“Of course I can cook. I may not be the artist in the kitchen Brie is, but I’m more than adequate. What’s this?” She poked into the bucket he’d set down when he’d come in. “There must be three dozen eggs in here. What do you do with so many?”

“I use what I need, trade away or sell the rest.”

She wrinkled her nose. “They’re filthy. How did they get so dirty?”

He stared at her a moment, then roared with laughter. “Oh, you’re a darling woman, Shannon Bodine.”

“I can see that was a stupid question. Well, clean them up. I’m not touching them.”

He hauled the bucket to the sink, began to oblige when it suddenly dawned on her just where eggs came from. “Oh.” She winced and flipped bacon. “It’s enough to put you off omelettes. How do you know if they’re just eggs and not going to be little chickies?”

He slid her a look, wanting to make sure she wasn’t joking this time. Poking his tongue in his cheek, he washed off another shell. “If they don’t peep, you’re safe.”

“Very funny.” She decided she was better off in ignorance. She really preferred thinking of eggs as something you took out of nice cartons stacked in the market. “How do you want them cooked?”

“However you like. I’m not fussy. You made tea!” He wanted to kneel at her feet.

“I couldn’t find any coffee.”

“I’ll get some next I’m in the village. It smells grand, Shannon.”

The table was already set, he noted, for two. He poured them both tea, wishing he’d thought to pick her some of the wildflowers that grew alongside the barn. He sat when she carried a platter to the table.

“Thank you.”

There was a humbleness in his voice that made her feel twin edges of guilt and pleasure. “You’re welcome. I never eat sausage,” she commented as she took her seat. “But this looks so good.”

“It should. Mrs. Feeney made it fresh only a few days ago.”

“Made it?”

“Aye.” He offered her the platter first. “They butchered the hog they’d been fattening.” His brow drew together in concern when she paled. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” With hurried movement, she waved the platter away. “There are just certain things I don’t care to visualize.”

“Ah.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“I should be getting used to it. The other day I walked in on a discussion Brie was having with some guy about the spring lambs.” She shuddered, knowing now just what happened to cute little lambs in the spring.

“It seems harsh to you, I know. But it’s just the cycle of things. It was one of Tom’s problems.”

Deciding the toast she’d made was safe, Shannon glanced over. “Oh?”

“He couldn’t stand to raise something for the table—for his own or someone else’s. When he had chickens, he gathered the eggs well enough, but his hens died of old age more often than not. He was a tender-hearted man.”