Page 16 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

His cheeks burned at the memory. The dream had felt so real, Ciarán’s eyes full of something Graham had no right to imagine.

What would he offer Ciarán, anyway? What kind of man was he? He wasn’t a social one, certainly not someone who could weave through a crowd with charm. He didn’t know how to dance, he wasn’t a smooth talker, and he certainly didn’t know how to court someone like Ciarán.

He gave himself a tentative sniff. The scent of sweat, hay, and the unmistakable tang of barnyard animals clung to him. No, this wasn’t the image of a man who had anything to offer.

Shaking his head, Graham climbed carefully down from the hayloft, brushing his hand over the cows’ rumps as he passed. They mooed contentedly, and he made his way outside, squinting against the bright light of the morning. There was something peaceful about the tasks ahead, even if they were simple—filling the water troughs, tending to the soil, checking on the crops. It was work he knew well, work that left no room for dreams or complications.

He reached the well and stripped off his shirt, letting it fall to the ground. The day ahead would be long, and the sun was already warming the earth beneath him. The work was simple enough: drop the bucket down, hear the splash, pull it back up, heavy with fresh water. He’d done this a thousand times before, but today it felt different.

The coolness of the water was invigorating as he tipped the bucket over his head. The shock of it made him shiver, but it also washed away the last remnants of sleep from his body. Twice more he repeated the process, the water sluicing over his chest, over his back, his hair dripping in wet strands. It was bracing, a quick reminder of what was real, of what he was.

And then came the shout.

“Oh, mo dhia!” The voice nearly made him fumble the bucket. He turned, startled, to see Ciarán standing there, frozen in place. His nightshirt was old and worn, and it barely reached the middle of his thighs. His face was as red as the sun rising behind him, his eyes wide with embarrassment.

“Forgive me, Graham! I didn’t—I mean—oh, Lord, I didn’t realize you were awake already, I thought I could just—”

The moment was so utterly unexpected that it sent a wave of panic coursing through Graham. His face burned. He scrambled for his shirt, instinctively covering himself. His heart pounded, not just because of the exposure but because—Ciarán had seen him. He had seen the old scars on Graham’s chest, the roughness of his body, the things he had always hidden away.

Graham’s hand faltered on the buttons of his shirt as his mind raced. What did Ciarán think of him now? His pulse thudded in his ears. But as he hastily buttoned up, another thought snuck in—the soft freckles on Ciarán’s bare legs. A strange sense of warmth rushed through him, a connection he couldn’t quite explain, and it made his thoughts scatter.

“Breakfast is cooking!” Ciarán blurted, his voice still laced with panic. He turned quickly, his feet leaving prints in the dirt as he made his escape.

Graham opened his mouth to say something, to explain, but by the time he looked up, Ciarán was already gone, slipping inside the house with an almost comical speed.

Left alone in the morning light, Graham let out a slow breath, his heart still hammering.

???

Graham worked in a haze of confusion, his mind still spinning from the morning's unexpected encounter. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t expected some awkwardness between himand Ciarán—after all, they were two strangers trying to make a life together—but the sight of Ciarán standing there, so flustered and caught off guard, had rattled him more than he cared to admit. It wasn’t just the fact that Ciarán had seen him, though that was uncomfortable enough. It was the way he’d seen him—sweaty, shirtless, exposed in the soft, early morning light. It felt as though some invisible barrier had been crossed, a line that had existed between them, one that no longer seemed to matter after today.

Graham had tried to push the thoughts away as he gathered the animals for their morning routine. He was still wearing his wedding clothes—ill-fitting and strange for the work ahead of him, but he hadn’t had the chance to change yet. The silk of the shirt clung to him uncomfortably, the cuffs too tight around his wrists, the fabric too stiff to move freely. His trousers, too, felt out of place as he worked. Still, there was no real point in worrying about it; it was a necessary task, and the animals didn’t care about what he was wearing.

The cows and sheep, for their part, eyed him with confusion, their noses twitching as they sniffed at the unfamiliar fabric of his coat. He could almost imagine them wondering if he was a different person altogether, perhaps a wandering stranger who had taken up residence in the barn overnight. They were not particularly concerned by it, but they certainly seemed curious. Their bovine eyes followed him as he moved about, leading them out into the pasture with a quiet command.

