“No.” The laughter burst out as he swept her off her feet and spun her around the kitchen. “By Christ, Margaret Mary, I love you. Pour the whiskey, Gray. We’ve something to celebrate.”

“I’m pouring it.” But he stopped long enough to give Maggie a kiss.

“She did that for you,” Murphy murmured as Shannon stood beside him, watching the lightning shift of mood.

“What?”

“She told him here, told all of us here.” He measured out tea as he spoke. “That was for her sisters, to ease the heaviness around their hearts.”

“For Brianna,” Shannon began, but Murphy cut her off with a look.

“Don’t close yourself off from a gift when it’s offered, darling. Her telling made you smile, just as she wanted it to.”

Shannon stuffed her hands in her pockets. “You have a way of making me feel very small.”

He tipped her chin up with a gentle finger. “Maybe I have a way of helping you look one level deeper.”

“I think I enjoyed being shallow.” But she turned away from him and walked to Maggie. “Congratulations.” She took the glass Gray offered and stood awkwardly. “I don’t know any Irish toasts.”

“Try Slainté o Dhia duit,” Maggie suggested.

Shannon opened her mouth, closed it on a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“Just slainté’s enough,” Murphy said as he brought the teapot to the table. “She’s just tormenting you.”

“Slainté then.” Shannon lifted her glass, then remembered something from her childhood. “Oh, and may you have a dozen children, Maggie, just like you.”

“A toast and a curse.” Gray snickered. “Well done, pal.”

“Aye.” Maggie’s lips curved. “She’s done well enough.”

Chapter
Nine

The hours Murphy spent with his horses was his purest pleasure. Working the land was something he had always done, always would do. There was joy in it, and frustration, and disappointment and pride. He enjoyed the soil in his hands, under his feet, and the scent of growing things. Weather was equal parts his friend and his enemy. He knew the moods of the sky often better than he knew his own.

His life had been spent plowing the earth, planting it, reaping it. It was something he had always known, yet it was not all he knew.

The fine spring that the west was enjoying meant his work was hard and long, but without the bitter sorrow of root crops that rotted in soaked earth, or grains that suffered from the bite of frost or the plague of pests.

He planted wisely, combining the ways of his father and grandfather with the newer, and often experimental means he read of in books. Whether he rode his tractor toward the brown field with its rows of dark green potato plants, or walked into the shadowy dairy barn at dawn to start the milking, he knew his work was valuable.

But his horses were for him.

He clucked to a yearling, watching as the wide-chested bay gave a lazy swish of tail. They knew each other these two, and the game of long standing. Murphy waited patiently, enjoying the routine. A glossy mare stood farther out in the field, cropping grass patiently while her colt nursed. Others, including the mare who was mother to the yearling, and Murphy’s prize, the chestnut filly, perked up their ears and watched the man.