Page 34 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

The doctor was a good rider. She and her horse kept pace with Bó, the two of them galloping through the darkened prairie as if they were chasing time itself. Graham kept his eyes ahead, the steady rhythm of Bó’s hooves a comforting beat beneath him, but his mind was consumed with the thought of Liam and the bloodied state he'd left him in. There was no time to waste. Every second could be the difference between life and death.

Behind them, Graham could hear the clopping hooves of the sheriff and his deputy, a trio of horses now following the frantic pace. If it’d been a race, they would’ve made it to the house in record time. But tonight, the race wasn’t for victory—it was for survival. Graham’s thoughts were clouded with the image of Liam’s pale face, the gash on his head, the blood that had soaked through Ciarán’s hands. All he could do was push forward, praying they wouldn’t be too late.

“Come on,” he muttered to Bó, urging the horse on. “Ciarán’s been tending to them—he’s holding on, he’s holding on…”

They reached the house, the flickering lights from the lantern in Graham’s hand casting eerie shadows on the land around them. The night was silent but for the soft rustling of the wind in the grass. It felt as though time itself had slowed. The moment they entered the yard, the house seemed so small in the vastness of the world, and yet tonight, it felt like the only place that mattered.

The house was cramped with so many people inside. The tension was thick in the air, palpable and suffocating. Not everyone could fit in the bedroom, so the doctor, being the firstto arrive, went in alone. After a few hushed minutes, Ciarán emerged to explain, his eyes exhausted but resolute.

"I did what I could. His breathing is slow, and the bleeding's slowed, but—" He didn’t finish. The exhaustion was evident on his face, the weight of the night’s events pulling on him.

"But at least he's breathing," Graham interjected, trying to offer comfort, though his words didn’t quite have the strength they needed.

"Yes," Ciarán sighed, his shoulders heavy with the burden of what he had witnessed. "I think I’ll make some tea. Something to warm us all up."

Graham nodded absently as Ciarán went to the stove. His hands were shaking, and he could feel his stomach twist with the unease that refused to leave him. He’d done all he could for Liam and Ronan, but it still didn’t feel like enough. The doctor had said that Liam would survive, but the uncertainty of it all hung in the air like a storm cloud, waiting to burst.

After two cups of tea—too much sugar and too little comfort—Ciarán finally led the deputy and sheriff to the main room. There, they would question Ronan about the events that had led to Liam’s injury. Graham watched from the corner, his chest tight, as the deputy leaned forward with his typical brusque tone.

“Well, what’d they look like? Was it someone from town or a stranger?” the deputy demanded, his tone clipped.

Ronan, still clearly in shock, began to speak in a rapid stream of Irish, his words tumbling out like a river that couldn’t be stopped. Ciarán, standing close by, translated quickly, his voice calm but strained with concern.

“He didn’t see,” Ciarán explained. “They heard a noise and thought one of the sheep had escaped the barn again. Apparently, they’ve a very clever one, and Liam went out tocheck. That’s when he found someone trying to carry off some of their livestock. Liam called for help, but by the time Ronan reached the barn, the thief had already gone, and Liam was… was hurt.”

Graham could see the deputy’s impatience growing. “You just let him get away? You didn’t go after him?” he asked, the accusation thick in his voice.

Ronan’s glare could’ve leveled a city. He stood stiff, the tension in his muscles visible. The words that left his lips were thick with anger, and Graham didn’t need a translation to understand the tone. “Is beag nach bhfuair m’fhear bás! Is é do phost gadaithe a ghabháil! Ní tharlódh a leithéid dá mba rud é—”

He broke off with a sob, his shoulders shaking with emotion. Ciarán, ever steady, reached out and placed a hand on Ronan’s arm, whispering soft words of reassurance. “Beidh sé ceart go leor, Ronan.”

Graham could feel the anger bubbling in his own chest. He didn’t speak much Irish, but he understood what Ronan was saying. If it had been Ciarán lying on the ground, bleeding, what would he have done? The same thing. Ciarán was his world, just as Liam was Ronan’s. But the deputy didn’t understand that. He didn’t understand the gravity of a man’s love for his partner.

“Maybe if you’d taken the theft at the Duncans’ place seriously,” Graham snapped, voice low but thick with frustration, “the thief wouldn’t have gotten so bold and we wouldn’t all be here in the first place.”

The deputy straightened, his face going red with indignation. “Are you implying this is our fault?”

“I’m not implying shit,” Graham retorted, standing taller. “I’m stating it.”

The deputy moved to retaliate, his chest puffing up, but before he could open his mouth, Ciarán’s voice cut through the tension like a whip.

“See here!” Ciarán said, his voice sharp and commanding. Despite his smaller stature, his presence filled the entire room. “We’ve had enough excitement for one night! There’s a man who dearly needs rest in the other room! You will not argue in my house! If you’re going to quarrel, do it outside!”

The deputy, stunned by the outburst, mumbled an apology, his face turning pink with embarrassment. Graham flushed as well, his temper having gotten the better of him. He turned to Ciarán, his voice dropping. “I’m sorry, Ciarán.”

But Ciarán, ever gracious, simply gave him a soft look. “It’s alright, Graham. Just… just breathe.”

Turning back to the sheriff, Ciarán said, his voice much calmer, “I don’t know if there’s anything else we can tell you.”

The sheriff sighed, looking toward the door. “In the morning, we’ll take a look around the ranch, see if we can find anything. And we’ll put out a bulletin in town, let everyone know to be on the lookout. Thank you for the tea, Mr. Shepherd.”

“You’re welcome,” Ciarán replied softly.

Graham stood up and offered to walk the sheriff and deputy out. He saw them to their horses, the tension in the air still thick, but nothing more was said. The sheriff tipped his hat to Graham with a solemn look in his eyes. “Looks like you found yourself a fine husband, Graham.”

“I know it,” Graham replied quietly, his eyes on Ciarán, who was standing in the doorway of the house, waiting for him.

The sheriff cleared his throat, looking away. “We’ve had thieves before. And drunkards—many a drunkard. Even some brawls. But I think this is the first time something like this has happened in this town.” He shook his head. “An attack. A near-murder.”

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