Page 32 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Ciarán’s hand stopped moving. “By myself?” he asked.

“That was before,” Graham said hastily. “Before we—you know, when I was sleeping in the barn. I didn’t want you here in the house alone. But now I’ll be here. With you. Won’t I?”

His husband gave a sigh of relief and snuggled closer to him, soft and warm. “Right.”

“But I still aim to find you a puppy.”

Ciarán hummed. “That’d be nice. I’d like a puppy,” he murmured.

???

Their honeymoon had finally arrived and they indulged with vigor. Their nights were longer, their days started later, and their chores were often interrupted.

One morning Graham found Ciarán in the middle of cooking breakfast and had bent him over, palms flat on the kitchen table, and taken him from behind. The biscuits had come out of the oven slightly burnt, but it was nothing a little extra jam hadn’t fixed, and they’d eaten with wide grins on their faces.

Another day they were working together in the barn and Ciarán had bumped the side of Graham’s hip with his and smirked. They’d fought, playful, teasing, eager, until Graham shoved him into the hay bale and pulled Ciarán’s pants down and pulled his own cock out and pounded into his husband until they were sweaty and satisfied. Afterwards, they’d spent quite some time picking the hay from their hair and clothes.

And, every night, when the day was done, they always found the energy to kiss and rub and stroke one another, to simply enjoy making love and learn the contours of each other’s body.

The bed was too small, to be sure. They slept wrapped in one another’s arms with Graham dangerously close to tipping right off the side. But neither of them found that they really minded all that much—and if Graham was too busy with other activities and could only work on the new bed intermittently, then, well, it wasn’t too much of a bother.

???

Graham’s sleep had been unusually peaceful lately, filled with dreams of sun-drenched days and Ciarán. In the dream, Ciarán was always waiting for him—lightly dressed, reclining on the soft, sun-warmed grass, a serene smile on his face. He’d wave and beckon, and Graham would walk toward him, his heart brimming with affection, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his hands, their fragrant petals filling the air. Every step closer to him made his heart beat faster, the feeling of finally reaching him overwhelming in its simplicity and joy.

But tonight, something felt wrong. Despite his every effort, Graham couldn't seem to get any closer to Ciarán. The figure of his husband remained just out of reach, always waving, always calling for him, but no matter how much he walked, the distance between them remained constant, unyielding. The dream began to fray at the edges. The air turned thick and heavy, the soft grass beneath his feet shifting into something darker, rougher.

Suddenly, a terrible noise shattered the stillness—a deafening series of crashes, each louder and more violent than the last. Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like cannon fire, the deep booms shaking the very ground beneath him. The sky darkened, swirling with clouds that had a hue of foreboding, and the once-soft grass beneath his feet turned to a thick, churned mud. The air smelled of gunpowder, thick and acrid, and there was only chaos around him.

And there, in the distance, was Ciarán—still too far away, still calling for him, but now with panic in his voice. Graham’s heart pounded in his chest. No, no, no, he thought. His legs moved before he even had time to think, propelling him forward through the growing cacophony. He had to get to Ciarán. He couldn’t let him be alone out there in the chaos. He couldn’t let anything happen to him.

He could hear Ciarán’s voice, desperate, calling for him. “Graham! Graham!”

His foot caught on something—his leg flared with pain, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He pushed forward, each step heavier than the last, his body screaming for rest, but his heart—his heart drove him onward. He had to reach him.

And just as the distance between them seemed like it would close, a horrific crack echoed through the night, and then—

“Graham!” A voice, sharp and real, broke through the nightmare.

Graham jerked awake, his body tensing as if he had been holding his breath for too long. His eyes flickered open, blurry and disoriented. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, only that something wasn’t right. The sounds of the nightmare still echoed in his mind, lingering like a shadow. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream.

Above him stood Ciarán, his face pale, a worried expression etched on his features. One hand rested gently on Graham’s shoulder.

Graham blinked, his pulse still racing. “What’s—what’s going on?” he muttered, still half-caught in the remnants of his nightmare.

“There’s someone outside the house.” Ciarán’s voice was tight, his eyes flickering toward the window, where the shadows seemed unnaturally still.

Before Graham could ask anything further, there was a terrible sound—a thundering, forceful knock that shook the front door. Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like someone was trying to tear it off its hinges. Graham’s instincts kicked in, adrenaline flooding his veins. His body, still groggy from sleep, responded automatically.

He sprang out of bed, reaching for the rifle that hung on the wall beside him. He grabbed it with urgency, the weight of it comforting in his hands, a steadying force in the chaos that had just erupted in their home.

“Stay inside,” Graham whispered to Ciarán, his voice low and firm as he turned toward the door.

He cursed under his breath. Should’ve found a dog—even a lazy hound would’ve been enough to alert them to any danger before it reached their doorstep. But now it was too late.

With a deep breath, Graham flung open the door, ready for whatever danger might lie beyond. But what he didn’t expect was the sight before him: the cart belonging to Liam and Ronan, both horses visibly spooked, whinnying and kicking up the dirt in a frenzy. The animals’ eyes were wide with terror, their bodies shaking, and at the back of the cart, a bulky figure was moving—Ronan, no doubt.

Graham lowered the rifle, his heart racing for entirely different reasons now. “Ronan? What’s going on?” His voice was rough with concern.

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