Page 9 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

Wasn’t as bad as it used to be. When the war ended and his leg had pained him something terrible Graham had sometimes just lost himself in panic for no reason at all, suddenly overcome by dread, sought out a quiet place to shiver and cry with the desperation of a man in the desert crawling toward an oasis.

Now, at least, he had reason to panic. His first meeting with the man he was going to marry. Knees bent, palms on his thighs, he breathed in and out and in and out, slow and steady, trying to curb his fear. The train would not derail into fiery mass of melted and twisted metal, its passengers would not find themselves beset by bandits and outlaws, and Ciarán wouldcome. He had said so in his letter. He had written his father to tell him he would be living with Graham. It would be okay. It would all work out.

Eventually his blurred vision cleared. He sniffled and wiped his eyes. As he straightened up, calmer but a little flushed, Graham noticed wildflowers dotting the field. Bright and blossoming and lovely, just like in Ciarán’s sketches. The petals were soft between his fingers.

Graham gently plucked one, and then another, and another, until he had a veritable bouquet. Butter yellows, sunrise reds, the blue of deep, clear water, the white of sheared, cleaned wool—Graham held all the colors in his hands, marveled at their freshness, their vibrancy, and then carefully stowed the flowers in his bag. A welcoming present for Ciarán.

???

At the train station, Graham waited and watched. He wasn’t alone in his vigil; the bustling platform was alive with others engaged in their own stories. A woman in a sharp navy suit impatiently checked her pocket watch, the sharp snap of its case echoing above the low hum of conversation. A frazzled man with three small children struggled to shepherd them onto one of the wooden benches, their shrill giggles contrasting with his tired sighs. Nearby, someone fanned themselves with such fervor that their face was obscured by the blur of motion, their bright paper fan a whirl of color.

And yet, among the crowd, Graham stood apart—not physically, but in his purpose. He was the only one clutching a bouquet of flowers, the stems pressed awkwardly to his chest, and he felt the weight of his self-consciousness as if the flowers themselves had grown heavy with judgment. He always felt exposed in public, as though every eye was on him, dissectinghis presence, measuring him against some inscrutable standard. Now, with the added pressure of awaiting Ciarán’s arrival, the sensation was nearly unbearable.

What if he didn’t make the right impression? What if Ciarán didn’t show at all? The mere thought of waiting in vain, his loneliness so plainly displayed, made his palms sweat. Graham gritted his teeth and pushed the spiraling doubts aside. Ciarán had written such kind, thoughtful letters. The man was as good as his word, Graham reminded himself. He just had to hold on to that faith.

The tracks began to hum beneath the station, a low vibration that grew into a rhythmic clatter. The train’s whistle cut through the air, sharp and commanding, scattering idle chatter into excited murmurs. Around him, people straightened, craning their necks, eager to greet loved ones or secure a coveted seat on the departing train.

Graham stayed seated, his back rigid, and tightened his grip on the bouquet. His heart pounded in time with the metallic screech of the train’s brakes as it pulled into the station. Sparks flew briefly as the wheels ground to a halt, and then the passengers began to disembark—a chaotic, almost celebratory exodus.

The man with the three children found a woman in a bustling gown, and the children squealed in delight as they mobbed her, their joyous reunion drawing smiles from the bystanders. Elsewhere, parents lifted children from the train steps, their laughter ringing out as luggage was juggled and hugs exchanged. Businessmen in fine suits strode onto the train, paying little heed to the scenes of connection around them.

Graham scanned the crowd, his gaze darting between hats and faces. His heart caught when he spotted a telltale sign—a large paper rose, folded expertly from a newspaper page, nestled in the ribbon of a slightly battered straw hat. Thegreen ribbon swayed as its wearer turned his head, chatting animatedly with a porter as he retrieved his bag.

That had to be him. Graham rose to his feet, his mouth suddenly dry.

“There you are, Mr. Ryan,” the porter said, handing over a well-worn suitcase.

“Thank you,” the young man replied, his voice soft and high, the lilting Irish accent confirming his identity. “I really appreciate it. You’ve been—oh!” His words broke off as his gaze met Graham’s, and his eyes widened.

For a moment, Graham could only stare, rooted in place. His gaze lingered on the hat, the paper flower that had been described so fondly in letters, before finally drifting to the young man’s face. He was younger than Graham had expected—so much younger. His letters had carried a maturity that belied the youth standing before him now. Graham couldn’t help but think of the boys he had served with in the war, barely out of their teens.

Ciarán was slight, with wild brown curls escaping the confines of his hat and a face dotted with freckles. His dark honey-colored eyes were wide with nervous energy, and when he smiled tentatively, Graham was struck by how unexpectedly beautiful it was.

“Mr. Shepherd?” Ciarán’s voice was tentative, his hand adjusting the brim of his hat.

“Graham,” he corrected gruffly, his tongue feeling clumsy. He thrust the bouquet forward, the gesture abrupt and almost clumsy. “You can call me Graham.”

Ciarán’s cheeks turned a soft pink as he accepted the flowers, his long fingers grazing Graham’s briefly. “Oh—thank you! These are lovely.” He held the bouquet close, inhaling deeply. “I—thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

The train station seemed to blur around them, its noise and bustle fading into the background. Graham’s focus narrowed entirely to the man standing before him, his cheeks pink from the crisp spring air or perhaps something more.

The church bells in the distance struck the hour, jolting Graham back to reality. He cleared his throat. “We should get going.”

Ciarán nodded, his smile growing a little steadier. “Of course. Do I—do I look all right for my own wedding?” His laugh was soft and self-conscious, his hands fidgeting with the ribbon of his hat.

Truth be told, Graham’s gaze hadn’t strayed from Ciarán’s face since he’d first laid eyes on him. Every freckle, every subtle movement of his lips as he spoke, seemed like a small revelation. But, realizing he’d been staring too long, Graham forced himself to glance over Ciarán’s clothes. The young man was dressed neatly, in a crisp, white, collared, long-sleeved shirt and a dark green waistcoat. The color suited him, Graham thought, and he felt a quiet satisfaction knowing that the green coat waiting at the house might also please his new companion. Ciarán’s black trousers and freshly shined shoes spoke of care and effort, though Graham suspected they were not new.

“You don’t even look like you’ve been on a train for near a week,” Graham said, his voice as gruff as ever but warm with approval.

“I made sure to freshen up! I changed before we pulled into the station,” Ciarán replied, his cheeks coloring again with that endearing pink flush that Graham was quickly becoming fond of. “You look very handsome, Mr. Shepherd. I mean, um, Graham.”

Graham smiled faintly at the compliment, though it was more polite than accurate. His suit, a readymade one boughtfor the occasion, fit poorly on his broad, muscular frame. The jacket was tight around his shoulders, the trousers straining at his thighs. Suits weren’t made for men like him—men who had spent their lives working hard in fields and barns, their bodies shaped by labor. He was far more at ease in a work shirt and jeans, but he had made the effort, and hearing Ciarán’s kind words made it feel worthwhile.

“This way,” he said, gesturing for Ciarán to follow as they exited the station. Outside, Ginger stood patiently hitched to the buggy, her chestnut coat gleaming in the afternoon light.

“She’s a very lovely horse,” Ciarán said, his voice full of genuine admiration.

Graham stepped forward, holding out a hand to help him climb into the buggy. As Ciarán’s hand rested in his, Graham noticed its long, graceful fingers—hands that seemed made for something delicate, like playing a piano or painting. Just as he had imagined, they were the hands of an artist. He must have lingered on the thought too long, though, because Ciarán blushed again, his lashes lowering as he glanced away.

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