Page 28 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“Not yet,” Ciarán replied, his brow furrowing slightly in thought. “But I’m not in a hurry.”

“Well, just… Why don’t you sit down and take a look at what your father sent you? There’s got to be a long letter in there, right?” Graham suggested, trying to keep his voice light. He still wasn’t sure how to navigate this moment, but he wasdetermined to make it feel comfortable for both of them. “I’ll make lunch. Won’t be anything fancy, but…” He trailed off, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous gesture.

Ciarán smiled softly. “You think I’ve eaten anything very fancy?” His voice was playful, teasing even.

“Well, you ate at the Harvey Houses,” Graham offered. He could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, a touch embarrassed by how little he knew about Ciarán’s life before Larkspur.

“They were nice,” Ciarán said with a soft laugh. “But I don’t know if I would call that fancy. Honestly, I can’t remember much of the train ride. All my thoughts were about, um… About you, Graham. And the wedding.” He looked down, a hint of pink coloring his cheeks as he spoke, but the tenderness in his words made Graham’s heart swell.

Graham wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The rawness of it caught him off guard. They stood there, caught in a moment that felt too intimate, too personal. His mind raced, his emotions tangled in a knot. He cleared his throat, trying to break the silence. “Right. Well, I’ll get started on lunch. Just, sit down and rest for a bit.”

Ciarán smiled that soft, genuine smile of his, and Graham found himself smiling back despite the awkwardness. But before he could turn and head for the house, Ciarán called after him.

“Oh, Graham—could you bring the laundry in? It should nearly be dry by now.”

Graham’s gaze drifted involuntarily back to the laundry line. There they were again—Ciarán’s underthings, delicate and private, fluttering in the breeze. They were so light, so soft, and they reminded him of the quiet moments they shared together at night, the way Ciarán’s freckled skin looked in the dim light, the way he felt so comfortable and safe in his arms. Grahamswallowed hard, his voice suddenly thick with a mix of confusion and desire. “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said, his tone hoarse.

He turned back toward the laundry, trying his best to focus on the simple task ahead, but all he could think about was the weight of his husband’s words, the tenderness in Ciarán’s eyes, and the growing realization that, somehow, he was deeply, irrevocably in love.

???

Graham washed his hands twice before taking a single piece of laundry off the clothesline. He didn’t want to dirty any of Ciarán’s hard work. He worked as quickly as he could, placing each article of clothing into the basket, careful not to cause creases or wrinkles but trying desperately to limit the amount of time he spent touching his husband’s undergarments because every brush of the material between his fingers made him think about Ciarán wearing said undergarments and those were very dangerous thoughts, to say the least.

When everything was safely in the basket and placed safely outside their bedroom he took a deep breath, berated himself for every indecent image that had passed through his head, and set about making lunch.

He wasn’t a chef by any means, but he’d been on his own for some time and he knew how to cook a decent meal.

Tea—Ciarán preferred tea to coffee—a few fried eggs, hashed brown potatoes, a fresh green salad sprinkled with dandelion flowers, a bowl of pecans and almonds, and a plate stacked with fried hand pies filled with peach preserves.

It wasn’t bad. A bit of everything. Graham wiped his floury and buttery hands on his apron and surveyed the spread with satisfaction. All that was left was to set the table. It always sent a jolt of happiness coursing through his body when hegrabbed enough for two—two spoons, two forks, two knives, two plates—two people eating together, him and his husband.

Ciarán entered just as soon as Graham placed a vase of wildflowers in the middle of the table. Draped over his arm was what appeared to be a new waistcoat, a pocket watch, a choker necklace of red velvet with a shell cameo pendant. In his other hand was a letter. Ciarán’s eyes were red and puffy—he’d been crying. Graham’s worry must’ve shown on his face, because Ciarán sniffled and said, “Everything’s fine. I just miss him terribly.” He gave Graham a watery smile. “But, look! We've got some wedding presents.”

The waistcoat was Ciarán’s; his father apparently knew his measurements by heart and had tailored it for him. It was beautifully made, with a red and gold brocade pattern, and matched the necklace. The cameo depicted a pastoral scene of a young man reading underneath a tree. “That’s very pretty,” Graham said. He imagined Ciarán wearing them to church, how sweet he’d look, the admiration of all in attendance.

And Rory, the father-in-law that Graham had never met, had given him a silver pocket watch. When Ciarán showed it to him Graham balked. “I can’t take that. That’s too much—”

“Oh, he didn’t buy it, it’s an heirloom.”

Christ, he really couldn’t take it. “He didn’t have to go through all the trouble. He could’ve given it to—to family, or something.”

Ciarán frowned. “Graham,” he said, slowly, “You’re my husband.”

“I know, but. He doesn’t know me. He hasn’t even met me.”

“He knows what I’ve told him about you. That you’re so kind and hard-working and that you—” Ciarán paused, blushing, freckled cheeks pretty and pink. He seemed to be working up the courage to continue. “That you’re so very handsome.”Trembling, Ciarán placed his small hand over Graham’s large one. “I, um. I really want us to share the bed. Even if it’s cramped. I wouldn’t mind that, not at all.”

Graham stared at him, mouth agape. Ciarán’s words settled into his mind, nestled in nice and cozy and snug like a sparrow returning to its nest to settle down for the night. He squeezed Ciarán’s fingers, gently, and asked, a bewildered smile spreading across his face, “You didn’t—you didn’t tell your dad about that, did you? About the bed and, uh. Wanting us to share it?”

The tension left Ciarán’s shoulders. He burst out laughing. “Graham! No, of course not! I just told him that I, um. That I liked you very much and that—that I hoped in time we would grow—closer.” Ciarán’s face had gone as red as the sunrise. “But I—I’ve been hoping that you would see me as your husband in—all aspects of life.”

Without a word, Graham took the waistcoat, the letter, the necklace, and the pocket watch. He folded the waistcoat, set it on the shelf, and placed the necklace and pocket watch on top of it, and the letter on top of them. Then he returned to the side of the table, where his husband stood with the most hopeful expression Graham had ever seen.

He placed his hands on either side of Ciarán’s slim waist. “Ever since our wedding I’ve been dreaming of kissing you again. Kissing you right.”

“Me, too,” Ciarán murmured. “I’ve wanted to kiss you. I’ve wanted you.” His lips were full and soft and slightly parted, expectant and needy, and Graham had done his best to give his husband everything he could possibly desire and he wasn’t about to stop now.

He kissed him.

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