If she had a heart attack, all of this would be over. Instead, she turned and entered the house first, forgetting for a moment that the men were behind her. The living room still held her mother’s furniture. Comfortable floral sofa and chairs in front of a fireplace. Tons of pictures of them as a family and some of friends on the mantel and even on the walls. A pang hit Brigid. Things would be so different if her mother had lived.

The place smelled faintly of polish. She walked inside and turned to look over her shoulder. “Everything is so nice and clean.”

A fascinating red colored her father’s weathered face for a moment. “Some ladies from town help out. They clean during harvest season and sometimes bring food.” He shuffled his big boots. “I don’t ask them to.”

Brigid bit back a grin, forgetting briefly about the mission. Of course the biddies in town were interested in her father. Was he interested back? Why hadn’t she come home before now? “It’s nice that they do that, Dad.”

He moved past her into the country-style kitchen, a slight limp in his gait.

She knew better than to ask if he was okay. If he was moving, he was all right, and that’d be the end of it. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been kicked by a bull. The life of a farmer was rarely relaxing, even in the good years.

Her dad took three jelly jars out of a cupboard along with a bottle of Glendalough single malt. “Since we’re celebrating.” He poured three generous doses and handed them out. “Sláinte.”

“Sláinte,” Brigid said, downing hers in one gulp. The whiskey landed in her stomach and splashed out instant warmth and tingles to counteract the nausea in a nicely numbing way. The room smelled faintly of a casserole, and she was taken back to her early years. Her mother had been an incredible cook, and her father much happier when she’d been alive. Why did life have to take such devastating turns?

Raider downed his drink. “Nice farm you have here.”

She jumped at the odd accent. “Things are good, Dad?”

“Yep.” He poured three more shots and leaned against the tall fridge that had stood in the same place for twenty years. “When’s the wedding?”

“We’re thinking a Christmas wedding,” Raider said smoothly. “Pretty pictures with snow and red poinsettias.”

That did sound lovely. Brigid sipped more of her drink, trying to look innocent. Her face heated.

Her dad looked over her warm face. “You pregnant?”

She coughed up the whiskey, sputtering. “God, no. Dad. Geez.” She patted her chest, and the cold metal of the necklace pressed into her palm. “We might wait until next June for a spring wedding. It’s not set in stone.”

“Humph.” Her dad eyed Raider. “What do you do for a livin’?”