Page 66 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“Likewise,” Rory said, his smile warm and genuine. “It’s good to finally meet my son-in-law.” He gave Ciarán a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Thank you for looking after Ciarán.”

Graham felt a lump form in his throat, and though he didn’t know exactly what to say in response, he found the words anyway. “I love him.”

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Graham insisted that Ciarán ride in the back of the cart with his father on the way back. “You two have a lot to catch up on,” he said with a knowing smile, as he climbed into the front seat and took the reins. It was his way of giving them space, of allowing the two of them the chance to reconnect after so many years apart.

Behind him, Ciarán and Rory spoke together in Irish, their voices a soft, melodic hum in the crisp winter air. Ciarán’s words came quickly, a little breathlessly, his excitement spilling out as if he couldn’t contain it. Rory’s response was slower, more deliberate, his voice rich with affection, carrying the weight of years gone by. The sound of their conversation was like a balm to Graham’s soul, a reminder that the family he had come to cherish was growing, expanding, filling the space with love and laughter.

As they passed through the town, Graham could hear snippets of their conversation. Ciarán was telling his father about the shops, about the people they had met in Larkspur, and the little details of the life they had built together. Rory’s laughter, warm and deep, echoed through the air as he responded, clearly delighted by the stories his son had to tell. It was as if a world that had been closed off to Rory for so long was beginning to open up to him once again.

When they left the town behind and the road stretched out before them, the pace of their conversation slowed. Graham could catch fragments of what they were saying now, enough to understand that Ciarán was describing the countryside when it was in bloom. He spoke of the hills covered in wildflowers, of the trees bursting into color, of the vineyards full of ripening grapes. His voice was full of pride as he painted a picture of their home—a place that was alive, vibrant, a world in which everything had a place and purpose.

Graham smiled to himself as he guided Ginger and Bó onward, feeling a quiet sense of satisfaction settle over him. And when the ranch finally came into view, with its barn nestled in the distance and the house rising from the earth like a warm, welcoming beacon, Rory made a startled sound. He seemed to catch sight of something unexpected, and for a moment, he was silent, simply taking in the sight before him.

“What a sight!” he exclaimed, his voice full of sincere wonder. The awe in his tone made Graham’s heart swell, and he couldn’t help but glance back to see Ciarán’s face lighting up with a smile as he leaned toward his father.

“It’s even better when there’s some greenery,” Ciarán said, his voice full of pride. “You’ll see, papa. It’s just like I told you—everything comes alive. The flowers, the trees, the fruit. It’s all so beautiful in the spring. You’ll be able to pick fruit right off the vine and—”

Rory’s chuckle cut him off again, his tone light and teasing. “Goodness gracious, lad, you don’t have to convince me of anything, I’m already here.” His eyes scanned the ranch with clear appreciation. “But it’s very nice. A very lovely home you two have made for yourself.”

Graham couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth as he looked toward the ranch. There was something deeply gratifying in knowing that, after all thehard work, after all the effort and sacrifice, this was their life. This place—this home—was theirs to share with the people they loved.

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Roisin was immediately upon them when they walked through the door, tail wagging furiously as he bounded around their legs, his excitement unmistakable. They had barely shaken the cold and the light dusting of snow from themselves before the dog was leaping joyfully between them, barking happily at their return. His nose wiggled with curiosity, sniffing at Rory as if trying to figure out the new scent.

“This is the noble hound, then?” Rory asked, bending down to offer his hand to the dog, his voice warm and amused. But Roisin, in his boundless excitement, wriggled this way and that, and Rory’s fingers only managed to brush the top of his head before the dog dashed off again, circling around them like a whirlwind.

Graham chuckled at the sight. “I’ll get the fire started,” he said to Ciarán, eager to help make the house warm and welcoming for Rory. “If you want to give your father the grand tour.”

Ciarán beamed at the suggestion, looking at Graham with gratitude. “Yes, thank you, Graham. Here, papa, let me show you your room.” He motioned for Rory to follow him as they carried the bags to Rory’s room. Graham stood for a moment, listening to the sound of their voices, before he turned to the stove, placing some firewood and tinder into the stove to get a blaze going.

The fire caught quickly. Graham watched with satisfaction as the flames grew, the wood crackling and popping, sending embers dancing into the air. Roisin, tired from hisinitial excitement, plopped down on the rug beside him, his back turned to the stove as he warmed his rear. Graham reached down to give him a firm pat on the head, murmuring, “Good boy,” as the house slowly began to heat up, the chill of the winter air evaporating into the warmth that was soon to fill the room. Soon, the roast would go into the oven, and the smells of dinner would begin to fill the house.

On the kitchen table were several bundles of silverware, one fork, one knife, and one spoon wrapped in a napkin, along with a small stack of plates. A ceramic pitcher of apple cider sat beside it, ready to be warmed. The loaf of bread and the apple cake that Ciarán had baked the day before were covered with a cloth, and next to them sat a bowl of freshly scrubbed potatoes. Graham grabbed the bowl of potatoes and placed it on the counter, then moved the cider pot onto the stove, heating it gently.

As the cider warmed, Graham took a quick sip to taste it. The warm liquid was sweet, spiced with cinnamon and cloves, just like Ciarán always made it. He poured it back into the pitcher, setting it on the table for later. “And we bought this rocking chair for you—” he heard Ciarán’s voice behind him.

He turned to see Ciarán gently moving the rocking chair closer to the stove, urging Rory to sit. Rory was already looking more relaxed, the weight of the journey starting to lift as the warmth of the house enveloped him.

Rory eased himself into the chair with a sigh of contentment, looking around at the room with a peaceful expression. “Oh, this is very nice. Everything has been so very nice, Ciarán,” he said, the gratitude in his voice clear.

Ciarán flitted about, making sure his father was comfortable. “Are you comfortable?” he asked, hands fluttering as he offered a blanket to Rory, who took it and placed it on his lap with a quiet murmur of thanks.

“Extremely. Thank you, my dear,” Rory said, his eyes softening as he settled in.

“You’re welcome,” Ciarán said. “Do you—do you need anything else?” His voice held a note of concern, as if he could anticipate his father’s every need.

“I’m just going to rest my eyes a bit, I think,” Rory said with a faint smile, his voice growing quieter. “Now that I’m here, I’m starting to feel the journey.”

Ciarán leaned in and kissed his father’s gray head, the gesture tender and filled with affection. “Yes, of course. I’ll get the roast started.”

It didn’t take long before Rory was softly snoring in the chair by the stove, Roisin curled up at his feet. The sight was so peaceful, so domestic, that it felt like a scene right out of a picture book—a moment of tranquility and love that had been a long time coming.

“What else can I help with?” Graham asked Ciarán, already turning back to the kitchen.

They fell into an easy rhythm, bustling around the kitchen together. Graham shredded carrots, sliced beets, and poked at the potatoes with a fork to check their progress. He pulled the roast out of the oven, checking it carefully, then pushed it back in with a satisfied nod. Ciarán was at his side, moving like a whirlwind as he checked on the cider, wrapped up the bread, and tended to the apple cake. He tutted as Graham grabbed a quick bite of the cake and playfully wiped the crumbs from Graham’s lips, warning him that he would ruin his appetite if he kept sneaking bites.

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