Ahead of him the country road from Limerick wound away, disappearing into the now-harvested fields and rolling hills, crisscrossed with stone walls. For one moment he stared, and as he sat his mount, he was very, very careful not to allow any feeling to creep over him. He succeeded. This time, there was no warmth within him in coming home. It was merely another mission he must accomplish. Devlin spurred the liveried gelding into a canter, well aware that around the next bend he would be able to see his fields, his pastures, his land. But it didn't matter. He had an iron grasp on himself—he had never been more in control. He rounded the bend and finally took some small, idle pleasure in the sight of the harvested fields that lay bare and brown ahead of him. As he passed the first farmhouse, he noted, almost indifferently, that McCarthy must have had done well that year—his flock of sheep seemed twice the size and his house had been recently whitewashed. A stone wall cut across the field.
