Page 17 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“Ciarán?” Graham called again, curiosity mixed with unease.

“W-wait a moment, please! I’m just—I’m just cleaning up!” came the hurried response, accompanied by more clanging sounds.

He stood there for what felt like forever, holding the wildflowers with an almost comical tenderness, the moment growing longer in his mind. His stomach twisted slightly. What had he even done to deserve these flowers in the first place? The morning had been a mess of misunderstandings and awkwardness. But maybe this was his way of doing something right, something thoughtful. He didn’t know. All he knew wasthat he wanted to make things right with Ciarán, even if he wasn’t entirely sure how.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the door opened. There stood Ciarán, a bit flustered, his usually neat hair a little mussed, flour streaking his face, his apron a little askew. He was breathing just a little heavier than usual, and his eyes widened as he saw Graham standing there with the flowers in hand.

“Um, breakfast is ready,” Ciarán said, his voice slightly shaky. He glanced down at the bouquet, a faint pink creeping up his neck and coloring his cheeks.

Graham felt a jolt of warmth at the sight of him. Ciarán was dressed neatly, in a shirt and pants, apron tied securely around his waist. And yet, there was something about the young man’s flustered state that made Graham’s heart beat faster. He couldn’t help but smile, even though the smile was a little awkward.

He extended the bouquet to Ciarán, feeling strangely shy at that moment. “Got these for you,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “As an apology. Didn’t mean to—make you uncomfortable, at the well.”

Ciarán’s face flushed even more, if that was possible. He reached out to take the flowers, his fingers brushing Graham’s hand. "No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I just didn’t expect you to be awake this early. I should’ve guessed, though—you’re a rancher, after all.”

Graham shrugged, his discomfort simmering beneath his words. “Even so, I know it’s—unsightly. I don’t ever mean to frighten you.”

At that, Ciarán’s face grew more confused. He took a step closer, frowning deeply. “I’m sorry, Graham, I don’t understand what you mean.”

Graham’s heart sank. He hadn’t meant to make things so complicated. He hesitated, then finally muttered, “My—my scars.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he could see the shift in Ciarán’s face—a look of horror quickly replaced by earnest apologies. “No! Oh, no, Graham, that wasn’t—you’re so—that wasn’t it at all! I was just—” Ciarán stopped, visibly flustered, and took a deep breath to steady himself. “I hadn’t expected you to be up yet, so I hadn’t—dressed properly for my trip to the well. I thought, since it was such a short walk—but, it was extremely improper, and quite a shocking display—I don’t know what I was thinking. Forgive me, please.”

Graham blinked in surprise. His mind was racing. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, his voice steadying as he realized the misunderstanding. “Guess we just have to get used to living around each other.” He gave Ciarán a tentative smile, and to his relief, Ciarán returned it, the tension easing in the room.

Quick as lightning, Ciarán set the table, his movements fluid and quick. “Sit down, please, Graham. I made pancakes. They’re, um, I thought it’d look nice to add some beet juice, to make the color. See?” Ciarán gestured at the pancakes, which had turned a lovely shade of pink, just as his cheeks had.

Before Graham could respond, Ciarán continued, “And I’ve warmed up the leftover fadge. I found a jar of raspberry jam. Do you want to try it with that and some butter? Or you can have it with eggs. I wasn’t sure how you like them, so I have scrambled and fried. What—what do you want to eat?”

The nervous energy in Ciarán’s voice made Graham smile softly. He had been worrying over this meal, over pleasing Graham, and he hadn’t even realized how sweet it all was. “I want you to sit,” Graham said, his voice firm but kind.

Ciarán stopped, blinking at him, a little surprised.

“Come sit, and eat with me. That’s what I want,” Graham repeated.

Ciarán hesitated for a moment, but then, with a soft smile, he pulled up a chair and sat across from Graham. The silence between them felt comfortable, though it was clear that Ciarán was still nervous. Graham could see his hands wringing the fabric of his apron, the way his lip worried between his teeth.

“You know that’s all I want from you, right? You don’t have to go through all this trouble just for me,” Graham said softly.

“You’ve done so much for me,” Ciarán murmured, his voice small.

Graham blinked, confused. “We’ve only just gotten married.”

“You paid for my fare, and my meals,” Ciarán replied, a little self-conscious, his eyes downcast. “And the wedding was so beautiful, and—and my tea set. I have to pay you back, somehow.” He trailed off with a self-conscious laugh.

Graham’s heart softened. “You don’t have to earn anything here, Ciarán. I meant what I said in my letters. You being here is more than enough.”

“But surely I have to help you with the chores!” Ciarán protested, his eyes wide with concern.

Truth be told, Graham would’ve been content if Ciarán spent his days wandering the prairie, watching the clouds, picking flowers, whatever made him happy. But Ciarán had come with the intention to learn, and Graham had promised to teach him. “I’ll teach you anything you want to know. And if you want to work, then we’ll work side-by-side. Ask me for help if you need it. I’m here for you, too. This is your home.”

At that, Ciarán paused for a long moment before speaking. His voice was quieter this time. “I did want to make breakfast for you, though.”

Graham’s heart swelled. “I’m glad you did. Thank you.”

As the meal cooled slightly, Graham glanced down at the table, piled high with food: pancakes, eggs, fadge, and jam. He placed two pink pancakes on Ciarán’s plate and spooned scrambled eggs onto it. The pancakes were the perfect shade of pink, fluffy, and full of warmth. He gave them a small taste and smiled. “These are good,” he said, his voice full of appreciation.

Ciarán’s smile was shy, but warm. “The beet juice adds a bit of sweetness, along with the color. I could make them again, if you’d like.”

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