Page 46 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

As Graham handed him the crate of goods, he paused. “Sweetheart?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll do just fine.”

Ciarán’s lips quirked into a small, grateful smile before setting in a determined line. “I’m going to sell these jams!” The jars clinked softly as he adjusted the crate in his arms.

“I know you will,” Graham replied, his voice steady and reassuring. “Just come get me when you’re done.”

He watched as Ciarán marched down the street, his back straight and his chin held high, though Graham could tell he was still nervous. When Ciarán reached the steps of the general store, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder to find Graham.

Graham waved, offering a small smile of encouragement.

Ciarán nodded, then squared his shoulders and strode through the door. Graham sat back in the cart, the faintest ofsmiles tugging at his lips as he watched the door swing shut behind his husband.

???

Once the horses were watered and resting, Graham decided to take a leisurely walk around town. The streets bustled with life on this warm summer’s day, the hum of conversation and the distant peals of children’s laughter creating a pleasant backdrop. As he strolled, a thought settled over him like the warm sunlight: he was just like any other man waiting for his spouse.

The idea filled him with a quiet, satisfying pride. When Ciarán finished his business, they might visit the restaurant and order lemonade, like the family they’d seen earlier. Or perhaps they’d head straight home to celebrate Ciarán’s first foray into Larkspur’s market. Both were equally fine options. Either way, he would spend the day with his husband, and that was all Graham truly cared about.

Those thoughts warmed him, accompanying him as he wandered through the streets, nodding at shopkeepers cleaning their storefronts and exchanging polite greetings with townsfolk. For a man who lived mostly with animals and the quiet rhythm of the ranch, this was a fine change of pace. People-watching had a charm of its own, and the town seemed alive with little stories playing out on every corner. A man haggled over the price of grain, two women shared conspiratorial whispers outside the bakery, and a pair of boys darted between wagons, a stolen loaf of bread clutched between them.

It was a fine time—until he crossed paths with Jean Lachapelle.

The man was impossible to miss, with his gaudy fashion and smug demeanor. Today, he wore a striped waistcoat withsilver buttons, a gold pocket watch dangling ostentatiously from a chain, and boots polished to an absurd sheen. But no matter how often Lachapelle changed his attire, his expression never shifted: that sneer, etched permanently onto his face, like he was the only rooster in a yard full of hens.

“Well, well,” Lachapelle drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. “It’s been a while since you graced us with your presence, Shepherd.”

Graham’s mood soured instantly. Lachapelle’s voice could curdle milk, and it had certainly ruined his walk. Resisting the urge to spit at the man’s polished boots, Graham replied curtly, “Been busy. You might’ve heard.”

“Oh, the whole town knows,” Lachapelle said, his tone laced with faux sympathy. “But I hear your neighbor’s recovered. Sprightly as ever.”

“That’s right,” Graham said, keeping his tone even.

“I also heard he couldn’t identify the thief.”

Graham’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

Lachapelle’s too-casual tone grated on Graham’s nerves as he continued, “Was it that he didn’t see the thief, or that he couldn’t remember?”

Graham clenched his jaw. “Go ask the sheriff if you’re so interested.”

Lachapelle didn’t blink. “Here I am trying to have a civil conversation, and you’re being extremely brusque. I’d call it rude if I didn’t already know you were lacking in social graces.”

Graham’s temper flared. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to talk about social graces after what you tried to pull with my husband.”

The memory of that day still burned in Graham’s mind. Lachapelle had come to the ranch while Graham was away, bearing flowers and some pretense of concern. Whatever wordshe’d exchanged with Ciarán had left his husband visibly shaken, and that was something Graham couldn’t forgive.

“Why, all I did was inquire about your neighbor’s health,” Lachapelle said, feigning innocence. “And ask a few questions about your home.”

Graham growled, “Stay away from him.”

Lachapelle smirked. “Possessive, aren’t you? Where is he now? I’d have thought you’d keep him on a tight leash. But I suppose he’s easier to train than a dog. He almost speaks English.”

The insult hit like a spark to dry tinder. Before Graham could think, his hands shot out, grabbing Lachapelle by the waistcoat and slamming him against the nearest wall. The man’s eyes widened in shock. For years, Graham had tolerated Lachapelle’s barbs with little more than a grunt or glare, but this was different. This wasn’t about him—this was about Ciarán. And no one insulted his husband.

“What are you two doing? By God, don’t I have enough to deal with without grown men squabbling in the street?”

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