Peat fires and bogs, Shannon thought. But God, didn’t he look fine riding over his land with the sun streaming down on him. “Will he do it all alone?”

“No, there’ll be help. It’s rare that a man cuts turf by himself. Not many do it now, it takes such time and effort. But Murphy always makes use of what he has.” Maggie paused a minute to turn a slow circle. “He’ll have a fine crop this year. After his father died, he put everything he is into this place. And he’s made it shine like his father, and mine, never could.” As they walked again, she slanted Shannon a look. “This was Concannon land once.”

“Murphy mentioned that he’d bought it.” They went over the next wall. They were close to the farmhouse now, and Shannon could see chickens scratching in the yard. “Was this your house, then, before?”

“Yes, but not in my memory. We grew up at Blackthorn. If you go back a few generations, the Muldoons and Concannons were related. There were brothers you see, who inherited all the land here, and split it between them. One couldn’t but plant a seed that it would spring out of the earth. And the other seemed to grow nothing but rocks. But it’s said he drank more than he plowed. There was jealousy and temper between them, and their wives wouldn’t speak if they met face to face.”

“Cozy,” Shannon commented and was too intrigued to remember to put the borrowed jacket on the back stoop.

“And one fine day the second brother, the one who preferred beer to fertilizer, disappeared. Vanished. In the way of the inheritance, the first brother owned all the land now. He let his brother’s wife and children stay in the cottage—which would be my house now. Some said he did so out of guilt, for it was suspected that he did away with his brother.”

“Killed him?” Surprised, Shannon glanced over. “What’s this? Cain and Abel?”

“A bit like, I suppose. Though the murdering brother inherited the garden rather than being banished from it. Their name was Concannon, and as time passed one of the daughters of the missing brother married a Muldoon. They were given a slice of land by her uncle and worked it well. And over the years the tide turned. Now it’s Muldoon land, and the Concannons have only the edges.”

“And you don’t resent that?”

“Why should I? It’s fair justice. And even if it weren’t, even if that long ago brother fell into some bog in a drunken stupor, it’s Murphy who loves the land as my own da never did. Here we are. This is what’s mine.”

“It’s a lovely house.” And it was, she mused, studying it. A bit more than a cottage, she decided, though that was certainly the heart of it. The pretty stone that was so typical of the area rose up two floors. There was an interesting jog in the line of it, what she assumed was an addition. And the artist’s touch, she thought, in the trim that was painted a peacock purple.

“We added to it, so that Rogan could have office space, and there’d be a room for Liam.” Maggie shook her head as she turned away. “And, of course, the man insisted we add another room or two while we were about it. Already planning a brood, though that slipped past me at the time.”

“Looks like you’re accommodating him.”

“Oh, he’s blissful at the idea of family, is Rogan. Comes from being an only child, perhaps. And I’ve discovered I feel much the same. I’ve a knack for motherhood, and a pride in it. Strange how one person can change everything.”

“I don’t think I realized how much you love him,” Shannon said quietly. “You seem so . . . individual.”

“What’s one to do with the other?” Maggie let out a breath and frowned at the stone building that was her solitude, her sanctuary. Her shop. “Well, let’s do this then. But the deal says nothing about you putting your hands all over things.”

“The famed Irish hospitality.”

“Bugger it,” Maggie said with a grin and crossed over to open the door.

The heat was a shock. It explained the rumbling roar Shannon had begun to hear a full field away. The furnace was lit. Realizing it made her feel guilty for keeping Maggie from work.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d be holding you up.”

“I’ve nothing pressing.”

The guilt didn’t have a chance against fascination. Benches, shelves were stacked with tools, scattered sheets of paper, works in progress. There was a large wooden chair with wide arms, slots, and dips carved and sanded into the sides. Buckets filled with water or sand.

In a corner, like lances stacked, were long metal poles.

“Are those pipes?”

“Pontils. You gather the glass on the end of them, do melts in the furnace. You use the pipe to blow the bubble.” Maggie lifted one. “You neck it with the jacks.”

“A bubble of glass.” Engrossed, Shannon studied the twists and columns, the bowls and tapers Maggie had setting helter-skelter on shelves. “And you make whatever you want with it.”

“You make what you feel. You have to do a second gather, roll and chill it to form what we call a skin. You do a lot of the work sitting down in your chair, getting up countless times to go back to the furnace. You have to keep the pontil or the pipe moving, using gravity, fighting it.” Maggie tilted her head. “You want to try it?”

Too enthralled to be surprised by the invitation, Shannon grinned. “You bet I do.”

“Something simple,” Maggie muttered as she began to set things up. “A ball, flat on the bottom. Like a paperweight.”

In moments Shannon found her hands encased in heavy gloves with a pontil in her hand. Following instructions, she dipped the tip into the melt, turned it.

“Don’t be so greedy,” Maggie snapped. “Takes time.”

And effort, Shannon discovered. It wasn’t work for a weakling. Sweat trickled down her back and went unnoticed when she saw the bubble begin to form on the end of the pipe.

“I did it!”

“No, you haven’t.” But Maggie guided her hands, showing her how to make the second gather, to roll it over the marble. She explained each step, neither of them fully aware they were working in tandem and enjoying it.

“Oh, it’s wonderful.” Giddy as a child, Shannon beamed at the glass ball. “Look at those swirls of color in it.”