Page 36 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Ciarán moved closer immediately, his face softening into an expression of gentle empathy. "Let me help?" he asked, his voice full of the unspoken understanding that had bloomed between them over the years.

In the early days of their marriage, Graham would’ve recoiled at such an offer. The thought of letting Ciarán see him vulnerable, exposed like that, would have been too much to bear. He would have refused him, even though the longing for care and touch was there. And Ciarán, just as shy and earnest, likely wouldn’t have asked in such an open, unassuming way. But time had taught them both differently. They’d shared more than a bed and a life; they’d shared the growing, tender understanding that intimacy came in many forms. And now, as he looked into Ciarán’s big, brown eyes, the only thing he felt was gratitude.

Graham sighed, leaning back against a bale of hay and giving a reluctant nod. "Go ahead, then," he murmured.

Ciarán moved toward him with a softness that felt almost reverent, kneeling beside him as he adjusted his nightgown. He was a quiet figure in the half-darkness, but his touch spoke volumes. Gently, he placed his hands on Graham’s leg, beginning to knead the sore muscles of his thigh. He worked with care, massaging the scar tissue with a tenderness that made Graham’s heart swell.

It was a different kind of intimacy than what they were used to, not charged with the heady warmth of passion, butwith a depth of connection all its own. The touch wasn’t about desire, but about the quiet act of care, of making sure the other was okay, that the wounds of the body and soul were tended to. Ciarán’s brow furrowed slightly in concentration as he worked, his fingers pressing into the taut muscles with determination.

Graham closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax into the sensation, the gentle rhythm of Ciarán’s hands working away the stiffness in his leg. Outside, the rooster’s crow rang out, loud and insistent, as if proclaiming to the heavens that the sun had no right to be so bold in the sky. It was a familiar, almost comical sound—loud and raucous, and Graham couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it.

Ciarán caught his eye, a soft, tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They exchanged a fond glance, each of them feeling the same quiet acknowledgment that it was time to face the day, to step back into the world and the work that awaited them.

Graham reached out, pulling Ciarán closer. They shared a brief, but affectionate kiss, a quick meeting of lips that spoke more than any words could. There was no hurry, no rush—just a moment to connect before the day began.

"Good morning, Graham," Ciarán said softly, his voice still carrying the warmth of sleep.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Graham replied, his own voice thick with affection.

Down the ladder they went to lead the animals out to the pasture. A cow nibbled at Ciarán’s curls in a way that Graham worried was less affectionate and more that she thought his hair some sort of appetizing plant, and he shooed her away. She shot Graham a withering glare and wandered away to join the rest of the herd with a huff.

“Watch yourself when you’re milking her today, or you might lose your hair,” he told Ciarán.

Ciarán chuckled. “You never mentioned that particular danger in your letters.”

“Slipped my mind. There’s so many,” Graham said. He was only half joking. The sight of Liam’s bloody, unconscious form and Ronan’s distraught face was seared into his mind. Curious cows, and the occasional murderous thief. Just a few perils a rancher might face. “We need to get ready. There’s a lot to be done today.”

???

Breakfast was a hurried affair, with everyone working on autopilot, moving quickly despite the exhaustion of the previous night. Ciarán bustled about the kitchen, preparing sandwiches for the road and making sure they had enough to eat for the day ahead. Graham inhaled his breakfast in the same frantic manner, knowing they couldn’t waste any time. As soon as the last bite of food was swallowed, he grabbed his coat and went outside to check on the cart and the horses.

The morning light was still soft and golden, casting long shadows across the yard. The air was crisp, the kind of chill that made you draw your coat tight around you and wish for the warmth of a fire. The animals, however, didn’t seem bothered by the cold. They stood patiently, their coats gleaming in the light, the warm breath from their nostrils rising in little clouds. The cart, though, was another matter. While the horses seemed in good spirits, the cart was another story. There were stains of dried blood on the wheels, splatters that made Graham's stomach tighten. He forced himself to inspect the cart carefully, even as his throat went dry at the sight. He checked the wheels, looking for any signs of damage, but nothing appeared to be wrong with it. No cracks in the wood, no bent axles, just the remnants of the chaos from the previous night.

A shadow fell over him, and Graham straightened up, turning to find Ronan standing nearby. The Irishman was petting one of the horses, his hand moving slowly over its mane as though the motion itself provided him some small comfort. Ronan looked a mess—his clothes were rumpled, his hair wild, and the bags under his eyes were massive, as if sleep had eluded him entirely. The anguish in his face was raw, impossible to hide. It seemed as though the terror of the night had worn itself into his very bones, the worry over Liam eating him alive.

Graham cleared his throat and asked, “How’s Liam?”

Ronan’s voice was rough as he replied, “Codlaíonn sé.” His eyes flickered with a sorrow too deep to articulate, and he quickly looked away.

Ciarán, who had been finishing up the last bit of preparation for their trip, hurried to their side to translate. “Sleeping,” he said gently to Graham, his tone laced with the care he always gave to Ronan’s heavy heart. To Ronan, he added softly, “That’s good. Tá scíth de dhíth air,” which Graham knew meant, "He needs rest."

Ronan’s face crumpled at the words, and his lower lip trembled. For a long moment, he stood silently, his gaze focused on the horses, but his eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Graham and Ciarán purposefully avoided looking at him directly, letting him have this moment of quiet vulnerability. Finally, Ronan sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Mo grá. Ní féidir liom a iompróidh—chun é a fheiceáil gortaithe.”

The pain in his voice made Graham's chest tighten. Ciarán’s comforting hand rested on Ronan’s shoulder, and he spoke again, the words smooth and steady, a balm to the rawness of the man’s grief. “Beidh sé ceart go leor, Ronan.” It was the same thing he had said the night before, those simple words that meant, "It will be okay, Ronan." Graham could seein Ciarán's eyes the depth of that promise—whatever happened, they would make sure Ronan and Liam made it through this.

Graham clapped Ronan lightly on the back and said, "We should be on our way."

Ronan looked at him, a weary nod of agreement. "You won’t hear the end of it if Liam wakes up and the chores haven’t been done," Graham added with a small grin, trying to lighten the mood.

Ronan’s lips quivered, and he let out a watery smile, the first one Graham had seen from him since last night. “Tá tu ceart. Tá tu ceart, Graham,” he said quietly. You’re right. You’re right.

With that, they all set to work, preparing the horses and loading up the cart. Ciarán had packed them a generous stack of oatcakes, each one carefully wrapped in a cloth, as well as the remainder of the jar of raspberry jam. Three boiled eggs each, some strips of jerky, and a few apples filled the baskets. “Is that enough?” Ciarán asked, his brow furrowed in concern. “Oh, I’m sure I can manage to make something more for the two of you—”

Graham chuckled, cutting him off before he could get too carried away. "It’ll do just fine, Ciarán. Don’t worry." His husband had a way of over-packing, of always ensuring that every possibility was covered. Sometimes, it felt like the cart might collapse under the weight of Ciarán’s generosity.

“All right, then,” Ciarán said, still looking at the cart with an anxious expression. “Be careful. Both of you.”

The parting felt strange. With Ronan right there, it didn’t seem right to indulge in the private moments of affection that Graham and Ciarán were so accustomed to. There was something almost obscene about their marital bliss in the shadow of Liam's unconscious form, still in bed, bloodied and bruised. It felt wrong to show the kind of closeness that was sonatural for them while Ronan was silently suffering through his own private heartache.

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