Page 55 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“He nearly killed Liam,” Ciarán continued, his voice growing colder as he spoke of their neighbor. “And I bet the Duncans’ horses are somewhere on his father’s property, and—”

The sheriff held up a hand, his expression turning wary. “Now, son—” He paused when he saw Ciarán’s brow furrow. “I mean, Mr. Shepherd. If you want to be one of my deputies, feelfree to ask me for a job. Hell, might even have an opening soon, if the fool I have now doesn’t find his way back to his office in a few minutes.But if not, then I’m going to have to ask you to just leave it to the lawmen for now.” He let the words hang in the air, his jaw set.”

Ciarán’s glare was icy, and it was clear he wasn’t going to let it slide so easily. “Before we leave it to you, I want it in writing. Everything that we told you, signed and dated. And the time, too.”

Graham didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his father-in-law’s pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. “It’s a quarter to midnight,” he said, his voice low but precise.

“Thank you, Graham,” Ciarán said, giving his husband a grateful nod before turning back to the sheriff. “A pen and paper, please, sheriff.”

The sheriff grumbled but motioned for his deputy, who was still busy nursing his own hangover in the corner, to fetch the necessary materials. “This isn’t how I expected my night to go,” the sheriff muttered to himself, but he didn’t argue further.

Ciarán tapped his foot impatiently as they waited for the sheriff to scribble down the information, his mind clearly running through the next steps. Once the sheriff had finished, Ciarán didn’t waste a moment, checking the paper thoroughly before nodding in approval.

The sheriff sighed, clearly eager to be rid of them. “There you go. Everything’s in writing. You happy now?”

Ciarán smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. “I will be when I know he’s behind bars for good.”

With the formalities out of the way, Graham and Ciarán turned to leave, Lachapelle still squirming in the corner of the room, bound tightly and glaring at them as though he could burn them with his eyes.

They left the sheriff's office with more than just a signed account of what transpired that night. Ciarán had expertly browbeaten the sheriff into not only writing the account but also making a copy for their records, much to the befuddlement of the two cardplayers who had been forced into their role as witnesses. Neither man had seemed to quite grasp the seriousness of what was happening, much less the intent behind Ciarán's firm and unwavering demand for justice. Lachapelle, now untied and gag removed, was left in the jail cell, looking just as confused, if not more so, by the turn of events.

As they walked back toward the cart, Graham couldn't help but wonder if Ciarán had expected some sort of grand spectacle—a showdown, perhaps, where the sheriff and his deputy would gallop out with guns drawn, racing to the estate of the Lachapelle patriarch, demanding that his son’s wrongs be righted on the spot. The scene might have played out like something from one of the dime novels that Ciarán liked to read: Baron Lachapelle would be dragged from his bed in the dead of night, forced to confront his son’s crimes, the Duncans' horses would be returned, and the elder Lachapelle would fall on his knees, begging forgiveness from Liam and Ronan for the sins of his son. But that hadn’t been the case.

Instead, the sheriff had nodded, scribbled the details down with a gruff demeanor, and promised that justice would be done—eventually. It had all been much quieter, less dramatic than Ciarán had likely anticipated. Graham could see the slight disappointment in his husband's posture as they made their way home, but he kept his thoughts to himself, allowing the silence between them to grow as they walked under the stars.

By the time they finally arrived back at their little cottage, the quiet of the night settling around them, Graham's body felt the weight of the evening. His leg throbbed, his muscles stiffened, and the exhaustion from the tense momentsof the night seemed to finally catch up with him. Ciarán, ever the attentive husband, had been mostly silent during their walk back, but once they were inside and the door was safely shut behind them, he turned to Graham with concern.

“It’s late, sweetheart,” Graham said gently, already sinking onto the bed with a sigh of relief as he stretched out his throbbing leg. “No one’s going anywhere. The sheriff’s got to sleep, too. It’ll be easier to find those horses in the daylight, besides.” He settled himself into the warmth of the blankets, the weight of the day easing off his shoulders now that he could finally rest.

Ciarán, standing at the foot of the bed, hesitated for only a moment before he climbed in beside Graham. “I just thought… well, I don’t know. You read stories in the newspapers about, oh, gunfights and whatnot,” he said softly, clearly still processing the events that had unfolded.

Graham chuckled, the sound a quiet rumble in the otherwise still room. “Larkspur isn’t known for its gunfights,” he said, though he knew exactly what Ciarán meant. He had expected more of a showdown, something dramatic, but what had really happened was far more subdued—and maybe that was for the best.

“I know that,” Ciarán replied, his voice almost apologetic. “I suppose I just thought that once we brought him to the sheriff, it’d be over. You know, the end of the story. But now it feels like…” He trailed off, his words faltering for a moment.

“Tomorrow,” Graham murmured, not needing to hear the rest. It was a simple truth: they couldn’t force the sheriff’s hand, and the situation wasn’t going to resolve itself in one night. Ciarán, ever the idealist, had wanted more than the quiet assurances of a sheriff who was unwilling to act hastily. But tomorrow, once the sun rose, there would be time for proper action.

“Tomorrow,” Ciarán repeated, sounding a little more resigned, but the tension in his voice still hadn’t fully disappeared. He paused, then turned to Graham with a sudden tenderness. “How’s your leg, Graham?”

Graham, about to respond with his usual reassurance, paused. For a brief moment, he considered lying—telling Ciarán that it was fine, that it didn’t hurt too much, that the dull ache wasn’t anything to worry about. But that wasn’t fair to Ciarán. His husband deserved the truth.

“Could be better,” Graham admitted, wincing slightly as he shifted his leg beneath the covers. “That fight did a number on me.”

Ciarán’s expression softened instantly, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Graham’s forehead. “But you had him! You’re so strong.” His voice was full of admiration, a mixture of pride and concern.

Graham chuckled, his lips curling into a smile despite himself. “Yeah, I had him. And he had me.” He shifted slightly, feeling the bruises in his side and the tightness in his leg. “Knew right where to hit me hardest.”

Ciarán made a sound that was half-laugh, half-grumble, clearly not pleased with the idea of Graham being hurt. He moved down toward the foot of the bed without a word, settling on the floor beside it. “Let me give you a massage. It’ll help you sleep,” Ciarán said, his voice determined. “You can’t very well go for a walk around the ranch at this hour.”

Graham looked up at him, about to protest, but Ciarán's eyes were already fixed on him with that familiar, gentle intensity. His touch was always a balm, a comfort, and so Graham allowed it—allowed Ciarán to tend to him, even when he would have preferred to do it all himself.

“Ah, sweetheart, you don’t have to,” Graham began, though he couldn’t bring himself to argue for long.

“But I want to,” Ciarán insisted, and with that, Graham knew there would be no more refusal.

Ciarán’s hands, warm and gentle, moved to Graham’s thigh. He pressed his palms to the muscle and began to knead, his thumbs working in firm, steady circles that seemed to melt away the pain. Graham sighed in contentment, allowing his eyes to close as Ciarán's rhythm worked its magic. He could feel the tension, the strain, all of it slowly easing with each passing second. Ciarán was skilled at this, practiced even, and it didn’t take long before Graham felt a wave of comfort and relaxation washing over him.

“How’s that feel?” Ciarán asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

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