Page 27 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“Sometimes I just wonder if you’re happy with me,” Ciarán murmured, almost too quietly to hear.

Graham’s heart swelled with affection. He leaned in closer, his voice firm as he spoke. “I’m happy,” he said, his gaze steady. “Whatever else you might worry about, don’t—don’t worry about that. I’m happy that you’re here, Ciarán. That you’re here with me. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression at church.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across Ciarán’s face. He seemed to breathe a little easier now. “Does that mean—what if Liam and Ronan hadn’t been there? Where would we have sat?”

Graham puffed out his chest with mock bravado. “I would’ve gotten us a seat. Even if I had to throw someone on their ass.”

Ciarán burst into laughter, the sound like music to Graham’s ears. “Graham! You wouldn’t have!”

“I’d have cleared a pew just for the two of us,” Graham declared, his chest swelling with pride.

Still laughing, Ciarán leaned in a little closer, resting his head against Graham’s shoulder. They still had a ways to go before they reached the ranch, but for once, Graham didn’t mind the distance.

Chapter Eight

“There’s not a single puppy in this town,” Graham muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. He’d spent the better part of the past week traveling from farm to farm, asking every rancher and farmer he could find about the possibility of a dog with puppies for sale. He’d even put the word out to a few neighbors, hoping for a lead, but it was as if the very idea of puppies had evaporated from Larkspur. Not a single one to be found, not even a stray. He might as well have been searching for buried treasure.

Oscar, the postmaster, raised an eyebrow and glanced over at him with an expression of mild amusement. “Well, they’re not like chicken eggs, Graham. They don’t just pop out every day.”

Graham shot him a withering look. “I’m aware, Oscar. Thank you.”

“I’m only saying,” Oscar replied, turning back to his work, sifting through more letters and packages. He seemed completely unaffected by Graham’s visible frustration. “Give it a couple of months, though. I’m sure someone’s dog will get loose and turn up with a handful of puppies. Happens all the time around here.”

Graham grunted in response, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had hoped, even just once, to find a dog that might meet his needs—faithful, protective, and affectionate—but every visit hadbeen a disappointment. And as the days passed, his impatience was growing. It wasn’t just about the dog anymore, either. Ciarán had been asking him about the guard dog idea more and more, and Graham felt the pressure of needing to deliver on his promise. It was a good idea, wasn’t it? To keep Ciarán safe. To have something that could protect their home when Graham wasn’t there. But if no puppies were turning up, he was starting to wonder if his plan would ever come to fruition.

Oscar’s voice broke through his thoughts, offering a slight diversion. “Ah, here we go. A package for Mr. Ciarán Shepherd, straight from Ireland.” Oscar tapped the top of the package with his finger, bringing Graham’s attention to it. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, neatly folded, with a green ribbon tied around it. There was something familiar about the handwriting on the label—Ciarán’s father’s handwriting, the letters flowing and dignified in their formation.

Graham felt his frustration momentarily melt away as he reached for the package. The weight of it seemed reassuring. It wasn’t enormous, but it was substantial enough to feel like something important, something Ciarán would appreciate. He felt a small thrill as he took it into his hands, his fingers brushing the green ribbon. It was always a joy to receive something from Ireland, but the fact that this was from Ciarán’s father made it all the more meaningful. It would mean a lot to Ciarán. It would give him a connection to his family, a piece of home that would remind him of where he came from. Graham could already picture the way Ciarán’s face would light up when he saw the package.

He glanced down at the package again, admiring the care with which it had been wrapped. This would be something special, something Ciarán could hold onto. Maybe it was a letter or a small token of some sort, or perhaps even something more.Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. It would make Ciarán’s day, and that was all that mattered to Graham.

Oscar saw the change in Graham’s demeanor, and the postmaster smirked, clearly pleased to have provided a small bright spot in his otherwise mundane day. “There you go, Graham. Looks like it’s a little slice of home for your husband.”

