Page 59 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“Jean Lachapelle thinks everything and everyone on this Earth has been put here to serve him,” Graham said, flatly. That’s why it galled him so much that anyone would refuse his offer. “I’m glad you stood up to him that day. And I’m glad you were there to save my hide last night.”

His husband sighed. “I love you, Graham.”

“I love you, too.” Graham cleared his throat. “Now, what do you say we sit down and eat? We got a lot more to talk about. Like getting things ready for your father. With that money Mrs. Duncan gave us, I can start buying the material to add another room onto the house.”

Ciarán’s eyes were shining.

Chapter Fifteen

Graham wasn’t much used to writing letters. The one he had sent to The Matrimonial Journal had been a mix of liquid courage and a sense of quiet desperation, and his reply to Ciarán had been fueled by giddy hope and excitement, but never had he attempted to convey himself as someone he wasn’t. His words had always been sincere, even if they were sometimes awkwardly put together. But writing a letter to Ciarán’s father—that was a different kind of challenge. This letter had to be perfect. It wasn’t just about exchanging pleasantries. This was about telling a man who had raised the love of his life that he, Graham Shepherd, would take care of him forever. It was about conveying to Rory Ryan that he loved his son deeply, that he would do anything to ensure Ciarán’s happiness, and that he knew how fortunate he was to have him as a husband.

Ciarán spoke of his father often, always with such admiration and affection that it made Graham’s heart swell. He adored Rory, that much was clear. But as much as Graham could feel Ciarán’s pride when he spoke about the man who raised him, there was also an underlying fear—a fear that Rory might not approve of him, that the love he shared with Ciarán might not be enough to win his father’s respect.

Graham desperately wanted Rory to like him. More than that, he wanted him to know how much Ciarán meant to him.

The morning sun filtered softly through the kitchen window as Graham sat at the table, nervously tapping his pen against the wood. Ciarán, for his part, hummed cheerfully at the stovetop, stirring a pot of blackberry jam. It was a batch he had been preparing with care, as he always did, and it was likely to be the last large one of the season. Summer was waning, and autumn would soon come, bringing with it the busyness of ranch work that they both cherished. But for now, the warmth of the kitchen and the sweet scent of simmering berries seemed to slow time itself.

Graham watched him, grateful for the peacefulness of the moment, but the letter weighed heavily on his mind. “What do I call him?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Ciarán turned, a bemused expression crossing his face. “Call him? Why, you can call him Rory, or father.”

Graham grimaced, feeling immediately awkward. Both options felt too familiar, too soon. He didn’t want to come off as presumptuous, but calling him “sir” felt distant and cold.

“You’re thinking too much,” Ciarán chided him with a lighthearted laugh, shaking his head. “Just write it however you feel.”

“I can’t say I’ve been accused of that before,” Graham replied, half-joking, though he still wasn’t sure what the right approach was.

“Oh, Graham, hush,” Ciarán said, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he returned to his task. But there was affection in his tone, a quiet understanding that made Graham’s heart flutter with reassurance. Ciarán was always good at grounding him when his mind raced.

With a deep breath, Graham picked up his pen and began to write. His words poured out, guided by a mixture of love and earnestness, and he wrote:

Dear Sir,

I must thank you for the watch. It is a very fine and beautiful thing, and I think it truly too great to be mine, but I swear to you that I will cherish this gift for the rest of my days.

I think the same of your son. Ciarán is the finest person I have ever met, and it is my great joy that he agreed to be my husband. I will do anything within my power to make sure that he is happy and provided for. He has told me that there is nothing he would like more than to have you here with us, so I have begun to build an addition to the house which would be your room, and I hope it is to your liking. The house I have built with my own two hands, and I think you shall be pleased with the work. As for the furnishings, I have left this to Ciarán, who knows your tastes and who takes much delight in making things more comfortable.

The construction is going well, and all should be ready for you by this coming winter. However, Sir, I must admit that Ciarán is extremely concerned about your well-being and fears that a winter crossing will be too difficult for you. At the same time, he has expressed his distress at the thought of you spending another season by yourself. He will not say outright that he would like you here as soon as possible, but I enclose the money necessary for your passage and leave it to your discretion as to when you will leave. Whether winter or spring, you will be welcomed here by your loving and devoted son, as well as your son-in-law,

Graham Shepherd.

Graham stared at the letter for a moment, his heart pounding with the weight of his words. He had tried to capture the essence of how he felt for Ciarán, how much he wanted Rory to feel comfortable in their home, how eager he was to make a space for him as part of their lives.

“I think I’m done,” Graham said, letting out a small sigh of relief.

Ciarán glanced over, his expression softening as he wiped his hands on a towel. “Do you want me to read over it?”

“No!” Graham said quickly, his face flushing slightly. “No, sweetheart. I had to speak to him—son-in-law to father-in-law.”

Ciarán raised an eyebrow, a playful gleam in his eye. “I see. Well, finish up with your letter, and come here and try this jam.” He blew at a spoonful of jam before taking a sip, and when he pulled the spoon away, it left his lips a deep purple. “Mmm, it’s getting there.”

Graham carefully folded the letter, sealing it in an envelope before walking over to Ciarán. He caught the spoonful of jam that Ciarán offered him, but instead of tasting it, he leaned in and kissed him, tasting the sweetness of blackberry jam still lingering on his lips. The moment was warm, intimate, and sweet—a reminder of the quiet love they shared.

“Tastes just fine to me,” Graham said, his voice playful as Ciarán tried to swat him with the spoon.

“Hey!” Ciarán laughed, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Save that for later, Mr. Shepherd. I’ve got to perfect this recipe in time for the fair.”

Graham chuckled, stepping back as Ciarán resumed his work. The annual Larkspur fair was always an event to look forward to—there would be games, contests, and the highly anticipated cooking competitions. Two of Graham’s cows had won blue ribbons in previous years, and he was determined to add a third this time. Ciarán was also planning to enter a jar of his famous blackberry jam into the judging, and Graham could already tell it was going to be a hit.

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