“You’re welcome for as long as you like. Is it the dance you’re painting?”

“Yes. And yes, you can take a look.” She changed brushes, clamping one between her teeth as he swung over the wall.

She was catching the mystery of it, Murphy decided as he studied the canvas that was set on an easel. The entire circle was sketched in, with a skill he admired and envied. Though both back and foregrounds were blank still, she’d begun to add color and texture to the stones.

“It’s grand, Shannon.”

Though it pleased her, she shook her head. “It has a long way to go before it’s close to being grand. And I’ve nearly lost the right light today.” Though she knew, somehow, she could paint the standing stones in any light, from any angle. “I thought I saw you earlier, on your tractor.”

“Likely.” He liked the way she smelled when she worked—paint and perfume. “Have you been at it long?”

“Not long enough.” Frowning, she swirled her brush in paint she’d smeared on her palette. “I should have set up at dawn to get the right shadows.”

“There’ll be another dawn tomorrow.” He sat on the wall, tapping a finger against her sketchbook. “That shirt you’re wearing, what does CM stand for?”

She set down her brush, took a step back to examine the canvas, and smeared more paint from her fingers to the sweatshirt. “Carnegie Mellon. It’s the college I went to.”

“You studied painting there.”

“Umm.” The stones weren’t coming to life yet, she thought. She wanted them alive. “I concentrated on commercial art.”

“Is that doing pictures for advertisements?”

“More or less.”

He considered, picking up her sketchbook and leafing through. “Why would you want to draw up pictures of shoes or bottles of beer when you can do this?”

She picked up a rag, dampened it from her jar of turpentine. “I like making a living, and I make a good one.” For some reason she found it imperative to remove a smudge of gray paint from the side of her hand. “I just copped a major account before I took my leave of absence. I’m likely to get a promotion.”

“That’s fine, isn’t it?” He flipped another page, smiled over a sketch of Brianna working in her garden. “What sort of account is it?”

“Bottled water.” She muttered it, because it seemed so foolish a thing out here in the wide fields and fragrant air.

“Water?” He did exactly what she’d expected. He grinned at her. “The fizzy kind? Why do you suppose people want to drink water that bubbles or comes in bottles?”

“Because it’s pure. Not everyone has a well in their backyard, or a spring, or whatever the hell it is. Designer water’s an enormous industry, and with pollution and urban development it’s only going to get bigger.”

He continued to smile. “I didn’t ask to rile you. I was just wondering.” He turned the sketchbook toward her. “I like this one.”