Page 51 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

They finished their meal in a lighter mood, their earlier tension replaced by a shared sense of purpose. After the dishes were cleared and the kitchen tidied, they sat together on the porch, watching the stars appear one by one in the vast night sky.

Ciarán leaned against Graham’s side, his head resting on his shoulder. “I’ll start saving up,” he said. “Every penny I make from selling the jam and the cheese—it’ll go toward bringing him here.”

“And I’ll start drawing up plans for the addition,” Graham said. “We’ll need a proper room for him. Something comfortable.”

“You’re really amazing, you know that?” Ciarán said, his voice soft and full of wonder.

Graham smiled, wrapping an arm around his husband and pulling him close. “I’m just doing what any good man would do for the person he loves.”

???

That night, he dreamed of war.

More specifically, he dreamed of the medic’s tent, where they’d carried him after a Minié ball tore through his leg. The air in the tent was thick with the stench of mud, blood, and alcohol—a harsh reminder of the battlefield that still raged just beyond the canvas walls. The canons roared in the distance, their thunderous blasts vibrating in his chest. The cries of dying men, desperate and guttural, rang in his ears. But despite all this, it was daytime, and the battle was far from over. Yet, he knew it wasn’t real. He could tell by the way his perspective shifted—looking down at the scene below him from a bird’s eye view. He wasn’t really lying on the table; he was observing, distant from the pain that wracked his body in that fleeting moment.

His jaw was clenched tight, teeth grinding against the unbearable agony. His voice, hoarse from screaming, cracked as the medic dug his finger into the raw wound in his thigh, trying to dig out the shards of metal embedded deep within. “Fuck! God, fucking damn it!” The pain was unspeakable, far worse than anything he’d ever endured, but there was something more in his voice: fear. Fear of dying. Anger. Anger at the thought of making it so far, surviving the horrors of war, only to be felled now.

The surgeon, cold and detached, with a blood-splattered apron, examined the injury with clinical precision. “We ought to take the leg,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any compassion.

Graham’s heart raced, his hand shaking as it reached up, gripping the surgeon by the collar. “You put that saw near my leg, and I’ll break every fucking one of your fingers,” he growled, his face twisted in a grimace of fury and fear.

Was it a memory or just another piece of his dream? He couldn't say. The surgeon’s face paled, but whether it was from Graham’s threat or from the nightmare’s influence, he couldn’t recall. The dream seemed so real—so sharp—that he could almost feel the blood rushing from his body as he shoved the man away, his strength seemingly unbroken despite the blood loss, before passing out from the pain.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him trembled, the unmistakable smell of gunpowder thick in the air. His surroundings shifted, the blood-stained table in the medical tent becoming the familiar bed he shared with Ciarán. His leg still throbbed, the ache a dull reminder of his past, but instead of a medic’s hands, there were Ciarán’s, gently pressing against his thigh, trying to ease the pain.

“Oh, Graham,” Ciarán murmured, his voice filled with concern, his hand firm but tender on the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, but his gaze never left Graham’s face, worry etched in the lines of his brow.

Graham’s eyes fluttered open, and the darkness of the night surrounded him. It took a few moments before his surroundings began to take shape—the comfort of their bedroom, the weight of Ciarán’s presence beside him, still asleep. The ache in his leg was sharper now, an old pain, a constant companion that flared up unexpectedly. He shifted slightly, and a twinge of pain ran from his foot up to his hip.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered softly to himself.

Ciarán stirred beside him, his voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just my leg acting up,” Graham lied, wincing slightly as he tried to stretch it. He didn’t want to admit it, but the strain earlier that day had taken its toll.

“I’ll give you a massage,” Ciarán mumbled, his hand groping blindly in the darkness, smacking Graham’s chest with an awkward pat. His eyes remained closed, and there was a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth, making Graham chuckle despite himself.

“Nah, sweetheart. Go back to sleep. I just need to walk around. Stretch my legs a bit.”

Ciarán responded with a quiet murmur of agreement and rolled over, taking most of the blanket with him. Graham eased himself out of bed, careful not to wake him, though no sooner had he stood up than Roisin, the dog, hopped up onto the mattress to claim his spot. Graham couldn’t help but smile, though he couldn’t resist giving her a playful warning.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said, watching him look up at him with a smug expression.

He moved quietly, making his way toward the door, his leg heavy and aching beneath him. As he stepped outside, he let out a deep sigh, the familiar ache settling in his muscles. The night was still, the air crisp, the only sound the crunch of his footsteps on the ground. It was just an old war wound, he told himself. Nothing more.

He’d taken this walk a hundred times before. The pain had become a part of him, a reminder of the past he couldn’t forget, but tonight, it seemed easier to bear. Especially knowing that Ciarán was waiting for him, warm and safe in their bed.

Graham limped toward the well, his steps slow and deliberate, his hand resting on his thigh as he massaged the aching muscles. When he reached the stone well, he ran his hand along the cool surface, trying to steady his breathing. Then, with a grunt of effort, he continued on toward the barn. He hoped thewalk would ease the pain before he reached the far end of the property.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he froze. There, standing just outside the barn, was one of their cows. She turned her head as he approached, her large, liquid eyes meeting his. She seemed as startled to see him as he was to see her. Her tail flicked nervously, and she shuffled a bit, her hooves clattering softly on the ground.

“How’d you get out here, girl?” Graham asked, scratching the cow’s velvety head. They’d corralled all the animals back into the barn before dinner. How had one of them managed to escape?

Before he could think more on it, another cow emerged from the barn, lowing softly in the quiet night. Graham’s lips curled into a small smile at their late-night wanderings. But before he could laugh, another figure stepped out from the barn behind them.

A human figure stood in the dim light of the barnyard. Tall, with a bandana obscuring their face, their outline was all too familiar. The thief.

Graham’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt a rush of anger flood his chest. His pulse pounded in his ears as he stepped forward, his limp more pronounced with every stride. His heart was hammering, but his voice was steady as he called out, “Hey!”

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