Page 56 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“Really good,” Graham mumbled, his body relaxing more with each movement. “Really, really good.”

As the minutes passed, Graham let himself sink into the warmth of the bed, into the rhythm of Ciarán's touch. And before he knew it, sleep was pulling him under, his mind wandering to the quiet moments of their life together.

He glanced at Ciarán, catching his eye. There was his husband, still wearing his nightgown, a soft smile on his lips as he continued his work. He looked at Graham with a quiet affection that made Graham’s heart swell.

“Oh, Graham,” Ciarán sighed, the tenderness in his gaze unmistakable. And in that moment, Graham knew that everything would be alright—tomorrow, justice would come, and for now, they had each other.

With a final sigh, Graham closed his eyes, content, and let the quiet of the night take him into sleep.

???

The following day, Graham and Ciarán found themselves enjoying the most normal and pleasant morning they’d had in a long while, a respite after the tension of the previous evening. The morning sun shone warmly, casting a soft glow over the ranch, and the gentle clucking of chickens and the occasional bleat of the sheep filled the air. Graham quickly made a breakfast of egg on toast and oatmeal, topped with a handful of juicy, ripe blackberries. The sweet, tart berries stained their lips a deep red as they ate, and Ciarán’s usual sweetness seemed to linger even longer when they shared a kiss before setting off to begin their chores.

It was a quiet morning in many respects—Ciarán, Roisin, and Graham were the only ones who seemed particularly bothered by the events of the previous night. Everyone else went about their tasks with little concern. The livestock didn’t seem to mind the events of the night before, nor did the land. While Ciarán tended to the animals—feeding the cows and counting them as he went—Graham checked over the animals one by one to ensure none had been harmed in Lachapelle’s attempt at thievery. The hens squawked in outrage as he moved through their pen, the sheep regarded him with their large, dark eyes while they nibbled lazily on the grass, and the cows, who seemed to think he was merely giving them attention, headbutted him in affectionate play when they thought one of them was getting too much affection. Thankfully, all was well—especially the two prized heifers that Lachapelle would’ve made off with had Graham not been wandering around the property the night before.

Ciarán was in the barn feeding the cows when one of them licked his outstretched hand, causing him to laugh. Graham couldn’t help but smile as he watched the interaction, a bit of warmth blooming in his chest. It had been a rough week,but moments like this—moments of simple joy—reminded him of how good life could be.

“Remember your first day with them?” Graham asked as Ciarán wiped his hand on his apron.

Ciarán chuckled. “I was worried they wouldn’t like me,” he admitted, looking at the cow in front of him, who seemed perfectly content to be near him. “Now, look at me. A proper rancher.”

“I don’t know about that,” Graham teased. “But I think you're doing all right. You’re getting better every day.”

Ciarán gave him a grateful smile, bending down to give the cow one last stroke on its head before turning to Graham. “Thank you, Graham.” He leaned in to kiss Graham’s cheek.

Next, they moved on to the garden, where they weeded, watered, and harvested the crops that were ready for picking. Graham couldn't help but smile as he watched Ciarán’s delight over the growing crops. The garden was a rainbow of colors—blueberries and blackberries, bright yellow zucchini flowers, verdant herbs, and the vibrant red of ripe radishes and tomatoes. It felt like their hard work was finally paying off, and the satisfaction was evident in Ciarán’s face as he bent to carefully pluck the ripe produce.

They started with the tomatoes. Those that had ripened to a bright ruby red were plucked and placed carefully in their basket, while others, still tinged with green, were left to ripen further. As Graham inspected the leaves for signs of pests, he was pleased to see that the ladybugs had been doing their job, keeping the aphids at bay.

But then, Ciarán let out a small cry of dismay. “Oh, no!” He’d pulled a plant with a bit too much force, snapping a stem that held a perfectly ripe tomato along with two others that were still unripe.

Graham, who had seen this kind of mistake before, just shrugged. “It happens. We have plenty. Don’t worry about it.” But Ciarán’s crestfallen expression lingered, and Graham felt the need to ease his worries. “Look, don’t worry about it. We can still use the unripe ones.”

“What?” Ciarán asked, looking up with surprise.

“We can fry up the green ones.” Graham smiled at the thought of fried green tomatoes, a treat that always reminded him of simpler times.

Ciarán’s eyes brightened immediately. “Really?”

“Yeah. Just slice them, dip them in batter, and fry them up like that. Or we can pickle them. We have options, sweetheart,” Graham explained. “Even if something’s underripe, or bruised, we can still make use of it. So don’t worry about it too much.”

A little ruefully, Ciarán smiled. “Maybe I’m a proper rancher, but I’m not much of a farmer yet.”

“You’re doing just fine.” Graham gave Ciarán a reassuring pat on the back. “Sometimes the crops are just as difficult as the animals. Just try giving it a twist next time if it doesn’t want to be picked. Like this.” He demonstrated by twisting a shiny, ripe tomato off its vine with a flick of his wrist. He handed the tomato to Ciarán. “Go on. Take a bite.”

Ciarán set the basket down, wiping his hands on his apron before inspecting the tomato carefully. He took a large bite from it, and the burst of juice flooded his mouth, dripping down his chin as he chewed.

Graham swallowed, feeling a sudden heat rise in his chest at the sight of Ciarán’s satisfaction. “How is it?”

“Delicious,” Ciarán replied, licking the juice off his lips before handing the rest of the tomato to Graham. He ate the rest of it, savoring the sweetness of the fruit. It was perfectly firm onthe outside, juicy and almost like a plum on the inside, with a satisfying sweet-and-sour tang.

Graham grinned. “Fruit of our labor,” he said with pride, feeling a sense of fulfillment that had little to do with the work itself and everything to do with the satisfaction of sharing it with Ciarán.

They continued their work, snipping some chard and pea greens for a salad later and gathering a few sweet peppers and radishes. As they moved from section to section, Graham continued to impart bits of wisdom on the crops. He felt a little like a teacher—pointing out which radishes were fit for eating and which should go to the chickens, showing Ciarán how to check if a green bean had snapped, and explaining that the melons still needed another month before they were ready for harvest.

“When it comes to the zucchini,” Graham added, adjusting his hat, “pick some if you want. I can fry those up for you later, too.”

“Really? The flowers?” Ciarán asked, surprised.

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