She told herself it was ridiculous to feel as though she were deserting a sinking ship. It was Brianna’s mother, Shannon reminded herself as she started along the garden path. Brianna’s problem.

There’d be a scene, she imagined. Full of Irish emotions, temper, and despair. She certainly wanted no part of that. Thank God she’d been raised in the States by two calm, reasonable people who weren’t given to desperate mood swings.

Drawing a deep breath, she turned a circle. And saw Murphy crossing the closest field, coming toward the inn.

He had a wonderful way of walking, she noted. Not a strut, not a swagger, yet his stride had all the confidence of both. She had to admit it was a pleasure to watch him, the raw masculinity of movement.

An animated painting, she mused. Irish Man. Yes, that was it exactly, she decided—the long-muscled arms with the work shirt rolled up to the elbows, the jeans that had seen dozens of washings, the boots that had walked countless miles. The cap worn low to shade the eyes that couldn’t dim that rich, startling blue. The almost mythically handsome face.

A capital M man, she reflected. No polished executive could exude such an aura of success striding down Madison Avenue in a thousand-dollar suit with a dozen Sterling roses in his manicured hand as Murphy Muldoon strolling over the land in worn boots and a spray of wildflowers.

“It’s a pleasant thing to walk toward a woman who’s smiling at you.”

“I was thinking you looked like a documentary. Irish farmer walking his land.”

That disconcerted him. “My land ends at the wall there.”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.” Amused by his reaction, she glanced down at the flowers he held. “Isn’t that what we call bringing coals to Newcastle?”

“But these are from my land. Since I was thinking of you, I picked them along the way.”

“They’re lovely. Thanks.” She did what any woman would do and buried her face in them. “Is it your house I see from my window? The big stone one with all the chimneys?”

“It is, yes.”

“A lot of house for one man. And all those other buildings.”

“A farm needs a barn or two, and cabins and such. If you’ll walk over one day, I’ll show you about.”

“Maybe I will.” She glanced back toward the house at the first shout. Shannon doubted it would be the last one.

“Maeve’s come then,” Murphy murmured. “Mrs. Concannon.”

“She’s here.” A sudden thought had her looking back at Murphy, studying his face. “And so are you. Just happening by?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Maggie called to tell me things would be brewing.”

The resentment came as quickly as the unexpected protective instinct. “She should be here herself, and not leave this whole mess up to Brie.”

“She’s there. That’s her you hear shouting.” In an easy gesture, one more sheltering than it seemed, he took Shannon’s hand and led her farther from the house. “Maggie and her mother will go at each other like terriers. Maggie’ll see that she does, to keep Maeve from striking out too close to Brianna.”

“Why should the woman fight with them?” Shannon demanded. “They had nothing to do with it.”

Murphy said nothing a moment, moving off a little ways to examine the blossoms on a blackthorn. “Did your parents love you, Shannon?”

“Of course they did.”

“And never did you have any cause to doubt it, or to take the love aside and examine it for flaws?”

Impatient now, for the house had grown ominously silent, she shook her head. “No. We loved each other.”

“I had the same.” As if time were only there to be spent, he drew her down on the grass, then leaned back on his elbows. “You didn’t think about being lucky, because it just was. Every cuff or caress my mother ever gave me had love in it. One the same as the other.”

Idly he picked up Shannon’s hand, toyed with her fingers. “I don’t know as I’d have thought about it overmuch. But there was Maggie and Brie nearby, and I could see that they didn’t have the same. With Tom they did.” Murphy’s eyes lighted with the memory. “His girls were his greatest joy. Maeve didn’t have that kind of giving in her. And I’m thinking, the more he loved them, the more she was determined not to. To punish them all, herself included.”

“She sounds like a horrible woman.”

“She’s an unhappy one.” He lifted her hand, brushing his lips over the knuckles in an absent gesture of long intimacy. “You’ve been unhappy, Shannon. But you’re strong and smart enough to let the sadness pass into memories.”

“I don’t know if I am.”

“I know.” He rose then, holding out a hand. “I’ll go in with you. It’s been quiet long enough, so it’s time.”

She let him pull her to her feet, but no further. “This isn’t my affair, Murphy. It seems to me everyone would be better off if I stayed out of it.”

His eyes stayed on hers, dark and level and tough. “Stand with your sisters, Shannon. Don’t disappoint me, or yourself.”

“Damn it.” His unblinking stare made her feel weak, and ashamed of the weakness. “Damn it, all right. I’ll go in. But I don’t need you with me.”

“I’m with you just the same.” Keeping her hand in his, he led her toward the house.

It was foolish to dread it, Shannon told herself. The woman could do or say nothing that would have any affect. But her muscles were coiled and her shoulders stiff when she stepped through the kitchen door with Murphy behind her.

Her first thought was that the woman seated at the table didn’t look like anyone’s victim. Her eyes were hot, her face set in the unforgiving lines of a judge who’d already passed sentence. Her hands were ringless, gripped together on the tabletop in what might have been an attitude of prayer had the knuckles not been white.

The other woman seated beside her was rounder, with a softer look offset by worried eyes. Shannon saw that the Concannon sisters were standing, shoulder to shoulder, with their husbands on either side in an unyielding and united wall.

Maeve pinned her with one furious look, and her lips curled. “You would bring her here, into this house, while I’m in it?”

“The house is mine,” Brianna said in a voice that was frigidly calm. “And Shannon is welcome in it. As you are, Mother.”