemed to vibrate in her palm. “I brought you something.” She held out the canvas, wrapped in heavy paper, but he made no move to take it. “You asked if I’d paint something for you. Something that reminded me of you, and I have.”

“As a going-away gift?” He took the canvas, but strode two paces away to tilt it, unopened, against a stone. “It won’t do, Shannon.”

“You might look at it.”

“They’ll be time for that when I’ve said what’s on my mind.”

“You’re angry, Murphy. I’d like to—”

“Damn right I’m angry. At both of us. Bloody fools. Just be quiet,” he ordered, “and let me say this in my own way. You were right about some things, and I was wrong about some. But I wasn’t wrong that we love each other, and are meant. I’ve thought on it most of the past two nights, and I see I’ve asked you for more than I’ve a right to. There’s another way that I didn’t consider, that I turned a blind eye to because it was easier than looking straight at it.”

“I’m been thinking, too.” She reached out, but he stepped back sharply.

“Will you wait a damn minute and let me finish? I’m going with you.”

“What?”

“I’m going with you to New York. If you need more time for courting—or whatever the bloody hell you chose to call it, I’ll give it. But you’ll marry me in the end, and make no mistake. I won’t compromise that.”

“Compromise?” Staggered, she dragged a hand through her hair. “This is a compromise?”

“You can’t stay, so I’ll go.”

“But the farm—”

“The devil take the f**king farm. Do you think it means more to me than you? I’m good with my hands. I can get work wherever.”

“It’s not a matter of a job.”

“It’s important to me that I not live off my wife.” He shot the words at her, daring her to argue. “You can call me sexist and a fool or whatever you choose, but it doesn’t change the matter. I don’t care whether you’ve a mountain of money or none at all, or if you choose to spend it on a big house or fancy cars, miser it away or toss it off on one roll of dice. What’s an issue to me is not that I support you, but that I support myself.”

She closed her mouth for a minute and tried to calm. “I can hardly call you a fool for making a perfectly sane statement, but I can call you one for even thinking about giving up the farm.”

“Selling it. I’m not an idiot. None of my family are interested in farming, so I’ll speak with Mr. McNee, and Feeney and some of the others. It’s good land.” His gaze swept past her and for a moment held pain as it traveled over the hills. “It’s good land,” he repeated. “And they’d value it.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” Her voice rose on fresh passion. “Toss away your heritage, your home. Why don’t you offer to cut out your heart while you’re at it?”

“I can’t live without you,” he said simply. “And I won’t. It’s dirt and stone.”