Page 65 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“I was real worried,” Graham continued, his tone soft but filled with a mix of nostalgia and affection. “I thought something would happen to the train. A fire, or a robbery, or anything, really. I had to stop and pull myself together, right on the side of the road.”

Ciarán blinked, clearly shocked by the confession. “You…you stopped?” he asked, his voice quiet as he processed the words.

Graham nodded, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “That’s how I got your bouquet,” he explained. “I ran out into the field to clear my head, and I just needed to breathe for a moment. That’s when I saw the flowers around me. I remembered your sketches, the way you’d capture the world in your drawings.”

He glanced down at Ciarán, his heart swelling with the memory of their first meeting. The bouquet had been a simple gesture, but one that had meant more to him than he could put into words. It had been a sign of hope—a small, delicate symbol of the future he was starting to imagine with Ciarán by his side.

Ciarán reached over and placed a hand on Graham’s thigh, squeezing gently. His eyes were soft, filled with a deep affection that made Graham’s heart skip a beat. “I kept them, you know. Those flowers, and all the other ones you’ve given me,” Ciarán murmured. “I have them pressed in one of my poetry books.”

Graham’s smile grew, touched by the sentiment. “I didn’t know that,” he said, his voice full of quiet admiration.

Ciarán returned the smile, his cheeks rosy from the cold, his breath visible in the crisp morning air. The two of them sat there for a moment, the world outside their wagon slipping away as they shared a quiet moment, just the two of them. For all the anxiety and anticipation of the day, for all the uncertainties ahead, Graham knew that they were ready for whatever came.

???

The train station was more crowded than Graham expected. The cold winter morning had drawn out more people than usual, perhaps because many were waiting to reunite with loved ones for the holiday season. Families huddled together, wrapped in layers of coats and scarves, their eyes scanning the crowd in anticipation. Some sat with neatly wrapped presents, their bright colors and shiny ribbons standing out against the stark whiteness of the snow. Others were pacing, their hands fidgeting with their gloves or clutching at the handles of heavy bags, their eyes darting back and forth in sync with the train station’s large clock.

Children, bundled in hats and mittens, were racing through the crowd, their laughter ringing out in shrieks as they pelted each other with snowballs in a carefree game. The sight of it made Graham smile, the innocent joy of their play a sharp contrast to the deep, quiet anticipation that filled the air around him and Ciarán.

Ciarán, too excited to sit, was pacing the length of the platform. His steps quick, his eyes constantly darting over the crowd, waiting for the moment that would make everything real—when his father would finally step off that train and into his arms. Graham stayed close, his large strides easily matching his husband’s smaller steps as they walked together, side by side. Their footprints marked the fresh snow, Ciarán’s delicate marks alongside his own heavier ones, as they tried to pass the time with idle chatter.

“I’ll make us some tea when we get home,” Ciarán murmured, mostly to himself. “And I’ll put the roast in the oven. I’m glad I remembered to make the apple cake and the bread yesterday. It’ll take most of the day for the roast to cook. Ah, but it’ll be such a heavy meal with the potatoes—and maybe papa won’t be up to it after all his traveling. I should make something lighter, too. A carrot and beet salad, maybe?”

Ciarán’s mind was already working through the logistics of their day, trying to anticipate what his father might need, what he might enjoy after his long journey. Graham smiled softly, his heart full of warmth for the way Ciarán cared so deeply, for his family, for him. His husband’s voice was a balm to his nerves, even if the anxious energy in the air was palpable.

“Whatever we can’t eat tonight, we’ll have tomorrow,” Graham said gently, squeezing Ciarán’s arm. “Makes breakfast and lunch easy.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Ciarán agreed with a small nod. “I think I will make the salad, though.”

It was a small comfort, but it helped calm Ciarán’s nerves, even if just a little. Graham, despite his own excitement, was grateful for the moment of quiet that fell between them. But that peace didn’t last long.

The shrill whistle of the train pierced through the air, and sparks flew from the tracks as the great metal machine screeched to a halt, its wheels groaning under the sudden pressure. People began to rush toward the platform, some with luggage clutched tightly, others with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The noise, the sudden flurry of motion, felt like a punctuation mark in the stillness that had preceded it.

As passengers spilled out onto the platform, Graham caught sight of the crowd, his eyes instinctively searching for the figure that would finally make their family feel complete. And then, like a beacon in the sea of faces, he saw Ciarán’s excitement light up as he spotted the one person they had been waiting for. Ciarán’s eyes widened, and he pointed with a burst of joy.

“There! There, there he is!”

Graham turned to follow the direction of Ciarán’s outstretched finger, his heart skipping a beat. There, standing among the bustling crowd, was a tall, older man, his hair and beard streaked with gray. His clothes were worn, patched in places, but finely repaired—practical and weathered from years of hard work, but still carrying the pride of someone who had taken great care in their appearance. His shoes were polished, his waistcoat a dark green, and his coat, though well-worn, seemed to hold the promise of countless stories stitched into its fabric. He stood, looking down at the trunk at his feet with a slightly puzzled expression, as though he wasn’t quite sure how it had come to be there—or how he would manage to move it all on his own.

Graham watched as Ciarán’s face lit up, a radiant smile spreading across his features.

“Papa!” Ciarán cried, his voice filled with emotion as he took off toward the man.

And then, for Graham, it was like everything else melted away. Rory Ryan looked up at the sound of his son’s voice, his face transforming with a warmth so familiar to Ciarán. It was as if, in that moment, the world stopped spinning, and there was nothing but the two of them. Rory dropped his bags to the ground with a thud and threw his arms wide, a smile blooming across his face.

“Ciarán!”

Their embrace was immediate, the kind of reunion that could only come from years of separation. Graham watched, his heart swelling, as father and son held each other tight, a powerful, silent exchange passing between them. There was so much love in that moment that it nearly knocked Graham over. He had seen reunions before, but nothing like this.

“Look at you!” Rory said, pulling away to hold Ciarán at arm’s length. “You look wonderful. I’ve missed you so much, my dear.” His voice was thick with emotion, and Ciarán’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Ciarán replied, his voice shaky. “How are you feeling? Are you hungry? Tired? Did you sleep on the train ride? Let’s get your things together—”

But before Ciarán could go any further, Graham stepped forward, offering a reassuring smile. “Here, let me help, sweetheart.” He reached down to grab the trunk and one of the bags with ease, offering to carry some of the weight.

Rory looked at him, his eyes scanning Graham with curiosity, and then a smile spread across his face. “You must be Graham,” he said.

Graham stood a little straighter. “Yes, sir. It’s—a pleasure to finally meet you.”

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