Page 25 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Graham clenched his fists and fought the wave of panic rising in his chest. He looked again, desperately searching for any sign of familiarity, any face he could trust.

And then, in the third row, he saw them. Liam and Ronan, his neighbors, sitting together in prayer. Relief washed over him like a flood, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse right there. He didn’t care that the pews were nearly full or that the church was almost bursting at the seams—he just needed a place to sit. Somewhere he could settle into, where he didn’t feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him.

He grabbed Ciarán’s hand and pulled him toward the row. “There—right over there,” he said, his voice tight, though he couldn’t hide the relief that slipped through.

Ronan spotted them first, his eyes narrowing before he spoke. “Graham,” he said, his voice neutral. Then he turned his attention to Ciarán. “Ciarán.”

Ciarán, ever the picture of politeness, smiled brightly, greeting them with genuine warmth. “Good morning, Ronan. Good morning, Liam.”

Liam, always direct, snapped his prayer book shut with a frown. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he studied them both. But then he saw the desperation in Graham’s eyes, and his expression softened, understanding the silent plea. “I mean, that is, what are you doing just standing there? The service is about to start. Come and take your seats.”

Ronan shifted aside, making just enough room for Graham and Ciarán to squeeze into the tight pew. It wasn’t comfortable—especially not for someone of Graham’s size—but it was a place to sit. He didn’t care that it was a tight fit.

With a deep breath, Graham slid in beside Ciarán, his bulky frame pressed up against the side of the pew, barely fitting. Ciarán, for his part, seemed utterly at ease. He looked like he belonged in that church, sitting with his hands neatly folded in his lap, his straw hat resting on his head, still as sweet and bright as ever. He was completely focused on the choir, listening with a rapt attention that made Graham’s heart ache.

But for Graham, the tightness of the pew was nothing compared to the tightness in his chest. Ciarán, nestled between him and Ronan, looked like he was in his element. The joy that radiated from his face was almost too much for Graham to bear. It only made the knot in his stomach tighten further.

???

Graham’s childhood had been filled with hard labor on the family farm. His father had no head for business, and while his mother worked tirelessly to keep things running, managing a seven-person household on limited funds was always a struggle. Church attendance had been sporadic, never a day of true rest but just another task to fit into the endless list of obligations that never seemed to ease. He recalled his mother dressing him in his finest, lacing up his boots with precision, pulling at the fabric of his shirt that always felt too tight. The journey to town was long, crowded, and uncomfortable, with the scent of sweat, hay, and dust hanging thick in the air. They’d pile into the carriage, his siblings squashed together, their limbs jostling as the wheels rattled over the road. Yet, for all those memories, Graham couldn’t recall a single detail about the service itself. Church had always been something distant, incomprehensible. The words, the rituals, the rituals—they had all blurred into a haze, as irrelevant as the cows in the barn that needed milking. He’d never quite understood what he was meant to take from it all.

Now, sitting in the crowded church beside Ciarán, Graham could almost feel his past crashing into his present. The building was hot and stuffy, the air thick with the scent of too many bodies packed into too small a space. The choir was singing, their harmonies rising and falling, but it was all in Latin—a language that might as well have been ancient Greek for all it meant to Graham. His husband, however, was right there beside him, singing along with the others. Ciarán’s voice was a soft, melodic murmur, barely audible over the rest of the congregation, but Graham, sitting so close to him, had the privilege of hearing it up close. It was absolutely angelic, a sound that made his chest tighten.

He found himself wishing that he could understand the words—understand the meaning behind them—but the Latinswirled around him, indecipherable, unintelligible. The service, like his childhood experiences in church, was long and drawn out, and he couldn’t help but wish for it to end. The priest’s voice droned on, a constant hum in the background of his thoughts. Graham shifted uncomfortably on the hard pew, his legs aching from being cramped into such a small space. He was hungry, thinking about the meal he and Ciarán could share once they were free of the confines of this building.

