by Nora Roberts
it, you'll have manure in your face."
Instead she snatched at the handle of the shovel and had an angry and brief wrestle for it. "Fine then." She let go and brushed her hands together. "You can go on shoveling at shit all you please, but you'll talk to me."
"I'm in no mood for company."
"And since when have I been company?"
"Damn it, Maggie, go away." He whirled on her, temper hot in his eyes. "I don't want your pity, I don't want your sympathy, and I don't want any bloody advice."
She fisted her hands, plopped them on her hips, and went toe to toe with him. "If you think you can shake me off with nasty words and nastier temper, you're mistaken, lad."
Of course he couldn't, and because it would do him no good with her, Murphy did what he could do to bury the fury. "I'm sorry, Maggie Mae. I shouldn't swipe at you. I need to be alone for a bit."
"Murphy-"
She'd break him if he didn't see her off, and quickly. "It's not that I'm not grateful you'd come by and want to help. I'm not ready for it. I need to lick my wounds on my own. Be a friend, darling, and leave me be."
Deflated, she did the only thing she knew how, and pressed her cheek to his. "Will you come talk to me when you can?"
"Sure I will. Go on now, be off. I've a lot to do today." When she left him, Murphy drove his shovel into the straw and cursed softly, viciously, until he ran out of words.
He worked like a man possessed until the sun set, then rose again when it did to repeat the process. Even his well-toned muscles ached by the time he settled down with a cold sandwich and a bottle of beer.
He was already thinking of bed, though it was barely eight, when the back door swung open. Rogan and Gray came through it, followed happily by Con.
"We're on a mission, Murphy." Gray slapped him on the back, then turned to the cupboards.
"A mission, is it." Automatically he scratched Con's ears when the dog laid his head on his lap. "Of what nature?"
"We're ordered to draw off your black mood." Rogan set a bottle on the counter and broke the seal. "We're neither of us allowed back home until we've accomplished it."
"Brie and Maggie have had their heads together over you for two days," Gray put in.
"There's no need for that, or for this. I was going up to bed."
"You can't, as an Irishman, turn your back on two mates and a bottle of Jamison's." Gray slapped three glasses, one by one, on the table.
"So, we're to get drunk, are we?" Murphy eyed the bottle. He hadn't thought of that one.
"The women haven't been able to turn the tide." Rogan poured three hefty shots. "So they've conceded it's a man's job." He seated himself comfortably at the table, lifted his glass. "Slainte."
Murphy scratched his chin, blew out a breath. "What the fuck." He downed the first glass, winced before slapping it down for a refill. "Did you only bring one bottle?"
Laughing, Gray poured the next round.
When the bottle was half gone, Murphy was feeling more mellow. A temporary fix, he knew, and a fool's one. But he felt very much the fool.
"I gotta tell you." Already a little wobbly, Gray kicked back in his chair and puffed on one of the cigars Rogan had provided. "I can't get drunk."
"Yes, you can." Rogan studied the tip of his own cigar. "I've seen you."
"You couldn't see anything. You were too drunk." Finding that wonderfully funny, Gray leaned forward again and nearly upended. "But what I mean is, I can't get so plowed I can't make love with my wife tonight. Oh, thanks." He picked up the glass Murphy had refilled and gestured with it. "I'm making up for lost time." Deadly serious, he rested his elbow on the table. "Do you know how long you can't when a woman's pregnant?"
"I do." Rogan nodded sagely. "I can say I do know precisely."
"And it doesn't bother them much. They're..." Gray gestured grandly. "Nesting. So I'm making it up, and I'm not getting drunk."
"Too late," Murphy muttered and scowled into his glass.
"You think we don't know what's wrong with you?" In fellowship Gray punched Murphy on the shoulder. "You're horny."
With a snorting laugh, Murphy tossed back another shot. "It should be so easy."
"Yeah." On a windy sigh Gray went back to his cigar. "When they've got you, they've got you. Ain't that the truth, Sweeney?"
"Sterling truth. She's painting up a storm, you know."
Murphy eyed him owlishly. "My misery, your profit?"
Rogan only grinned. "We'll have her first show in the fall. She doesn't know it, but we'll work around that. Do you know she went head to head with Maeve Concannon?"
"What d'ya mean?" Preferring his cigarettes to Rogan's cigars, Murphy lighted one. "They have a brawl?"
"No, indeed. Shannon just marched up to the woman and said her piece. When she was done, Maeve said she was a sensible woman, then went along into the inn to see the baby and young Liam."
"Is that a fact?" Drenched in admiration and love, Murphy took another drink. "Jesus, she's something, isn't she? Shannon Bodine, hard of head and soft of heart. Maybe I'll go tell her myself right now." He pushed himself up, his constitution strong enough to keep him from swaying. "Maybe I'll just go on up there, fetch her, and bring her back where she belongs."
"Can I watch?" Gray wanted to know.
"No." Heaving a sigh, Murphy dropped back into the chair. "No, I promised her I wouldn't. I hate that." He picked up the bottle, filled his glass again until the whiskey danced to the rim. "I'm going to hate my head in the morning, that's the truth of it. But it's worth it." He drank deep. "To share my sorrow with two of the finest friends God gave a man."
"Damn right. Drink to it, Rogan."
"I'm thinking I might be wise to make up that time you were speaking of before now-as I'll be losing it in seven months."
Gray leaned conspiratorially toward Murphy. "This guy is so sharp, it's scary."
