“We’d very much like,” Rogan went on, knowing precisely how and when to press his advantage, “to feature your work in the Clare gallery.”

“I’m not Irish.” Because her voice wasn’t strong, Shannon frowned and tried again. “Maggie said that you feature only Irish artists there, and I’m not Irish.” That statement was met with respectful silence. “I’m American,” she insisted, a little desperately.

His wife had told him Shannon would react in precisely this way. Rogan was, as he preferred to be, two steps ahead of his quarry. “If you agree, we could feature you as our American guest artist, of Irish extraction. I have no problem buying your work outright, on a piece by piece basis, but I believe it would be to our mutual benefit to have a more formal agreement, with precise terms.”

“That’s how he got Maggie,” Murphy told Shannon, enjoying himself. “But I wish you wouldn’t sell him that painting, Shannon, until I’ve seen it for myself. Might be I could outbid him.”

“I don’t think I want to sell it. I don’t know. I’ve never had to think about this.” Confused, she pushed at her hair. “Rogan, I’m a commercial artist.”

“You’re an artist,” he corrected. “And you’re foolish to put limitations on yourself. If you prefer to think about the standing stones—”

“It’s The Dance,” she murmured. “I titled it just The Dance.”

It was then, by the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes, that Rogan knew he had her. But he wasn’t one to gloat. “If you’d prefer to think about that particular work,” he continued in the same mild, reasonable tone, “I wonder if you’d let me take it on loan and display it in the gallery.”

“I . . . Well—” It seemed not only stupid, but ungracious to object. “Sure. If you’d like to, I don’t have a problem with that.”

“I’m grateful.” He rose, half his mission complete. “I need to get Liam home for his nap. Maggie and I are switching shifts about this time today. She’s been working this morning, and now I’m going into the gallery. Shall I go by and pick up the painting on my way?”

“I suppose. Yes, all right. It isn’t framed.”

“We’ll take care of that. I’m going to be drafting up a contract for you to look over.”

Confused, she stared at him. “A contract? But—”

“You’ll take all the time you need to read it through, think it over, and naturally, we’ll negotiate any changes you might want. Thanks for the tea, Murphy. I’m looking forward to the ceili.”

Murphy only grinned at him, then turned the grin on Shannon when Rogan went out to collect his son. “He’s slippery, isn’t he?”

She was staring straight ahead, fumbling through the conversation that had just taken place. “What did I agree to?”

“Depending on how you look at it, nothing. Or everything. He’s cagey, our Rogan. I was waiting for it, watching, and still I never saw him outflank you until it was done.”

“I don’t know how to feel about this,” Shannon muttered.

“Seems to me if I was an artist, and a man who has a reputation around the world for being an expert on it, and for having an affection and understanding of the best of it, found my work of value, I’d be proud.”

“But I’m not a painter.”

Patient, Murphy folded his arms on the table. “Why is it, Shannon, you make such a habit of saying what you’re not. You’re not Irish, you’re not sister to Maggie and Brie, you’re not a painter. You’re not in love with me.”

“Because it’s easier to know what you’re not than what you are.”

He smiled at that. “Now, that’s a sensible thing you’ve said. Do you always want it easier?”

“I never used to think so. I was always smug about the fact that I went after the challenges.” Confused and a little frightened, she closed her eyes. “Too much is changing on me. I can’t get solid footing. Every time I seem to, it all shifts again.”

“And it’s hard to move with it when you’re used to standing firm.” He rose, then pulled her into his arms. “No, don’t worry.” His voice was quiet when she stiffened. “I’m not going to do anything but hold you. Just rest your head a minute, darling. Let some of the care out of it.”

“My mother would have been thrilled.”

“You can’t feel her feelings.” Gently he stroked her hair, hoping she’d take the caress as it was meant. In friendship. “Do you know, my mother once hoped I’d go off to town and make my living in music.”

“Really?” She found her head nestled perfectly in the curve of his shoulder. “I would have thought your whole family would have expected—wanted—you to farm.”

“It was a hope she had, when I showed an interest in instruments and such. She wanted her children to go beyond what she’d known, and she loved me more, you see, than the farm.”

“And she was disappointed?”

“Maybe some, until she saw this was what I wanted.” He smiled into her hair. “Maybe some even after. Tell me, Shannon, are you happy in your work?”

“Of course. I’m good at it, and I’ve got a chance to move up. In a few years I’ll have the choice between top level at Ry-Tilghmanton, or starting a business of my own.”

“Mmm. Sounds more like ambition than happiness.”

“Why do they have to be different?”

“I wonder.” He drew her away because he was tempted to kiss her again, and it wasn’t what she needed just then. “Maybe you should ask yourself, and think it through, if drawing for somebody else puts the same feeling inside you that drawing what pulls you does.”

He did kiss her, but lightly, on the brow. “Meanwhile, you should be smiling instead of worrying. Rogan takes only the best for his galleries. You haven’t been out to Ennistymon yet, have you?”

“No.” She was sorry he’d let her go. “Is that where the gallery is?”

“Near. I’ll take you if you like. I can’t today,” he said with a wince at the wall clock. “I’ve got a bit to do around here yet, and I’ve promised to go by Feeney’s and lend him a hand with the tractor.”