She didn’t see the harm in extending her stay another week, or two. A busman’s holiday, she liked to think of it, where she could explore a side of her art that had been largely ignored throughout her career.

Her financial freedom was an excellent justification for lengthening her time in Ireland. If her record at Ry-Tilghmanton wasn’t strong enough to hold for her sabbatical, then she’d simply find another—better—position when she returned to New York.

Now she walked down the road with Murphy’s jacket over her arm. She’d meant to get it back to him before, but as she’d been working closer to the inn the last couple of days, there hadn’t been the opportunity.

And it had seemed too cowardly to pass such a petty chore onto Brianna or Gray.

In any case, she was heading for the front of the house and imagined he would be out in the fields, or in the barn. Leaving it on his porch with a quick note of thanks pinned to it seemed an easy way out.

But, of course, he wasn’t in the fields or in the barn. She supposed she should have known he wouldn’t be with the way her luck ran when applied to him.

As she bypassed his garden gate for the driveway, she could see his scarred, worn-down boots poking out from under the pitiful little car.

“Fuck me!”

Her eyes widened, then danced with humor at the steady and imaginative stream of curses that flew from beneath the car.

“Bloody buggerin’ hell. Stuck like the cock of a cur in a bitch.” There was the ping of metal striking metal, the crash of a tool falling. “Biggest pile of shit outside of the pigsty.”

With that, Murphy shoved himself from under the car. His face, smeared with grease, fired with frustration, underwent several rapid transformations when he spotted Shannon.

Consternation turned to embarrassment, and that to a delightfully sheepish grin.

“Didn’t know you were there.” He wiped the back of his hand over his chin, smearing grease and a trace of blood. “I’d have taken a bit more care with my language.”

“I’ve been known to use a few of the same words,” she said easily. “Though not with that nice, rolling lilt. Having problems?”

“Could be worse.” He sat where he was a moment, then unfolded himself and rose in what was nearly balletic grace. “I’ve promised my nephew Patrick I’d get it on the road for him, but it’s going to take a bit longer than I thought.”

She studied the car again. “If you can get that running, you’re working miracles.”

“It’s just the transmission. I can fix that.” He gave the car one final scowl. “It’s not my job to make it pretty. Thank Jesus.”

“I won’t keep you. I just—you’re bleeding.” She closed the distance between them in a leap, snagging his hand and fretting over the shallow slice in his thumb that was seeping blood.

“Tore it some on the bleeding—on one of the bolts.”