“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.