Page 54 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“You sure?” Graham pushed.

Ciarán nodded, though his eyelids were starting to droop. “Yeah. I just... I don’t like leaving you alone with him. Not after what he tried to do.”

The protectiveness in his voice was clear, and Graham felt his heart soften. He didn’t mind. It was just another reason he loved Ciarán so deeply—how fiercely he cared. Even now, with everything they’d been through, with the darkness of the night pressing in around them, he was still worried about Graham’s safety.

“I’ll be fine, sweetheart,” Graham reassured him. “I’m not about to let him get the drop on us.”

Ciarán gave a soft hum of agreement, and finally, with one last glance at Lachapelle, he leaned back against the side of the cart, his eyes fluttering shut. Graham could see the tension in his face slowly melt away as he let himself relax.

It wasn’t long before Ciarán’s breathing evened out, soft and steady, and Graham was left alone with his thoughts.

The ride to town would take a while, but that was fine. It gave him time to think, to let the events of the past few days settle in. There were things he still didn’t fully understand, things that were left unspoken between them, but for now, the quiet night, the warmth of Ciarán’s presence beside him, and the knowledge that they were doing what needed to be done—that was enough.

As the cart rattled down the road, the sound of the wheels on dirt mixing with the rustling of the night, Graham’s grip tightened on the reins.

???

The sheriff’s office was always busiest at night, when the saloon’s regulars spilled out onto the dusty streets, their laughter and rowdy talk drifting into the night air. Some of them stumbled their way down to the jail, needing a place to sleep off one too many shots of whiskey and not caring whose cot they crashed on.

Tonight was no different. From the noise and commotion inside, it was clear the saloon had been well-attended. Graham pushed the door open, stepping into the small, dimly lit office. Inside, the jail was populated with a mix of drunks and troublemakers. A handful of men lay in the cells, some sprawled out on the floor in varying degrees of unconsciousness. One snored loudly on a cot while two others shuffled a weathered deck of cards back and forth, their hands slick with the remnants of spilled liquor.

When Graham hauled Lachapelle inside, the man hopping awkwardly in his bindings, and Ciarán followed closely behind, rifle at the ready, the two cardplayers paused their game. They looked up, their eyes narrowing as they took in the scene.

One of them burst into a loud, mocking laugh. “Ha! Look at that! Caught a rabbit, did you? Found him nibbling in your garden?” He was clearly enjoying himself, his voice dripping with humor at the sight of the bound man struggling in Graham’s grip.

“Found him nibbling at something, I bet,” his companion added with a chuckle. He gave Ciarán a wink, his smile wide and playful, but it was clear from the way Ciarán's jaw tightened that the jest had rubbed him the wrong way.

“Watch it,” Graham growled, his voice low but sharp. He didn’t have the patience for this kind of disrespect, especially not when his leg ached like someone had tried to drive a knifethrough it. The man raised his hands in mock surrender, but the teasing smile remained.

“Where’s the sheriff?” Graham asked, his eyes scanning the room for the man in charge.

“Somewhere around here,” one of the card players replied, not bothering to look up from his hand. “Probably in the back.”

Graham grunted, eyes flicking to Lachapelle, whose angry murmurs and muffled curses filled the room. “He ought to get a bell. Ring him for service,” Graham muttered under his breath, the words carrying a bite of frustration.

The two men snickered at that, clearly amused by the idea. It was a long moment before the back door swung open with a squeak, and the sheriff himself appeared, looking as if he had been pulled from whatever quiet corner he'd been trying to nurse his own drink in. He looked cross, his brow furrowed as he stepped into the dim light of the office.

“Where’ve you been?” The sheriff started, his voice gruff, no doubt thinking they were just another pair of drunks with a complaint. “If you had a drink at the saloon, I’ll—” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes locking onto the sight of Jean Lachapelle, still bound and furious, and Ciarán, standing there with the rifle slung across his chest. The sheriff's expression shifted, recognition dawning. “What’s going on here?”

Graham crossed his arms, his gaze steady. “Caught the thief.”

“Jean Lachapelle? What was he—” The sheriff’s voice trailed off, but Graham didn’t wait for him to finish.

“Found him in our barn, trying to steal a couple of our cows. Put up a fight. Luckily Ciarán was there to help me,” Graham said, his tone dry but firm.

Ciarán offered a small smile, but his eyes were hard as he stood by Graham’s side, his rifle still pointed low, ready if anything escalated.

The sheriff’s frown deepened. “Baron’s not going to be happy about this,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else.

“I wouldn’t be happy either, if my kid turned out to be a shit-eating, thieving little fuck,” Graham shot back, his voice laced with venom. He turned slightly to Ciarán, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “Sorry for swearing, sweetheart.”

Ciarán glanced at him, a small chuckle escaping him despite the tension in the room. “No, I quite agree, Graham,” he said, his voice smooth and measured. He cleared his throat before turning back to the sheriff. “What happens now, sir?”

The sheriff sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well—my deputy and I will be taking over from here. Thank you for the work you did in bringing him in—” He trailed off, clearly not understanding the full weight of the situation.

But Ciarán was having none of it. He stepped forward, his voice sharp as he cut in. “Yes, my husband and I have done all the work, I think. What happens now? He was caught in the act of trying to steal our livestock—and he tried to hurt Graham, too.” He turned to Graham briefly, a flash of concern in his eyes.

Graham nodded, not bothering to speak. The ache in his leg had only gotten worse since Lachapelle had dug his heel into the sore muscle, but he didn’t want to make a bigger deal of it. Not yet.

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