“More than likely.” He crouched down to slip the first boot over her shoe. “When you’ve got animals, you’ve got dung. You’ll be happier in these.”

“I thought you kept the cows out in the field.”

Delighted, he grinned up at her. “You don’t go milking them in the fields, darling, but in the milking parlor. That’s done for the night.” He led her out the back where he stepped easily into his own Wellies. “I kept you waiting as one of the cows took sick.”

“Oh, is it serious?”

“No, I’m thinking it’s not. Just needed some medicating.”

“Do you do that yourself? Don’t you have a vet?”

“Not for everyday matters.”

She looked around and found herself smiling again. Another painting, she thought. Stone buildings neatly set among paddocks. Woolly sheep crowded together near a trough. Some huge and wickedly toothed machine under a lean-to, and the bleat and squawk of animals not ready to call it a day.

There was Con, sitting patiently beside the near paddock, thumping his tail.

“Brie sent him, I’d wager, to see I behaved myself with you.”

“I don’t know. He seems as much your dog as hers.” She looked over at him as Murphy bent to greet the dog. “I’d have thought a farmer would have at least one or two hounds of his own.”

“I had one, died seven years ago this winter coming.” With the ease of mutual love, Murphy stroked Con’s ears. “I think of getting another from time to time, but never seem to get around to it.”

“You’ve got everything else. I didn’t realize you raised sheep.”

“Just a few. My father, now, he was one for sheep.” He straightened, then took her hand as he walked. “I’m more a dairy man myself.”

“Brianna says you prefer horses.”

“The horses are a pleasure. In another year or two they may pay their way. Today I sold a yearling, a beautiful colt. The entertainment of horse trading nearly balances out the losing of him.”

She glanced up as Murphy opened the barn door. “I didn’t think farmers were supposed to get attached.”

“A horse isn’t a sheep that you butcher for Sunday dinner.”

The image of that made her just queasy enough to let the subject stand. “You milk in here?”

“Aye.” He led the way through a scrubbed milk parlor with glistening stainless machines and the faint scent of cow and milk drifting through the air. “ ’Tisn’t as romantic as doing it by hand—and I did that as a boy—but it’s faster, cleaner, and more efficient.”

“Every day,” Shannon murmured.

“Twice daily.”

“It’s a lot of work for one man.”

“The lad at the farm next helps with that. We have an arrangement.”

As he showed her through the parlor, the barn, outside again to the silo and the other sheds, she didn’t think one boy would make much difference in the expanse of labor.

But it was easy to forget all the sweat, the muscle that had to go into every hour of the day when he took her into the stables to show his horses.

“Oh, they’re even more beautiful close up.” Too enchanted to be wary, she lifted her hand and stroked the cheek of the chestnut filly.

“That’s my Jenny. I’ve had her only two years, and she I’ll never sell. There’s a lass.” It took only the sound of his voice to have the horse shifting her attention to Murphy. If Shannon had believed such things possible, she’d have sworn the filly flirted with him.

And why not? she mused. What female would resist those wide, skilled hands, the way they stroked, caressed? Or that soft voice, murmuring foolish endearments?

“Do you ride, Shannon?”

“Hmm.” The lump that had abruptly lodged in her throat caused her to swallow hard. “No, I never have. In fact, I guess this is as close as I’ve ever been to a horse.”

“But you’re not afraid of them, so it’ll be easier for you to learn if you’ve a mind to.”

He took her through, letting her coo her fill and pet and play with the foals newly born that spring, and watched her laugh at the frisky colt who would have nibbled on her shoulder if Murphy hadn’t blocked the muzzle with his hand.

“It would be a wonderful way to grow up,” she commented as they walked back to the house. “All this room, all the animals.” She laughed as she stopped at the rear door to toe off her boots. “And the work, of course. But you must have loved it, since you stayed.”

“I belong to it. Come in and sit. I’ve some wine you’ll like.”

Companionably she washed her hands at the kitchen sink with him. “Didn’t any of your family want to stay and work the farm?”

“I’m the oldest son, and when me father died, it fell to me. My older sisters married and moved away to start families of their own.” He took a bottle from the refrigerator, a corkscrew from a drawer. “Then my mother remarried, and my younger sister Kate as well. I have a younger brother, but he wanted to go to school and learn about electrical matters.”

Her eyes had widened as he poured the wine. “How many are there of you?”

“Five. There were six, but my mother lost another son when he was still nursing. My father died when I was twelve, and she didn’t marry again until I was past twenty, so there were only five.”

“Only.” She chuckled, shook her head, and would have raised her glass, but he stayed her hand.

“May you have warm words on a cold evening, a full moon on a dark night, and the road downhill all the way to your door.”

“Sliante,” she said and smiled at him as she drank. “I like your farm, Murphy.”

“I’m pleased you do, Shannon.” He surprised her by leaning down and pressing his lips to her brow.

Rain began to patter softly as he straightened again and turned to open the oven door. The scents that streamed out had her mouth watering.

“Why is it I always thought Irish cooking was an oxymoron?”

He hefted out the roaster, set it on the stove top. “Well, it’s the truth that it’s more often a bit bland than not. I never noticed myself as a lad. But when Brie started experimenting, and trying out dishes on me, I began to see that my own dear mother had a certain lack in the kitchen.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Which I would deny unto death if you repeated such slander.”