Just as his hopes began to rise that the service might come to a close, it continued. There were more prayers, the priest read from the Bible, and the choir broke into more songs—songs he couldn’t sing along to, even though he tried to mouth the unfamiliar words. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, didn’t want anyone to hear him stumble through the lyrics, and so he kept his mouth shut. He was content to simply sit there, endure the discomfort, and be with Ciarán. After all, what else could he do? A few hours, once a week, to sit beside his husband in a place that made Ciarán so happy, to witness the serenity that always seemed to radiate from him—it was a small price to pay. Every time he glanced at Ciarán, his face filled with peace, Graham couldn’t help but feel a deep ache in his chest. He was content in a way that Graham hadn’t been for years. Maybe, just maybe, he was finally learning how to be content too.

Communion came and went, and although it was familiar to Graham—he’d had a taste of it during his time in the war, where the chaplain would bless them before battles, offering quick communion before they marched to their deaths—it was nothing like what he was experiencing now. The rushed, battlefront rituals had been blunt, pragmatic. No time for ceremony, no time for reflection. Here, in the quiet of the church, everything felt drawn out, slow, and deliberate. The priest gave each person their wafer, their sip of wine, and Graham accepted it, the taste lingering on his tongue long afterthe ritual had finished. The whole experience left him feeling both grounded and strangely detached.

When the service finally ended, Graham let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He hoped that they could slip away and share a meal together, just the two of them, away from the crowds. But no. That wasn’t to be. The social aspect of church was as much a part of the experience as the service itself. The people clustered in groups, talking and laughing, introducing themselves to new faces, and catching up with old ones. Ciarán, ever the social butterfly, was immediately caught up in the tide of conversation. He greeted people, smiled brightly, introduced himself to new faces, and made small talk with those who had attended their wedding.

Graham stood back, watching him, wishing he could just sneak away with Ciarán and forget about the formality of it all. He would’ve been content to just slip away from the bustle, to find some quiet corner where the two of them could talk and share a meal. But instead, he found himself standing awkwardly as Ciarán made the rounds. Ronan, ever the easygoing one, stood off to the side as well, content to wait for Liam to finish a particularly animated conversation with one of the townswomen.

Graham was lost in thought, daydreaming about the simple pleasures of a quiet lunch with Ciarán, when Liam’s voice suddenly cut through the chatter. “Ah, they must be joking! You can’t misplace two beasts like that!”

Graham’s attention snapped back to the conversation. “What’s going on?” he asked, moving closer.

Ciarán was the one who explained. “The Duncans are missing two horses. The sheriff says they might have just wandered off, but Mr. and Mrs. Duncan are sure it’s theft.”

Graham, who had a mind for details and a keen sense of the practical, furrowed his brow. There was something off about this. He didn’t trust it. “Any description of the thief?”

“No,” Liam answered. “They woke up in the morning, and two of their finest were just gone—a mare and a stallion.”

“Nothing broken? The fences?” Graham pressed, trying to gather more information. It didn’t add up. Horses like that didn’t just wander off.

“Not a one,” Liam confirmed, shaking his head. “All was fine until they noticed they were gone.”

Graham’s suspicion deepened. “Those animals were stolen,” he said firmly. “The sheriff thinks they just wandered off?”

“Well, I’ve never had use for a lawman in my life. Is that not so, my love?” Ronan’s deep voice rumbled, his hand resting comfortably on Liam’s shoulder.

“Sea, tá sé amhlaidh, mo ghrá,” Liam agreed with a low chuckle, but it wasn’t as jovial as it seemed.

One of the churchgoers, overhearing them, looked scandalized. “Sir, how can you say such a thing?” she gasped. “What would happen if some of your livestock went missing—why, who would you go to?”

Ronan’s reply came smoothly, without missing a beat. “Well, first I’d go to my husband, and then I’d go to my rifle, and we would find them ourselves. Wouldn’t we, my love?” He turned to Liam, who nodded, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“Sea, mo ghrá,” Liam agreed again, their bond evident in the shared understanding between them.

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