“Yeah, it sure is,” Graham said with a genuine smile, his mood lifting as he tucked the package under his arm. The thought of Ciarán’s joy over the surprise was enough to make the rest of the day seem more bearable. Maybe he hadn’t found a dog, but at least he had something to bring back with him—something that would make Ciarán smile.

He thanked Oscar for his time and left the post office in a much better mood than when he had entered.

???

Ginger’s ears twitched as the soft rays of the sun warmed her coat. She carried herself with a light, carefree canter down the familiar path, and Graham couldn't help but smile. He, too, was glad for the bright day. The warmth of it spread through him like a balm after a long morning of travel. His hand absently stroked Ginger's neck as they trotted toward home. The package from Ciarán’s father was nestled safely in Ginger’s saddlebag, and Graham couldn’t wait to give it to his husband. It felt like a tangible connection from the past, a little piece of Ireland coming across the sea to land in their hands, and he was eager to see Ciarán’s face when he opened it.

But as they neared the ranch, he was about to encounter a surprise that eclipsed even the one he’d been preparing for.

The sight that greeted him as he approached the house made him pause in his tracks. The line had been set up—perfectly, it seemed—with all manner of clothes fluttering inthe breeze. But not just any clothes. No, there, hanging in full view, was a collection of garments that made Graham’s heart jump into his throat. His husband’s undergarments—his shifts, stockings, undershirts, and chemises—all billowing in the wind, as if they were the most ordinary things in the world. Some had delicate lace trim; others were simpler, worn and mended in places. White and cream fabrics gently swayed, catching the light. There was something almost delicate about it, the way they were all pinned to the line in such an orderly fashion.

And yet, all Graham could focus on was the fact that they were his—Ciarán’s personal garments, so intimate, so private. The mere thought of them drying in the wind made Graham feel conspicuously exposed. It felt almost… indecent, even though he knew it shouldn’t. There was no reason for him to be so embarrassed by the simple sight of his husband’s things hanging in the sun. But somehow, there it was, as if a layer of privacy had been peeled away and left out in the open for anyone to see.

He hopped off Ginger, ignoring the laundry as best as he could. He retrieved the package from the saddlebag and tucked it firmly under his arm, determined not to look at the fluttering clothes. The last thing he wanted was to make this moment awkward, so he focused instead on the task at hand—delivering Ciarán’s package. He couldn’t let anything ruin this moment.

As he drew closer, Ciarán’s bright, welcoming face turned toward him. He grinned broadly, his eyes lighting up with a warmth that Graham couldn’t resist. “Laundry day!” Ciarán called out cheerfully. “I think I made good time on it all. It’s been a while since I’ve had to do laundry for two people, but look!” He beamed at the drying clothes with pride.

Graham, trying his hardest not to stare at the undergarments flapping in the wind, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yeah, looks good. Very—uh, clean. I went to the post office today. Something came in for you,” he said, holdingthe package out with both hands. His voice was slightly strained, but he was doing his best to act as though the laundry was just another part of their routine.

Ciarán’s face lit up the moment he saw the green ribbon on the package. There was a moment of breathless anticipation before a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a cry of delight—escaped from his lips. Graham half-expected him to grab the package eagerly, but instead, Ciarán stepped closer, almost reverently. He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of it, and gently lifted it as though it might break in his hands. He traced a finger lightly along the elegant handwriting on the package, his expression softening with emotion. “Oh, Graham,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips, “Thank you so much for bringing this to me.”

The warmth in Ciarán’s voice, the sheer adoration and gratitude, made Graham uncomfortable. He didn’t deserve such praise. He was merely the messenger, after all. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to respond. “I’m just the messenger,” he muttered, but his voice was quiet, as if even he didn’t believe the words.

Ciarán didn’t seem to mind. He cradled the package to his chest, clearly overcome with emotion. “Do you—have you eaten?” Graham asked, desperate to shift the focus elsewhere. He didn’t want to stand there feeling like he was some sort of hero. He just wanted to see his husband happy, and if Ciarán wanted to open the package, then that’s what he would let him do.

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