"I'd appreciate it if the two of you would stop blabbering on about bedding women. I'm suffering here."
"It's inconsiderate of us," Rogan agreed. "There's no need to talk of women at all. Did I hear your bay mare's breeding?"
"Hey." Gray held up a hand. "Mare, woman. Female."
"Damned if you aren't right." Agreeably, Rogan cast around for another topic. "We got a fine sculpture in today, from an artist in County Mayo. He used Conemarra marble, and it's lovely work. A nude."
"Shit, Rogan, there you go again." Grayson's exasperated disgust sent Murphy off into gales of laughter.
Being generous friends, they poured Murphy into bed when the bottle was finished, then parted, satisfied that they'd accomplished their mission.
Staying away from her was difficult. Even with the demands of the farm, Murphy found it hard to go day after day, and night after night, knowing she was just across the fields. And so far out of his reach. It helped to think he was doing it for her.
Nothing soothed the soul like martyrdom.
Well-meaning friends didn't help. A week after he'd watched her walk away, he came into Brianna's rear yard and saw Shannon standing at her easel. She was wearing her college sweatshirt, splattered and smeared with paint and a pair of baggy jeans that were torn at the knee.
He thought she looked like an angel.
With her eyes narrowed, and the tip of her brush tapping against her lips, she studied her work. He knew the moment she sensed him from the change in her eyes, her careful movement of lowering her brush before she turned her head.
He didn't speak. He knew his tongue would tangle. After an awkward moment, he walked closer and stared hard at her painting.
It was the inn, the rear view with its pretty stonework and open windows. Brianna's gardens were flows of color and shape. The kitchen door was open wide in welcome.
Shannon wished she hadn't set her brush aside, and picked up a rag more to keep her hands occupied than to worry off paint.
"So, what do you think?"
"It's nice." He couldn't think of the words. "It looks finished."
"It is. Just."
"Well." He shifted the cartons of eggs he carried. "It's nice."
She turned, fiddling with the tubes and brushes on the little stand Gray had rigged for her. "I guess you've been busy."
"I have, yes." She glanced up, into his face, and his brain seemed to disconnect. "Busy." Furious with himself, he scowled down at his cartons. "Eggs," he muttered. "Brianna called for eggs. Said she needed them."
"Oh." In turn, Shannon stared at the cartons. "I see."
From her perch at the inside corner of the kitchen window, Brianna rolled her eyes. "Look at them, the two of them. Acting like ninnies."
Because they seemed so pathetic, she changed her master plan of leaving them alone and hurried to the door.
"Ah, there you are, Murphy, and you've brought the eggs. Bless you. Come in and have a taste of this strudel I've made."
"I need to-" But she had already hurried back into the kitchen, leaving him staring disconcertedly at the door. Shifting the cartons again, he looked at Shannon. "I've, ah..." Damn his slow wits, he thought. "Why don't you take them in, and I'll be on my way."
"Murphy." This had to stop, Shannon told herself, and tested her ground by laying a hand on his arm. He stiffened, and she couldn't blame him. "You haven't come around in a week, and I know that you're used to dropping in to see Brianna and Gray often, and easily." He looked down at her hand, then back at her face. "I thought it best to stay away."
"I'm sorry for that. I don't want you to feel that way. I thought we were friends still."
His eyes stayed on hers. "You haven't come into the fields anymore."
"No, I haven't. I thought it best to stay away, and I'm sorry for that, too." She wanted to tell him she'd missed him, and was afraid to. "Are you angry with me?"
"With myself more." He steadied himself. Her eyes, he thought, and the quiet plea in them, would undo any man. "Do you want some strudel?" Her smile spread slowly. "Yeah. I do." When they went inside, Brianna stopped holding her breath. "Thank you for the eggs, Murphy." Bustling now, she took the cartons from him and went to the refrigerator. "I need them for a dish I'll be making for the ceili. Did you see Shannon's painting? It's grand, isn't it?"
"It is." He took off his cap, hung it on a peg. "This strudel's from a recipe a German woman gave me last week when she was here. You remember her, Shannon, Mrs. Metz? The one with the big voice."
"The Stormtrooper," Shannon said with a smile. "She lined up her three children in the morning for inspection -her husband, too."
"And neat as a pin they were, every one of them. You'll tell me if the strudel's as good as she claimed."
Brianna was dishing it up when the phone rang. Shannon reached for the receiver on the wall phone. "I'll get it. Blackthorn Cottage." She hesitated a moment, brows lifting in surprise. "Tod? Yes, it's me." She laughed. "I do not sound Irish."
Unable to keep his lip from curling, Murphy sat down at the table. "Tod," he muttered when Brianna set the strudel in front of him. "Sounds more like an insect than a name."
"Hush," Brianna ordered and patted his arm.
"It's beautiful," Shannon continued. "Very much like Local Hero. Remember? Burt Lancaster." She chuckled again. "Right. Well, I'm doing a lot of walking, and eating. And I'm painting."
"That bored, huh?" His voice was amused, and faintly sympathetic.
"No." Her brow creased. "Not at all."
"Doesn't sound like your kind of deal. Anyway, when are you coming back?"
She caught the curling phone cord in her fingers and began to twist. "I'm not sure. A couple of weeks, probably."
"Christ, Shan, you've been there a month already."
Her fingers worried the cord, twisting it tighter. Odd, it hadn't seemed like a month. "I had three weeks coming." She heard the defensiveness in the tone, and hated it. "The rest is on me. How are things going there?"