Page 5 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

So when Graham stepped into the store that morning, he didn’t expect much more than the usual exchange. But this time, there was something different. There was more at stake, more on his mind, and he found himself hesitating as he approached the counter.

“Well, hello, Graham,” Mrs. Fournier said, turning to greet him as the bell above the door jingled. Her voice was soft but warm. “Buying or selling today?”

“Buying,” Graham replied, his voice rough with a tension he hadn’t expected to feel. He cleared his throat. “And I think I—need help, ma’am.”

She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “What are you looking for?”

Graham hesitated again, then exhaled, feeling the weight of his words before he even spoke them. “Everything. I’m planning on—getting married and I need to... get ready.” He cleared his throat again, uncomfortable with his own vulnerability, but there was no turning back now. “Things for the house and for—myself.”

“Congratulations, Graham! That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Fournier exclaimed, a genuine warmth in her voice. Graham felt a rush of relief at her kindness, but it was fleeting. He worried,just for a moment, that she might ask more personal questions—about Ciarán, about their meeting, about the path that had brought them here. But he needn’t have feared. Mrs. Fournier didn’t probe, didn’t pry. Instead, she offered her help with the same ease she always had.

“Well, we have the ready-mades here, if you’re looking for some new clothes,” she suggested, her tone practical and matter-of-fact. “We ought to have something nice that fits a man your size. We’ve also got some lovely new dinnerware patterns, if that’s of interest. And I can get you the furniture catalog while you browse. How’s that for a start?”

Graham nodded, feeling his chest loosen a little. “That sounds perfect.”

It wasn’t the first time he had visited the store, but today it felt different. Mrs. Fournier’s gentle direction made it easier for him to navigate the myriad decisions ahead. As he walked down the aisles, looking at everything from clothes to kitchenware, he felt the weight of the future settle in around him. He picked out a ready-made suit, something simple but nice enough for a wedding. He added a woven rug, a few more pieces of cutlery, and he ordered a fine china tea set, requesting that it be packed with utmost care. The thought of hosting Ciarán, of having him sit at the table with him, filled him with a quiet joy that he could hardly contain.

He also selected a dining chair, one with a cushion, thinking that it might offer some comfort on long evenings spent talking together. The chair would stand in contrast to his handmade kitchen table, and perhaps that bothered him, but it was practical—and Ciarán deserved comfort, deserved the best that Graham could offer.

Then, for the first time, Graham found himself looking for a gift for Ciarán. It was a strange thing to shop for, something he’d never truly considered before. He thought of the fields—the green grass, the open sky—and knew that Ciarán would need something for the changing seasons. So, he chose a dark green coat and a straw hat with a green ribbon tied around the center. The coat would keep him warm in the winter, and the hat would shield him from the sun during summer walks. It wasn’t much, but it felt like something Ciarán could wear, something that would fit in with the life Graham hoped to build for them.

By the time he’d made his selections, Graham had spent more than he typically did in two months. But what was money, after all, if not to be spent on things that mattered most? And what better way to spend it than on a future together?

Still, doubts crept in. He hadn’t even received a letter in return yet. He had planned for everything—he had the clothes, the goods for the house, the gifts for Ciarán—but was he moving too quickly? Had he counted his chickens before they hatched? He pushed the worries aside, remembering Ciarán’s letter—his words about eagerly joining him on the prairie. The man had written back positively. He had expressed an eagerness to marry him, to see the flowers in full bloom. Surely that meant something.

Later, at the railroad station, the clerk greeted him with surprise as he asked about ticket prices, about the quality of meals and train car conditions.

“Are you planning on taking a trip, Mr. Shepherd?” the clerk asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

“No. Someone’s...” Graham paused, wondering just how much to divulge. He hadn’t exactly kept his plans a secret, but not everyone in town needed to know about his personal life, about Ciarán. “I’m expecting a visitor soon,” he said, hoping that would be enough.

The clerk nodded, but Graham could see the questions still lingering in his eyes. He gritted his teeth and went to the bank, withdrawing enough money to cover Ciarán’s ticket andmeals along the way. The train ride would take nearly a week, but he was determined that Ciarán would not want for anything. The journey was long, uncomfortable, but Graham would do what he could to make it easier.

But then there was the food. Graham had never thought about it much—his meals were simple, utilitarian. Biscuits and eggs, fresh garden produce when it was in season, canned vegetables in the winter. But Ciarán deserved more than that. Surely, he would expect more than that.

Back to Mrs. Fournier he went, once more. This time, he bought yeast, baking soda, a sack of sugar, and tins of vegetables that were out of season. He was sheepish as he placed the items on the counter, but Mrs. Fournier was as kind as ever, not commenting on his embarrassment but instead helping him with care, her smile unchanging and warm.

When Graham reached for his wallet to pay, she shook her head. “Consider this a small wedding gift,” she said firmly.

“I can’t—” Graham began, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“You can and you will. I insist. You’ve probably got enough on your plate right now getting things ready for him, am I right?” she said, her tone light but knowing. “This is just one less bill. And if you’re really that worried,” she added, her eyes twinkling mischievously, “Consider this: a Mr. and Mr. Shepherd will be buying twice as much from my shop.”

Graham couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you,” he said, grateful beyond words for her generosity.

Their conversation was interrupted by the loud jangle of the bell on the door, followed by the deliberate, heavy steps of someone entering the store. Graham turned to see Jean Lachapelle swagger up to the counter, a sneer already on his face.

“Ah, Celeste,” Jean said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re running a cabinet of curiosities now, I see. Why, it’s our mythical hermit, out and about in daylight.”

The words stung, but only just. Jean Lachapelle was nothing more than an arrogant son of privilege, a man who thought his good looks and inherited wealth gave him the right to belittle others. Graham had never liked him, and their history had been strained ever since Graham had refused to sell some of his prized cattle for a pittance. Jean had called it a deal. Graham had called it an insult.

But Graham said nothing. He simply looked past the man, as if he were invisible. He didn’t owe Jean Lachapelle the satisfaction of a response. The silence irked Jean, of course. He was a man used to getting attention, and Graham’s refusal to engage only seemed to rattle him more.

“You’d make more money off him if you taught him to speak,” Jean sneered. “A deaf and dumb halfwit won’t bring in the crowds.”

Mrs. Fournier’s temper flared, and before Graham could even react, she snapped at Jean in French. “Rien de tout ça, maintenant! Tu regardes ta langue dans ma boutique, garçon!”

Jean recoiled, but only for a moment. “Je m’excuse. Merely a joke,” he said, though the insincerity was obvious. “I’m here for my father’s order.”

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