Page 45 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Ciarán turned his head to catch Graham’s lips with his. Graham kissed him eagerly and hungrily, and then he spilled between Ciarán’s thighs with a shuddering groan. He wrapped his arms around Ciarán, pulling him towards him, gasping into his ear, murmuring Ciarán and I love you over and over.

When they grew too hot and sticky to be comfortable Graham eased himself up to fetch a cloth and a basin of water. His husband’s legs and pants were streaked with cum. With careful swipes of the damp cloth Graham cleaned the evidence of their pleasure off Ciarán’s skin. The pants, though, would need a good wash.

Ciarán giggled as Graham brought the cloth along his upper thigh. “I’m ticklish there.”

Graham grinned. “I know.” Then, watching Ciarán stretch, he said, “Nice to have a bed to ourselves again.”

???

Some days later Mr. Fournier arrived at the ranch with a cart full of goods to deliver. As Graham and Ciarán helped him lift the mattress and bring it inside the house, he said, “Must’ve been hard sleeping for you both without one of these.”

Graham glanced at his husband. “We made do just fine,” he said.

Ciarán blushed.

Chapter Twelve

The blackberry jam wasn’t just delicious; it was extraordinary. Graham knew this for a fact because he’d eaten more than his fair share during the past week. The blackberries came from wild brambles he had transplanted to the ranch years ago, giving them a proper place to thrive. With careful pruning and attention, the bushes now produced plump, sweet berries in abundance, their deep purple hues glistening in the sun. They were perfect for eating fresh, baking into pies, or—most importantly—making jam.

The house had smelled divine when Ciarán was at work in the kitchen, the air thick with the rich, fruity aroma as pots of bubbling jam simmered on the stove. The jars themselves were as delightful as their contents: each one meticulously prepared and adorned by Ciarán’s careful hands. A square of purple cloth covered each lid, fastened neatly with a bow of dark green ribbon. Together, the jars were a small treasure trove of sweetness, each one prepared with love and precision. Graham was confident they’d fetch a fine price at the general store, but he knew Ciarán wasn’t so sure.

On their way to town, Ciarán’s nerves were palpable. He chattered anxiously as they bumped along the dirt road, casting frequent glances into the back of the cart to check on their crate of goods. Every few minutes, he turned to inspect the jars, thesmall wheels of cheese, and the eggs, making sure everything was just as it should be.

“But blackberries are everywhere,” Ciarán fretted, chewing his bottom lip. “Anyone can just pick some and make their own jam.”

“That’s true,” Graham replied calmly, “but they haven’t. You have.”

Ciarán sighed, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “What if people don’t like it?”

“They will,” Graham said with quiet certainty. “It’s not to everyone’s taste, sure, but you’ve made something good. People will like it.”

Ciarán wasn’t convinced. “Oh, but I’ve never sold anything before. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Graham chuckled softly. “I manage, don’t I? And I’m not much of a talker.”

Ciarán turned to him with an earnest expression. “You do yourself a disservice, Graham. You have such a quiet, confident air. When you speak, it’s... authoritative.” A faint blush colored his cheeks. “It’s very admirable. And attractive.”

Normally, Graham would have puffed up with pride at the compliment, but today he sensed something else in Ciarán’s tone—a hint of self-doubt. That wouldn’t do.

“Maybe,” Graham said thoughtfully. “But you’ve got something better. You’ve got charm. You talk, and people like you. That’s not something I’ve got, but you do.”

Ciarán smiled, though he still seemed a bit nervous. “Thank you, Graham.”

“You’re welcome.”

The town was alive with summer activity by the time they arrived. Children darted through the streets, their laughter ringing out like bells, while townsfolk milled about, running errands or stopping to chat in small groups. A couple sat outsidethe restaurant with their young daughters, sipping lemonade. The scene was bright and cheerful, a picture of everyday life.

Graham pulled the cart to a stop near the general store and turned to his husband. “I’m going to find a trough for the horses,” he said.

Ciarán nodded, though his complexion was a little pale. “Okay. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“You sure?”

Ciarán rolled his eyes affectionately. “Graham, it’s barely a stroll.”

True enough—the store was just a short distance away. Even so, Graham felt a pang of hesitation. “Still,” he mumbled, reluctant to let Ciarán go on his own.

His husband leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be fine,” he said firmly.

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