Page 13 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“You know Irish?” Graham asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Mr. Fournier grinned, his face alight with mischief. “No, can’t say that I do. But I think I caught the drift.”

Later, as the festivities rolled on, an elderly man with a snow-white beard approached their table. He didn’t seem as interested in offering congratulations as he was in inspecting the newly arrived groom.

“And where are you from, lad?” he asked, squinting at Ciarán.

“Kilmannán, sir,” Ciarán replied evenly.

The name sparked recognition in the man’s sharp eyes. Stroking his beard thoughtfully, he murmured, “Kilmannán, eh? I know of the place. Wouldn’t happen to know the Foley family, would you? Thomas Foley, their patriarch—older than me, even.”

Ciarán smiled, his tone measured and polite. “I can’t say that I’ve ever associated with the Foleys, sir.”

The old man let out a delighted bark of laughter, slapping his knee. “Excellent, excellent. I could tell you were a good one the moment I laid eyes on you. The tales I could tell you about that family! Speaking of, we’ll have to have you over for tea once you’ve settled in. Mr. Shepherd, you’ve married a fine young lad.”

“I know,” Graham managed, still bewildered by the man’s energy.

Ciarán, meanwhile, looked as though he were biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Throughout the evening, people filtered to their table bearing congratulations, warm welcomes, and gifts. Three bolts of fabric, a gleaming new pot, a basket of crabapples—“Perfect for jelly,” they were assured—a jar of gumdrops purchased with Adeline’s allowance. The little girl beamed as Ciarán thanked her with genuine enthusiasm, making her blush and shuffle her feet. Their table groaned under the weight of the guests’ generosity, and Graham silently wondered how they would fit everything into the buggy for the trip home.

Mr. Fournier, ever the showman, played the fiddle with the confidence of someone born with the strings in his hands. He sang as he played, laughed as he sang, and danced as he played, coaxing out songs so lively that Mrs. Fournier giggled and blushed like a courting girl when he made a show of serenading her. Their children wailed in mock dismay, Adeline throwing an arm dramatically over her eyes and crying, “Mama! Papa! Act modestly!” sending everyone into fits of laughter.

Others, too, indulged in the festive spirit. Liam and Ronan, perhaps emboldened by drink or simply caught up in the magic of the evening, shared slices of sweets, feeding each other with an intimacy that left Liam grinning andRonan murmuring low words in Irish. Their quiet exchange, though incomprehensible to Graham, earned a choked spray of lemonade from Oscar and a scandalized flush on Ciarán’s face that rivaled the sunset. Graham didn’t need to know the words to catch their meaning—it was immodest enough to make even the unflappable Ciarán shy.

Watching the couples around him, Graham felt a pang of longing. They weren’t in love, not yet, but wasn’t he allowed to indulge in a moment of closeness with his husband? The thought grew in him until he leaned closer and asked, “Do you want to dance, Ciarán?”

Ciarán hesitated, glancing at the others. “Oh, I—well, I’m a bit tired, and we’ve just eaten. I don’t think I’d be very light on my feet.”

Graham smiled gently. “No one is. But do you want to dance?”

Ciarán looked up at him, his blue eyes wide and uncertain but bright with something else—a quiet, unspoken yes. “I would,” he whispered. “If you want to, Graham.”

“I do.”

He led Ciarán to a cooler, quieter patch of grass, giving them space for Graham’s sturdy steps and Ciarán’s effortless grace. It didn’t take long for Ciarán to take the lead, his movements fluid and confident, his guidance gentle but sure.

“Not light on your feet?” Graham teased, a lopsided grin spreading across his face.

Ciarán laughed softly. “Oh, well—I do very much like to dance.”

Graham tucked that little fact away, making a mental note to remember it. He wanted to know everything about Ciarán, every like, every dislike, every small detail that made up the man who had changed his life with a single yes. If he couldmake Ciarán half as happy as he felt in this moment, it would be enough.

???

By the time the reception was finally winding down, most of the food had been eaten—thank God. The buggy was so full of gifts that some of them had spilled over onto the seats, and they had to arrange them carefully to avoid losing anything. Not all of it fit, of course; a few bolts of fabric had to be unraveled and draped across Ginger’s back, and Graham couldn’t help but worry they might end up smelling like horse before they could air out properly. But Ciarán, ever calm and reassuring, insisted that it would all be fine after a little airing.

They made their way through a final round of thank-yous, shaking hands repeatedly as guests gathered their coats and made their way to their own homes. Liam, ever the spirited one, called out with a grin, “I expect you both over for dinner soon. Don’t be strangers, now.”

“Of course!” Ciarán had replied, his voice bright, a hint of laughter in it.

And then, with the last of the well-wishers headed off to their own homes, it was time to leave for their own. Their ranch. Everything that had once belonged only to Graham, every corner of it, was now also Ciarán’s. The house with its creaky floorboards, the barn filled with livestock, the fields stretching out as far as the eye could see, even the chickens in their coop—they were all his too now.

Graham, lost in his thoughts, hoped Ciarán would like it.

The journey back was peaceful, but quiet. Ciarán sat beside him, his hands folded delicately in his lap, the jar of gumdrops that Adeline had given them resting there like a treasure. From time to time, he leaned ever so slightly againstGraham, his head turned to look at the fading light outside the buggy’s canopy. Graham’s thoughts, though, were on something else.

“I have—something else for you,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

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