Page 37 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

As Ronan climbed onto the cart, Graham caught Ciarán’s eye, giving him a small, reassuring smile. He pressed his index and middle fingers to his lips, then placed them gently on Ciarán’s. "I’ll be back tonight," he whispered, his voice low but certain.

Ciarán's lips curved into a soft, fond smile, and he nodded. "I’ll be waiting," he said quietly, the words filled with an intimacy only the two of them shared.

???

Graham rode ahead on Ginger, the horse’s steady gait cutting through the morning air with ease. The rhythmic clop of hooves accompanied the slow creak of the cart behind him, where Ronan followed with the horses pulling the load, their pace unhurried and methodical. The cart didn’t need much guiding, the animals were well-trained, and Ronan seemed to let the journey unfold before him, lost in his own thoughts. His gaze was distant, his mind no doubt still tangled in worry over Liam.

Graham glanced over his shoulder, watching the cart’s slow movement as the wheels turned in the dirt with a constant, almost soothing sound. The horses nickered softly, occasionally tossing their heads as they made their way down the familiar path. The air was still and mild, an unusual calm that contrasted sharply with the storm of emotions brewing in Graham’s chest. He could feel his own thoughts weighing heavily on him, though he tried to push them aside for the moment.

Theirs had never been a friendship that was built on constant conversation. That wasn’t what connected him to Ronan in the first place. They had always bonded over the shared work, the silent camaraderie that came with tending tocattle, fixing fences, and plowing fields. It was a relationship built on mutual respect and the understanding that words weren’t always necessary. But now, as the day stretched on with little more than the sound of the wheels and the distant calls of birds overhead, Graham found himself wishing for something—anything—to say. Anything that might ease the visible weight of grief and worry that Ronan carried.

Could he assure him that Liam would be okay? That he would pull through, despite the severity of his injury? The doctor had said as much, and surely, that should be enough to calm Ronan’s nerves. But Graham knew better than anyone that when it came to the people you loved, nothing—nothing—could erase the worry that gnawed at you. Especially when they had been hurt at the hands of someone else's malicious intent.

He could promise that they would catch the bastard who did it, that justice would be served. But the sheriff and his deputy had already shown their ineptitude when they arrived at the ranch. The deputy’s accusatory manner had made Graham’s blood boil, and the sheriff’s half-hearted assurances didn’t exactly fill him with hope for a swift resolution. The wheels of justice often moved slowly, and right now, it felt like they were stuck in the mud.

Graham was about to offer some sort of empty reassurances about the mild weather when the sound of another wagon approaching broke his thoughts. He looked up to see a family coming down the road, the driver waving with a broad grin on his face.

"Ah! Dia daoibh! Mr. Shepherd! Ronan! Good, we were hoping to run into you!" the driver called out with a cheerful tone, his voice carrying easily through the quiet morning.

Graham blinked, his mind racing. The family seemed familiar. He knew he had seen them at his wedding, but for thelife of him, he couldn’t quite place their names. He raised a hand in greeting. “You were?”

The woman in the wagon laughed, the sound warm and inviting. “Well, more Ronan than you, truth be told. We wanted to check up on your Liam, Ronan,” she said, her eyes showing concern. “We got the news about what happened. Uafásach! Heard you were at the Shepherds’ place, wanted to see how you were doing, see if we could help.”

“Word travels fast,” Graham remarked, a little dryly, though he was grateful for the offer of help.

“In this town? Fast, yes. Among the Irish? Faster," the woman replied with a grin. She looked over at Ronan. "But, what are you two doing here?”

Ronan, still lost in thought, took a moment before answering. As he explained the situation to the family, Graham tried desperately to place their names. The woman had three children—grown or nearly so, two sons and a daughter. They all looked very much like their mother: tall, blonde, with striking dark eyes. But no matter how hard he racked his brain, he couldn’t bring their names to the front of his mind.

Ciarán would remember, of course. Ciarán had an uncanny knack for remembering every detail, every name, every face. Graham envied him for that.

The woman turned to Graham and smiled as she spoke again. “Here, then,” she said, nodding toward her children. “Myself and Ethan, we’ll go check in on Liam and give a hand to Ciarán and the doctor if they need it. Callum and Bridget, you go with Ronan and Mr. Shepherd. How’s that sound?”

Her children muttered their assent, though it was clear they were more than a little uncomfortable with the sudden intrusion. Still, they followed their mother’s orders without hesitation.

Graham was about to protest the formality of “Mr. Shepherd” when he caught himself. With the way she addressed him, it was clear they weren’t particularly familiar with one another. He muttered an awkward, “You can just call me Graham, ma’am,” his voice thick with the discomfort of social niceties.

She grinned widely, a twinkle in her eye. “Then you can just call me Clodagh.”

It wasn’t long before they reached the ranch, and Graham was hardly surprised when yet another wagon pulled up, followed by a couple of other families. Word had spread like wildfire, as it always did in their small community, and now everyone seemed to be rallying to help, offering their well wishes and hands for labor. As each family arrived, Ronan split them up, keeping some to work on his own land and directing others to visit Liam and assist Ciarán. It was a flurry of activity, each person eager to lend a hand, to take some of the burden off Ronan’s shoulders.

As Graham worked to milk the cows, he couldn’t help but feel a strange mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. It was humbling, really—this outpouring of support—but also a little uncomfortable. Liam wasn’t even awake yet, and already the town was treating him as though he were a hero, even though all he had done was get injured while protecting their livelihood.

But then again, that was what neighbors were for, wasn’t it? In a place like this, where life was hard and no one could make it alone, a little help went a long way. And as Graham looked around, he realized that, at the very least, out of this whole predicament, he was finally learning the names of all his neighbors.

???

The work on Ronan’s ranch had gone far smoother than expected. With so many people showing up to help, it almost felt as though they were building more than just the barn—it was a community. The wood was hauled, the beams raised, the foundation set. Despite the busy movement of so many hands, it took far less time than anyone had imagined. By midday, the barn was standing tall, much more than a frame now, and the hum of productivity slowed to a trickle.

Graham wiped the sweat from his brow as he surveyed the work. It had been a good day’s effort, but now the task was done. The chatter of the workers, the sounds of hands clapping and tools being set aside, filled the air. There was nothing more to be done. His work here was finished.

“I’ll stay if you still need me,” Graham offered, looking to Ronan, whose own weariness seemed to match his. Despite the stoic expression, Graham could see the deep lines under his eyes, the exhaustion weighing on him.

But Ronan only looked around at the group of people milling about, chatting casually now that the heavy lifting was over. People were hauling away the last of the supplies, some had even started to feed the animals. His lips turned up in the faintest smile, weary but grateful. "Tá muid ceart go leor anseo."

Graham nodded. "Thank you. I have some business to take care of." His thoughts turned to Ciarán, to the small yet thoughtful gesture he wanted to surprise him with. "Wanted to get Ciarán a puppy,” he said. "But now I’d rather have a guard dog."

At the mention of a dog, a young woman nearby who had been helping with the feeding stopped, the feed bucket in her hands jingling with the noise of it shifting. Bridget—Graham had recognized her from the wagon earlier—looked up, a goat nibbling at her sleeve as she answered, “I don’t think anyonearound here has a dog to spare. And I haven’t heard of any whelping lately.”

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