She’d never painted that vividly before, or felt such a fierce emotional attachment to any of her work.

And it had driven her to start another even as the paint was drying on the first. The sketch she’d done of Brianna in her garden was now a muted, undeniably romantic watercolor, nearly complete.

There were so many other ideas, varied subjects. How could she resist the luminescent light, the varied shades of green—the old man with the thick ash stick she’d seen herding his cows down a twisting road? All of it, every thing and every face she saw cried out to be painted.

She didn’t see the harm in extending her stay another week, or two. A busman’s holiday, she liked to think of it, where she could explore a side of her art that had been largely ignored throughout her career.

Her financial freedom was an excellent justification for lengthening her time in Ireland. If her record at Ry-Tilghmanton wasn’t strong enough to hold for her sabbatical, then she’d simply find another—better—position when she returned to New York.

Now she walked down the road with Murphy’s jacket over her arm. She’d meant to get it back to him before, but as she’d been working closer to the inn the last couple of days, there hadn’t been the opportunity.

And it had seemed too cowardly to pass such a petty chore onto Brianna or Gray.

In any case, she was heading for the front of the house and imagined he would be out in the fields, or in the barn. Leaving it on his porch with a quick note of thanks pinned to it seemed an easy way out.

But, of course, he wasn’t in the fields or in the barn. She supposed she should have known he wouldn’t be with the way her luck ran when applied to him.

As she bypassed his garden gate for the driveway, she could see his scarred, worn-down boots poking out from under the pitiful little car.

“Fuck me!”

Her eyes widened, then danced with humor at the steady and imaginative stream of curses that flew from beneath the car.

“Bloody buggerin’ hell. Stuck like the c**k of a cur in a bitch.” There was the ping of metal striking metal, the crash of a tool falling. “Biggest pile of shit outside of the pigsty.”

With that, Murphy shoved himself from under the car. His face, smeared with grease, fired with frustration, underwent several rapid transformations when he spotted Shannon.

Consternation turned to embarrassment, and that to a delightfully sheepish grin.

“Didn’t know you were there.” He wiped the back of his hand over his chin, smearing grease and a trace of blood. “I’d have taken a bit more care with my language.”

“I’ve been known to use a few of the same words,” she said easily. “Though not with that nice, rolling lilt. Having problems?”

“Could be worse.” He sat where he was a moment, then unfolded himself and rose in what was nearly balletic grace. “I’ve promised my nephew Patrick I’d get it on the road for him, but it’s going to take a bit longer than I thought.”

She studied the car again. “If you can get that running, you’re working miracles.”

“It’s just the transmission. I can fix that.” He gave the car one final scowl. “It’s not my job to make it pretty. Thank Jesus.”

“I won’t keep you. I just—you’re bleeding.” She closed the distance between them in a leap, snagging his hand and fretting over the shallow slice in his thumb that was seeping blood.

“Tore it some on the bleeding—on one of the bolts.”

“The one that was stuck like—”

“Aye.” His color rose, amusing her. “On that one.”

“You’d better clean it up.” It was her turn to be embarrassed by the way she’d clamped on to his hand. She let it drop.

“I’ll get to it.” Watching her, he took a bandanna out of his back pocket to staunch the flow. “I was wondering when you’d come by. You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No, I’ve been busy. I did mean to get this back to you before.”

He took the jacket she handed him, tossed it onto the hood of the car. “It’s no problem. I have another.” With a half smile on his face he leaned against the car and took out a cigarette. “Sure and looking lovely today, Shannon Bodine. And safe you are as well, since I’m too filthy to bother you. Did you dream of me?”

“Don’t start that, Murphy.”

“You did.” He lighted a match, cupping his hand over the tip of the cigarette. “I had dreams of you from now, and from before. They’d be comforting if you were in the bed beside me.”

“Then you’re going to be uncomfortable, because that’s not going to happen.”

He only tugged on his ear and smiled at her. “I saw you a few days ago, walking across the fields with Maggie. You looked more easy with her.”

“We were just going over to her shop. I wanted to see it.”

His brow shot up. “And she showed you?”

“That’s right. We made a paperweight.”

“We.” Now his mouth fell open. “You touched her tools and your fingers aren’t broken? I see how it was,” he decided. “You overpowered her and tied her up first.”

Feeling a bit smug, Shannon plucked at her sleeve. “It wasn’t necessary to resort to violence.”

“Must be those fairy eyes of yours.” He angled his head. “There’s not as much sorrow in them now. You’re healing.”

“I think about her every day. My mother. I was away from her and Dad so much the last few years.”

“It’s the nature of things, Shannon, for children to grow and move out on their own.”

“I keep thinking I should have called more often, made more time to go out there. Especially after my father died. I knew how short life could be after that, but I still didn’t make the time.”

She turned away to look at the flowers that were blooming riotously in the softness of spring. “I lost them both within a year, and I thought I’d never get over the misery of that. But you do. The hurt dulls, even when you don’t want it to.”

“Neither of them would want you to mourn too long. Those who love us want to be remembered, but with joy.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Why is it so easy to talk to you about this? It shouldn’t be.” Turning to face him, she shook her head. “I was going to dump that jacket off, figuring you’d be off somewhere. And I was going to stay away from you.”