Page 12 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

As the noise settled, Liam rose from his seat near the front. His booming voice carried over the crowd. “Alright now, come along! We’ve got a reception set up for the two of you. Time to eat and celebrate.”

The promise of food and festivities lightened the atmosphere, and the guests began to rise, their laughter and chatter filling the space. Graham turned to Ciarán and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Ciarán squeezed back, his grip firm but gentle, his smile small and genuine.

???

The area behind the church was nothing short of idyllic, a place where nature seemed to collaborate in celebration. The grass was lush and green, soft underfoot, and the tall trees offered shade that danced with the sunlight filtering through their leaves. Over the years, the space had seen quilting bees,lively box socials, and countless wedding receptions. Now, it bore witness to another union—and, as it turned out, its most extravagant feast yet.

Graham’s eyes widened as he took in the long tables, groaning under the weight of plates piled high with food and pitchers filled with drink. “You said you were going to make some bread and a pie,” he said, turning to Liam.

His neighbor snorted, arms crossed in mock indignation. “And I did. They’re over there. I just thought a few extra things wouldn’t hurt.”

True to his word, there was a golden loaf of soda bread served with fresh butter, so yellow it was practically glowing, and a large pie with a sugary crust that smelled of cinnamon and sweet apples. But that was only the beginning. Beside them was a savory chicken pot pie, steaming gently under a flaky crust, and an assortment of sandwiches: some delicate and crustless, filled with cucumbers and herbs, while others were heartier, layered with thick slices of meat and cheese.

Children ran about with glasses of lemonade, their lips sticky and their laughter loud. Meanwhile, the adults gravitated toward a separate pitcher of lemonade that carried a decidedly stronger aroma, though more than one sharp-eyed parent was quick to reprimand any older child who tried to sneak a sip.

On one table sat a plate of wedges that looked like thick pancakes, and Graham might have passed it by if Ciarán hadn’t pointed them out with a delighted cry. “Oh, Graham, look—fadge!” His grin was so bright that Graham nodded, even though he had no idea what fadge was, and simply smiled back at his husband’s excitement.

But nothing Graham had seen—or smelled—could compare to the wedding cake.

“Oh!” Ciarán’s exclamation was almost a gasp as he caught sight of it. His hands clasped over his chest, and his dark eyes shimmered with unrestrained delight. “It’s so lovely!”

Liam, Mrs. Fournier, and Adeline stood beside the cake like proud artists unveiling their masterpiece. It was two tiers tall, covered in a snowy-white icing that carried the subtle fragrance of orange blossom. Brightly colored flowers—red, yellow, blue, orange, and purple—decorated the sides and crowned the top of the tiers.

“It wouldn’t all fit in my oven,” Liam admitted, his chest puffed out as though the challenge had been a badge of honor, “so Celeste very kindly let me use hers.”

“I helped decorate!” Adeline piped up, bouncing on her heels. Then, with a slight pout, she added, “The recipe called for blush roses, but we didn’t have any. Only the violets and nasturtiums.”

Ciarán leaned down to her level, his smile warm and reassuring. “Well, thank goodness for that! Otherwise, I’d never have seen such a beautiful cake. I love nasturtiums and violets—they’re so colorful and cheerful.”

Adeline’s face lit up. “You do? I picked the best ones myself! And Mama helped me candy them, so you can eat them too!”

Mrs. Fournier handed Ciarán the knife with a beaming smile. “Go on now, my dear. Cut the first slice. I promise you, it’s even better than it looks.”

Graham wasn’t sure if the cake was as miraculous as everyone claimed or if the magic of the moment colored his perception, but when Ciarán turned to him with the knife in hand and a hopeful look, his heart skipped a beat.

“Graham—won’t you help me with it?”

Without hesitation, Graham stepped to his husband’s side. His larger hand rested gently over Ciarán’s as they guidedthe knife together, slicing into the top tier. The crowd leaned forward with anticipation, a ripple of excitement coursing through the guests as the first slice was lifted free and handed to an eager child. They worked side by side, cutting and serving, first the children, then the adults, until only a single large slice remained, meant for the two of them to share.

The crowd erupted in cheers when Ciarán took the first bite, his face lighting up with delight as he tasted it. Another, louder cheer followed when he offered a forkful to Graham, who opened his mouth only to have the cake gently popped past his lips before he could take it himself.

The flavor was extraordinary. The icing was light, sweet, and fragrant with oranges, while the cake itself was moist and rich, studded with cherries, raisins, and flecks of citrus peel. Notes of brandy and warm spices—cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves—lingered on his tongue, blending the freshness of summer with the comforting warmth of autumn.

“It’s good,” Graham mumbled around the bite, his voice gruff but sincere.

Ciarán laughed softly, his cheeks pink. “I think so, too.”

And as they stood together under the shade of the trees, sharing that single slice of cake, Graham thought he’d never tasted anything sweeter than the sight of his husband’s smile.

???

It was, from what Graham could tell, an entirely successful wedding reception. The air hummed with laughter, conversation, and the sounds of joyful feet skimming over the makeshift dance floor. People talked in close circles, their smiles wide and unguarded, and they danced in pairs or groups, hands clasped or twirling freely. Most importantly, Ciarán seemed comfortable, happy, and completely at ease—a remarkable statefor a man who had just spent a week on a train to marry someone he had never met before. The oddity of the situation might have unsettled anyone else, but not Ciarán. Perhaps that was why he seemed utterly unflappable, even in the face of the town’s more eccentric residents.

At some point during the evening, Ronan—who was even quieter than Graham most days—was nudged and cajoled by his husband and a few others into giving a speech. Rising to his full height, his broad frame commanding attention, he took a deep breath. His voice, deep and rumbling like a bear’s growl, filled the air as he said, “Comhghairdeas leis na leanaí nua. Go líonfar do chuid ama le chéile le sonas. Buíochas le Dia as nuachtáin agus traenacha.”

The toast brought a ripple of laughter, applause, and some knowing cheers. Among them, Mr. Fournier, who had stopped by earlier to shake hands with both Ciarán and Graham, clapped the loudest and hollered his approval.

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