The chickens, however, were entirely unfazed. They were creatures of habit, constantly in motion, heads bobbing as they pecked at the feed scattered on the ground. They barely even acknowledged his presence, beyond a few clucks of mild interest. They were the same as always—unbothered by his wedding attire or his disheveled state, more concerned with the grain attheir feet than the man who brought it to them. They seemed to carry on without a care in the world.

Ginger, the old mare, was different. She always seemed to know when something was amiss, her wise, kind eyes able to see beyond the surface. She walked up to him slowly, her hooves soft on the ground as she nuzzled his shoulder, then gently tugged at his hair with her teeth, as though trying to comfort him. It was a simple gesture, but it was enough to make Graham’s heart ache. Ginger had been with him for years, through everything—the hard days, the long nights, the solitude. She had always been a quiet presence, but in her own way, she understood him better than anyone else.

"What a morning," Graham muttered to himself, running a hand over his face. His mind kept drifting back to Ciarán, his wide-eyed shock, his crimson cheeks. It was impossible to escape the image of him standing there in the soft light of dawn, flustered and embarrassed. His face, so open and expressive, had been a mirror of Graham’s own feelings—uncertain, caught off guard, unsure how to react.

But there was something else, something Graham couldn’t quite shake from his mind. Ciarán’s bare legs. Pale, freckled, with the soft light of morning catching the golden dust that seemed to float in the air. Graham had seen Ciarán’s legs before, of course—he’d been helping with the chores for a few weeks now—but this time was different. This time, the sight of them lingered in his mind. The way they looked under the worn nightshirt, how the sun kissed the freckles scattered across his skin. Graham couldn’t quite put it into words, but there was a certain softness to Ciarán that he hadn’t fully understood before.

The thoughts tumbled through his mind in a chaotic rush, and before he realized what he was doing, Graham found himself walking over to Ginger’s water trough. He needed something to ground him, something to erase the images andthe strange feelings swirling inside him. Without thinking, he dunked his head into the trough, the cool water splashing over his face and soaking his hair. Ginger whinnied in irritation, clearly displeased by the sudden disturbance, but Graham barely noticed. He was too focused on the shock of the cold water, the way it stung his skin and made his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

The image of Ciarán’s freckled legs flashed again, but this time, it was muffled by the water. The image seemed to fade, slipping away as the water rushed over his face, and Graham sucked in a deep breath.

He straightened up, dripping wet and slightly dazed, looking out at the quiet pasture. He didn’t know what to do with the feelings that had risen within him, nor did he understand why Ciarán’s presence in his life had begun to affect him in ways he couldn’t explain. He was used to being alone, to keeping his distance, to maintaining a simple, practical life. But Ciarán… Ciarán was different. His kindness, his willingness to help, his curiosity about the world—it all created something Graham wasn’t prepared for.

He stood there for a long moment, the animals grazing peacefully in the distance, the sun rising higher in the sky. It was still early, and there was much work to be done, but Graham couldn’t shake the strange weight in his chest. With a deep breath, he turned back toward the barn, his thoughts still in a whirl, hoping that today would bring some clarity. But he wasn’t sure it would. All he knew was that he couldn’t stop thinking about Ciarán, about the way he looked at him, and about the strange warmth that lingered in his heart.

???

If anyone had been watching, they would’ve thought it a funny sight indeed—Graham, a towering figure of a man with broad shoulders and calloused hands, walking up the path to his own house with a bouquet of wildflowers, his cheeks a little flushed, a touch of nervousness in his step. The flowers were carefully selected, picked from the meadow behind the barn. Bright anemones and cheerful buttercups mixed with delicate woodland stars—simple, yet beautiful, much like the world around him. His heart beat faster with each step as he approached the door, holding the bouquet with care, trying to steady his thoughts.

He was, of course, nervous. The morning had already been awkward enough, with Ciarán’s unexpected appearance at the well. Graham had meant to start the day quietly, doing his chores as usual, but everything felt off since that brief but meaningful moment. He cleared his throat before lifting his hand to knock on the door. “Ciarán, can I come in?”

From inside, he heard the muffled sound of clattering, footsteps rushing, followed by the faint rustling of cloth and the unmistakable clinking of plates. He raised an eyebrow. What on earth was Ciarán doing in there?

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