“I thought you kept the cows out in the field.”

Delighted, he grinned up at her. “You don’t go milking them in the fields, darling, but in the milking parlor. That’s done for the night.” He led her out the back where he stepped easily into his own Wellies. “I kept you waiting as one of the cows took sick.”

“Oh, is it serious?”

“No, I’m thinking it’s not. Just needed some medicating.”

“Do you do that yourself? Don’t you have a vet?”

“Not for everyday matters.”

She looked around and found herself smiling again. Another painting, she thought. Stone buildings neatly set among paddocks. Woolly sheep crowded together near a trough. Some huge and wickedly toothed machine under a lean-to, and the bleat and squawk of animals not ready to call it a day.

There was Con, sitting patiently beside the near paddock, thumping his tail.

“Brie sent him, I’d wager, to see I behaved myself with you.”

“I don’t know. He seems as much your dog as hers.” She looked over at him as Murphy bent to greet the dog. “I’d have thought a farmer would have at least one or two hounds of his own.”

“I had one, died seven years ago this winter coming.” With the ease of mutual love, Murphy stroked Con’s ears. “I think of getting another from time to time, but never seem to get around to it.”

“You’ve got everything else. I didn’t realize you raised sheep.”

“Just a few. My father, now, he was one for sheep.” He straightened, then took her hand as he walked. “I’m more a dairy man myself.”

“Brianna says you prefer horses.”

“The horses are a pleasure. In another year or two they may pay their way. Today I sold a yearling, a beautiful colt. The entertainment of horse trading nearly balances out the losing of him.”

She glanced up as Murphy opened the barn door. “I didn’t think farmers were supposed to get attached.”

“A horse isn’t a sheep that you butcher for Sunday dinner.”

The image of that made her just queasy enough to let the subject stand. “You milk in here?”

“Aye.” He led the way through a scrubbed milk parlor with glistening stainless machines and the faint scent of cow and milk drifting through the air. “ ’Tisn’t as romantic as doing it by hand—and I did that as a boy—but it’s faster, cleaner, and more efficient.”

“Every day,” Shannon murmured.

“Twice daily.”

“It’s a lot of work for one man.”

“The lad at the farm next helps with that. We have an arrangement.”

As he showed her through the parlor, the barn, outside again to the silo and the other sheds, she didn’t think one boy would make much difference in the expanse of labor.

But it was easy to forget all the sweat, the muscle that had to go into every hour of the day when he took her into the stables to show his horses.

“Oh, they’re even more beautiful close up.” Too enchanted to be wary, she lifted her hand and stroked the cheek of the chestnut filly.