Page 43 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Over the next week, their lives gradually settled back into a rhythm of normalcy. Graham and Ciarán fell into their familiar routine: working side by side during the day, sharing hearty meals at sundown, and curling up together at night. The kitchen floor, with its warmth from the stove, became their makeshift bedroom. Ciarán had insisted it would be cozier andfar more comfortable than the hayloft, and while Graham had been skeptical at first, he had to admit his husband was right.

The bedrolls, layered with thick blankets, provided a snug cocoon where they could drift off to sleep in each other’s arms. Even Roisin seemed content with the arrangement, often curling up nearby, his soft snores adding to the domestic tranquility.

Though they spent most of their time together, there were still moments when they went their separate ways. Ciarán, ever the social butterfly, made a habit of attending small gatherings in town or visiting their neighbors. Graham, on the other hand, preferred the quiet satisfaction of working on the ranch or tinkering with projects in the barn.

One such morning, after the day’s chores were complete, Graham found Ciarán in the yard, saddling up Bó. The sunlight glinted off the polished leather of the saddle, and Ciarán, humming a cheerful tune, was already securing a saddlebag.

“Where are you off to, sweetheart?” Graham asked, leaning against the fence post with a curious smile.

Ciarán glanced up, returning the smile with one of his own. “I’m going to visit Liam and Ronan. Thought I’d bring them a little something.”

He opened the saddlebag, revealing its contents with a flourish. Inside was a jar of gleaming blackberry jam, a neatly wrapped square of shortbread, and a tin of their best black tea.

Graham chuckled. “Jam, huh? Is it just me, or does everyone around here seem to gift jam for every occasion?”

Ciarán laughed as he adjusted the straps. “It’s tradition, love. Jam’s practical, delicious, and it always feels thoughtful. Besides, who doesn’t like a little sweetness now and then?”

Graham couldn’t argue with that. In fact, he had developed quite an appreciation for Ciarán’s blackberry jam. His husband had spent days perfecting the recipe, and Graham hadbeen more than happy to act as the official taste tester. Each jar was a small masterpiece, bursting with flavor, and Graham often found himself sneaking spoonfuls straight from the jar. Watching Ciarán lick the sticky sweetness off his own fingers during these culinary experiments had been... well, distracting in all the best ways.

“That’s not the last of the blackberry jam, is it?” Graham asked, eyeing the jar. The bushes on their property were heavy with ripe fruit, and the two of them had spent hours harvesting the berries.

“Oh, there’s plenty left,” Ciarán assured him, fastening the saddlebag. “We’ve got more than we can eat. I was actually thinking—we could sell the extra. Do you think Mrs. Fournier might be interested?”

Graham nodded. “She’d jump at the chance. That jam of yours will sell like hotcakes. I’ll bring some along next time I head to town to sell the eggs.”

The way Ciarán’s face lit up at the idea was too sweet to resist. Graham stepped closer, pulling him into a kiss that left Ciarán laughing and breathless.

“Graham!” he chided playfully. “Not now, or I’ll be late for tea!”

Graham grinned but released him, his hands reluctantly moving from Ciarán’s shapely backside to rest on his hips instead. “All right, but be careful out there. And tell them I said hello.”

“I will,” Ciarán promised, giving Graham a quick peck on the cheek before swinging up onto Bó’s back.

With a wave, Ciarán rode off, the horse’s hooves kicking up small clouds of dust as they trotted down the road. Graham watched until they disappeared from view, the warmth of Ciarán’s parting smile lingering like a sunbeam.

Turning back toward the barn, he rubbed his hands together and let out a satisfied sigh.

It was time to finish the bedframe.

???

Never before had Graham poured so much of himself into a single piece of work. The patterns on the headboard and footboard of their new bedframe weren’t just designs—they were a testament to the life he and Ciarán had built together, to the love they shared, and to the future they were growing with every passing day.

Graham was no stranger to crafting. His hands had built the barn where their horses found shelter, the chicken coop that housed their hens, the fence that kept their livestock safe, the house that had become their home, and the furniture that filled it. But this bedframe was different. It wasn’t just about functionality or necessity—it was about beauty, about joy. It was about giving Ciarán something that would make him smile every time he looked at it.

The wood felt alive under Graham’s hands as he carved, his blade moving with careful precision. He thought of Ciarán’s letters, the ones they had exchanged before this life was even a possibility. How those pages, filled with sketches of prairie wildflowers and dreams of a shared future, had carried him through long, lonely nights. Ciarán had a gift for imagining beauty even in the roughest of places, and Graham wanted this bed to reflect that—to reflect him.

Each cluster of bluebells and daylilies seemed to bloom beneath his knife, their petals opening wide in full, intricate detail. Dainty wild roses climbed the corners of the headboard, their delicate stems weaving through the other flowers like ribbons of greenery. He added sunflowers, their proud facesturned skyward, and the curling fronds of ferns, grounding the whole piece in the earthy vitality of the prairie that Ciarán had once only dreamed of.

The work was slow and meticulous, but Graham didn’t mind. Every stroke of his blade, every sweep of sandpaper, every gentle press of the chisel was a meditation on his love for the man who had changed his life. The bedframe would be strong and steady, just like their bond, but it would also be intricate and beautiful, a reminder of the ways Ciarán had brought light and color to Graham’s world.

He thought of mornings yet to come: waking with Ciarán at his side, the dawn creeping through the curtains and gilding the wildflowers he had so carefully carved. He thought of nights when they would tumble into bed together, their laughter filling the room, and the warmth of Ciarán’s arms around him as they drifted off to sleep. This bed wasn’t just for sleeping—it was a symbol of the life they had built and the many more days they would share.

By the time the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the workshop, Graham stepped back and wiped the sweat from his brow. His shirt clung to him, damp from the heat of the day, and his hands ached from hours of steady work. But his gaze lingered on the bedframe, taking in every detail. The carved wildflowers seemed almost to sway in the fading light, and the wood’s surface gleamed, smooth and warm to the touch.

He frowned, his brow furrowing with worry. What if Ciarán didn’t like it? What if the flowers weren’t quite right, or the patterns didn’t suit his taste? The thought made his stomach twist, but he shook it off. Ciarán had a way of finding beauty in everything Graham did, no matter how small.

Still, this wasn’t small. This was their bed. It had to be perfect.

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