Page 11 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Ciarán hesitated, glancing at Graham again. “W-well. I don’t want anything ostentatious. Just something simple. But I’d prefer gold to silver. It seems, um, warmer to me? Do you agree with that, Graham?”

Gold. Graham hadn’t considered it before, but the idea settled easily. Gold would suit Ciarán’s warm brown eyes, his freckles, his sun-kissed complexion. It would look right on his long, elegant fingers—those hands Graham had noticed and admired, which seemed made for artistry. He realized he’d been quiet too long and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Get whatever you like best.”

“But what do you think?” Ciarán pressed, his brows furrowed.

“I’m not much of a—jewelry person,” Graham admitted, feeling awkward. “I trust you. Pick out something we’ll both like.”

Ciarán nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I will.”

As the clerk laid out trays of gold bands, Ciarán leaned forward, studying each design with care. Graham, however, couldn’t take his eyes off him. This was the man who had answered his ad. The man who had sent letter after letter filled with words so tender and sketches so detailed they had made Graham feel as if he were being seen for the first time in years. And now, here he was—real, tangible, and beautiful.

Ciarán’s brows furrowed in concentration, his delicate fingers tracing over each ring as he weighed his decision. Graham felt an uncharacteristic surge of nerves, the kind he hadn’t felt since boyhood. It was the same feeling he’d had when he’d shared his lunch with another boy at school, hoping for nothing more than a kind word and some company.

Lord, how he wanted Ciarán to like him. Not just now, but always. He wanted him to want to stay.

“I—I think these ones,” Ciarán said finally, holding up a pair of gold bands with an intricate leaf-and-vine pattern. “It’s a pretty design, isn’t it?”

Graham barely glanced at the rings before his eyes returned to Ciarán’s face. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Real pretty.”

The clerk boxed the rings with a cheerful, “Enjoy the day! And your wedding!”

Their next stop was the church. It wasn’t an especially grand building—just a modest white structure with a teal roof and a small bell tower. But as they approached, Ciarán gasped in delight, his eyes shining as if it were a cathedral.

Ginger was set beneath the shade of a tree with a bucket of fresh water and a couple of apples to keep her content. Graham, his hand resting in his pocket to feel the reassuring weight of the rings, turned to Ciarán.

“Ready?” he asked.

Ciarán hesitated, then searched his bouquet. Carefully, he plucked a single white daisy and tucked it into the lapel of Graham’s suit. His hand lingered, and when he looked up, he smiled—a soft, private smile that felt like a promise.

“Okay,” Ciarán said. “I’m ready now.”

Graham returned the smile, his chest tight with a feeling he couldn’t quite name, and pushed open the church door.

Chapter Four

When the church was first built, the entire town of Larkspur could fit inside of it. Back then, the town was a fledgling settlement, its population consisting of a few pioneering families, trappers, and hunters scattered about, and a handful of young, unattached dreamers hoping to carve out a future. The simple white church had been both a sanctuary and a gathering place, its humble pews accommodating the entire community.

By the time Graham arrived in Larkspur, the town had grown significantly. While it could hardly be called a city, its dirt roads often bustled with wagons, horses, and townsfolk going about their lives. On certain days, especially market days, Larkspur’s main street hummed with activity. Today, however, it seemed that a good portion of the bustling had funneled directly into the church, and as Graham stepped inside with Ciarán at his side, he was struck by how full the small building was.

The pews were crowded with faces both familiar and less so, a sea of curious smiles and warm gazes. Graham recognized the priest standing patiently at the altar, his hands clasped in quiet readiness. On one side of the church sat Liam, Ronan, Oscar, and Mrs. Fournier, who appeared to have brought not only her household but her entire extended family. The benches were crammed with her cousins, uncles, and a great-aunt or two, all craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the proceedings.

On the opposite side were townsfolk Graham recognized more by sight than by name. Near the front, he spotted Mrs. Murray, who had purchased sheep from him and Liam last spring, and Mr. Doherty from the mill. It dawned on him, with growing amazement, that Liam had likely invited every Irish family in the area to the wedding. Graham had expected a quiet ceremony with only a few witnesses, but it seemed word had spread far and wide.

He glanced down at Ciarán, who gazed at the crowd with a mixture of surprise and delight. His dark eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed pink, and the sight of him made Graham’s heart feel uncomfortably full.

Together, they walked arm-in-arm down the aisle, each step steady but slow, as if drawn forward by an unseen hand. The soft murmur of the congregation quieted, replaced by the low rustle of clothing and the creak of wooden pews as everyone turned to watch.

At the altar, the priest greeted them with a warm smile and began the ceremony. Graham listened to his words, though the meaning of them blurred at the edges. His focus narrowed to the man at his side—Ciarán, who stood close enough for Graham to feel the warmth of him, his freckled face upturned, his expression a mixture of calm and nervous energy.

When the time came, they mumbled their "I do's," their voices small and bashful under the weight of so many eyes. They exchanged rings with care, Graham fumbling only slightly as he slipped the band onto Ciarán’s slender finger. He marveled at the feel of Ciarán’s hands—soft but with faint callouses, an artist’s hands, gentle yet capable. The gold ring gleamed against his complexion, the carved vine pattern catching the light, and Graham felt a swell of pride.

“You may kiss your groom,” the priest finally said, his tone kind but expectant.

The kiss. Graham blinked, his breath catching as he met Ciarán’s gaze. His new husband—his husband—smiled at him warmly, clutching his bouquet to his chest. Graham hesitated. The idea of a kiss, even one so simple, felt like an enormous leap. Marrying a man after exchanging a handful of letters was one thing; kissing him, truly bridging the gap between acquaintance and intimacy, was another.

Swallowing nervously, Graham stepped closer and placed his hands on Ciarán’s shoulders. He leaned in, his heart pounding, and pressed a kiss to the corner of Ciarán’s mouth—a cautious, fleeting touch.

The guests erupted into applause, whistles, and cheers. Graham pulled back, his face burning, only to find that Ciarán looked just as shy and sheepish as he felt. They were, at least, well-matched in their awkwardness.

---