Page 6 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Mrs. Fournier didn’t flinch. “Come around back,” she said sharply, “It’ll be easier for you to haul it in your cart.”

Graham watched as Jean left with a scowl, muttering something under his breath. Once the door slammed shut, Mrs. Fournier winked at him. “Best of luck to you, Graham. Be sure to bring that lucky man around sometime. I want to meet him.”

???

After the meeting with the priest Graham left town as fast as he could, urging Ginger along, all his purchases jostling in the cart as they traveled back to the homestead. The money for Ciarán’s ticket was safe in his pocket, but Graham couldn’t help but gently pat it every so often, feeling its weight, making sure it hadn’t disappeared when he wasn’t paying attention.

The priest had been like the clerk at the railway station—surprised and curious. But he couldn’t be reticent with a man of the cloth. Graham informed him of as much as he could. They’d have the wedding when Ciarán arrived, but that was still weeks away.

“He’s Catholic, is he?” the man asked.

Uncertain, Graham answered, “Well, he’s Irish.”

That answer hadn’t endeared him to the priest, but he still promised to oversee the wedding whenever it happened.

It was a relief to get home. The people and the socializing took more out of Graham than a day’s work in the fields and with the animals. Peace and quiet and solitude—that was what he craved, and that was what he needed in order to reply to Ciarán’s letter. Words didn’t come so easily to him, verbalized or written, and he wanted time to think and scratch out mistakes and start anew if need be.

Dear Mr Ciarán Ryan,

Thank you very much for your letter. It was heartening to receive and your message to me was kind and I think perhaps we would get along well together. Your sketches are skillfully done and have brought me good cheer. I hope you find the land here as beautiful as in your drawings.

This brings me to my next point. I would greatly enjoy more letters from you but as you have been bold then I will be bold also and declare that I would enjoy your company even more. You said that you are tired of city life. Well I cannot say for certain that life on the prairie will be an Eden becauseI cannot lead you wrong. The flowers do not bloom in all seasons and animals are as ornery and unpleasant as people sometimes. But I can promise you that it will be a different life altogether and that I will teach you about it if you are willing and that I will always take care of you as a husband should.

It is my hope that you will accept my proposal of marriage. Enclosed is the fare for a train ticket and also extra for meals as the journey will be long and I do not want you to be hungry if you decide to make the trip.

I wish you well,

Graham Shepherd

He copied the return address from Ciarán’s envelope with utmost care, down to the heavy, insistent underlining of Room 4, On the Left, Blue Door.

The next day he made the trip to town again to hand Oscar his own overstuffed envelope filled with plain stationery smudged with graphite, numerous bills for Ciarán’s fare, and all of Graham’s hopes.

???

Two long weeks passed before Graham received his answer, and in those two weeks, he occupied himself with the routine of daily life. Every hour spent in work was both a distraction and a burden. Whenever he wasn’t busy, his mind churned with worry. Had the letter been lost in the mail? Would Ciarán’s response be favorable, or had he changed his mind? Was the money Graham had sent enough for a ticket, enough for meals along the way? What if Ciarán had found someone else, someone who wasn’t a hermit of few words but someone better, someone he could see a future with?

The doubts gnawed at him throughout each day. The mornings started with the usual chores—waking early, eatinga simple breakfast, then feeding the animals. He milked the cows and collected the eggs, each task automatic and steady, the rhythm of his labor offering a small measure of peace. In between feeding the chickens and weeding the garden, Graham found himself constantly returning to the same questions: Would Ciarán still want to come? Had he received the letter in the first place? Every task felt like a small battle, and yet, the work cleared his head, giving him a chance to push the worries back down, if only for a little while.

One part of his daily routine gave him both comfort and distress—the reading of The Matrimonial Journal. His advertisement had been published, and it was now in its second and final print, but no one else had written him back. A part of him was grateful for this, as it was clear that no one could compare to Ciarán—not to his humor, his kindness, his beautiful sketches of the world, or the way he could fill a room with laughter. No, no one could measure up to that. Yet, there was a deeper fear lurking beneath the surface—that if this didn’t work out, if Ciarán decided he couldn’t follow through, there would be no one else. His heart could not even fathom the thought of trying again. This was it. If this marriage didn’t happen, Graham wasn’t sure he’d ever find another like Ciarán.

So, he kept himself busy, working the land, feeding the animals, taking care of the house. Every moment between tasks was consumed with a quiet tension. He moved from anticipation and joy to worry and fear, back and forth, as the days crawled by. And as always, it was labor that gave him some relief from the storm of his thoughts, the sweat of his brow grounding him, making the uncertainty of the future seem a little less unbearable.

It was on the morning of the second week of waiting, when the tension had reached its peak, that Alonso Fournier found him out in the fields. Graham was bent low, pulling weedsfrom the garden, the soil cold and damp beneath his hands. He heard the sound of hooves before he saw the rider, and a familiar voice rang out, calling from behind him.

“Good morning, Graham!” Alonso Fournier’s voice was jovial, and Graham turned to see him riding up on his horse, tipping his hat in greeting. “Your order came in, so Celeste sent me out here.”

Graham stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands, and watched as Alonso’s cart pulled up beside him. The man jumped down from his horse with a practiced ease and began to unload the goods. Graham immediately spied the dining chair with the cushioned seat and the fine china tea set—everything had arrived, just as he had requested, carefully packed and padded in straw and cloth. A small wave of relief washed over him, the physical goods a reminder that he was preparing for something real, something tangible.

“Thank you,” Graham said, grateful but distracted, his mind still lingering on the letter he had yet to receive.

“No trouble at all,” Alonso said with a grin, wiping his brow. “Let me help you get it all down. There’s still a lot of stuff in there, and I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.” He gave a small chuckle and looked around the fields. “Been a while since I’ve been out here. Look at this place—you’re doing well for yourself.”

Graham smiled slightly but didn’t respond right away. Alonso continued unloading the cart, clearly enjoying the brief respite from his day’s work. As he shifted some packages around, he paused, his eyes twinkling.

“Speaking of deliveries, Oscar asked me to give you this.” The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a familiar envelope. His smile deepened, knowing the weight it carried. “Said you usually come in on Fridays, but that you’d want this as soon as possible.”

Graham’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the letter. Even from a distance, he recognized the elegant, looping handwriting that filled the front of the envelope—Ciarán’s handwriting. It was unmistakable, beautiful, and full of promise.

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