Page 33 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Ronan stepped forward, his face pale and strained with fear. But it wasn’t just the cart that caught Graham’s attention—it was the limp bundle in Ronan’s arms. A deep dread settled in Graham’s chest as he saw who the figure was: Liam. His friend was bloody, his face ashen, his eyes closed. There was a deep gash on the side of his head, blood soaking the side of his shirt and dripping steadily onto the dirt beneath them.

Graham’s stomach twisted. “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered, moving quickly toward them.

“Cabhraigh liom, le do thoil,” Ronan’s voice was frantic, his words tumbling out in rapid Irish. “Le do thoil. Tá sé gortaithe go dona. Mo fhear céile—Níl a fhios agam cad atá le déanamh.” He was sobbing, his shoulders shaking as he cradled Liam’s head, desperate and terrified.

Graham’s mind raced. A doctor, they needed a doctor, and fast. But first, they had to get Liam inside, out of the cold, away from the cart. He spun around, calling over his shoulder, “Ciarán? It’s Liam and Ronan—they need help.”

Almost immediately, Ciarán emerged from the house, his face drawn with worry. He held a lantern in his hand, its warm glow lighting the space between them. His eyes were wide with concern. “What’s happened, Graham?”

“I don’t know,” Graham said, his voice tight with fear. “It looks like Liam’s hurt bad.” The words felt hollow in his mouth. He didn’t even know if Liam was still alive. “We’ve got to get him inside. Calm Ronan down, and I need to get the doctor.”

Ciarán’s face hardened with determination. “Yes. Of course.” His voice wavered only slightly, but there was no doubt in his eyes. He moved swiftly, gently taking Ronan’s arm and leading him toward the bedroom, speaking to him in a calming rush of Irish. Graham turned his gaze toward the back of the cart, and it was there—there was blood, staining the wood beneath Liam.

He placed his rifle back on the wall, his mind already running through the possibilities of what needed to be done next. Ciarán emerged from the house, his hands shaking as he held a bloodstained rag. His eyes were wide, and his voice was full of panic. “Oh, Graham, it’s terrible—someone tried to steal Liam and Ronan’s sheep. Liam tried to stop them—he was hit over the head. We’re so much closer to town than the doctor, and Ronan wasn’t sure if he’d make it.”

The blood had already soaked through Liam’s shirt, and from the looks of it, the injury was more than just a bad bump. It was a serious wound, and there was no telling how long he’d been out there before they arrived.

Graham’s heart clenched with helplessness. “We have to do what we can right now. If he doesn’t make it to the doctor in time…” He trailed off, his mind racing.

“I think—I think I can stitch him up,” Ciarán said, his voice unsteady, but determined. “But Graham, we need the doctor. We need him now.”

Graham nodded. “Right. I’ll take Ginger and—” He paused, then reconsidered. Ginger was too slow, too old for such a frantic ride. He would need to go faster, and that meant he would need Bó.

Ciarán’s face softened with understanding. “Go, go. Just… be careful, Graham, please.”

“I will,” Graham promised. He pressed a kiss to Ciarán’s cheek, feeling the brush of his husband’s skin beneath his lips. The sensation grounded him, anchoring him in the moment, before he turned and ran toward the stables, knowing every second counted.

???

Mrs. Duncan had sold him a fine horse. Bó was strong and sure-footed, built for the hard miles that Graham needed to cover. The moonless night enveloped them in darkness, the prairie stretching out wide and silent before him. Graham kept one hand firm on the reins, guiding Bó through the thick night air, and the other clutched the lantern that Ciarán had lit just before he’d left. The light flickered in the wind, casting strange shadows against the vast emptiness around them. Traveling at night was always a risky business, but tonight, it was a necessity.

The pounding hooves of Bó against the hard-packed earth were steady, but the urgency in Graham’s chest didn’t subside. Liam’s injury was serious, and every second counted. The prairie stretched wide, the roads familiar, but the darknessmade everything seem more foreboding. A single misstep or misjudgment could be the difference between getting to town and losing more precious time. But Graham had grown up on this land, knew every twist and turn, every landmark along the way, and he trusted that knowledge now more than ever.

They rode on, faster than Graham had intended, the horse's muscles rippling beneath him as Bó carried them through the night. Graham’s mind kept drifting back to Liam’s bloody, limp form, the pale face, the depth of the gash on his head. He pushed the thought aside. They weren’t there yet, and he couldn’t afford to lose his focus. Every thundering gallop of Bó’s hooves drove them closer, closer to the help that Liam so desperately needed.

As they neared the outskirts of town, a few people stumbling out of the saloon blinked up in confusion, barely registering the speed of Graham’s ride. One of them, a drunkard with a bottle in hand, shouted at him in a slurred voice. “What’s the hurry?”

Graham barely spared him a glance, his jaw clenched in frustration. The town’s noise and idleness were nothing to him right now. He was thinking of Liam, and that was all that mattered. “No time for idle chatter,” Graham muttered under his breath, urging Bó to keep going.

Graham could see the silhouette of the doctor’s office at the end of the street, just past Mrs. Fournier’s shop. The familiar sight was a beacon of hope in the otherwise oppressive darkness. They reached it in no time, the horse barely slowing before Graham threw himself from Bó’s back. He didn’t waste a second. His boots hit the dirt with a thud, and he hurried to the door of the doctor's office, his hand thumping against it with force.

“Doctor! Got an emergency!” he shouted, his voice carrying with the urgency of the moment.

There was a pause, a muffled thump, and then the door creaked open a crack. The doctor’s sharp eyes appeared through the narrow opening, narrowing as they fell on Graham. “You don’t sound drunk enough to be bothering me at this hour, Mr. Shepherd,” she said, her voice laced with dry humor, but her eyes were scanning him, gauging his seriousness.

“I’m not here for a drink,” Graham snapped, the tension in his voice clear. “Thieves got into Liam and Ronan’s ranch. Liam tried to stop them. He’s in real bad shape. We’ve got him at my house—my husband’s doing his best, but we need you, doctor. Right now.”

For a moment, the doctor just stared at him, then her gaze flickered to the lantern in his hand, to the palpable desperation in his stance. She sighed and nodded, her expression softening with understanding. “Fine. You’ve got my attention. Let me grab my bag.”

As the doctor moved to gather her things, her wife appeared at the door, a large leather bag slung over her shoulder. “You go on, dear. I’ll alert the sheriff,” she said with a concerned frown, glancing out toward the street, as if wondering what had brought on such a late-night emergency. “What’s this town coming to?”

Graham didn’t answer. The sheriff could deal with whatever mess was brewing in the town; right now, the only thing that mattered was getting Liam the help he needed. He looked at the doctor, who had already gathered her supplies, her expression grave. “You ready?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.

“Let’s go,” the doctor replied, her tone businesslike now, as she moved toward the door.

Graham mounted Bó again, and the doctor climbed onto her own mount. The town was quiet, save for the occasional rattle of a shutter or the distant murmur of the saloon. Grahamdidn’t look back. His focus was on the road ahead, on getting to his home, to Ciarán, to Liam—and praying it wasn’t too late.

???

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