Page 52 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

The thief startled, a brief moment of panic flashing across their figure before they turned toward him. The cow beside them gave an anxious snort, and Graham didn’t hesitate. With a sharp slap to the cow’s rump, he sent her scurrying back toward the safety of the barn. He then turned, glaring at the intruder. “The fuck you think you’re doing?” he spat, fury burning through him.

This was the bastard who’d tried to rob from the Duncans. The same one who’d almost killed Liam and left Ronan a widower. And now, here he was, attempting to steal from Graham and Ciarán. Their cows, their livelihood—the animals they cared for and relied on. The thought alone sent a surge of protectiveness through him.

It wasn’t just about the theft of an animal. It was about stealing their means of survival. The milk, the butter, the cheese they worked so hard to produce—everything depended on these cows. Every hour spent caring for them, every bit of labor that kept their farm running. Without it, they’d lose everything: the land, the house, even the future they’d been building together. All of it could be taken in an instant.

Anger bubbled up inside Graham, and without thinking, he grabbed a heavy bucket of feed and threw it with all his strength at the thief. The bucket missed his head but collided with his shoulder, sending feed scattering across the dirt. The thief cursed loudly, and that’s when Graham heard the voice.

“Merde—” The voice was unmistakable.

Jean Lachapelle.

Graham’s eyes narrowed with disgust. Lachapelle, the rich heir of the sprawling land and livestock that would eventually fall into his hands. And yet here he was, stealing from those who had far less than he did. He hadn’t been satisfied with the fortune he was about to inherit—he needed more. More money, more power, more everything.

“You fucking piece of shit—” Graham snarled, his fist tightening with rage.

Lachapelle, still clutching his shoulder, recovered enough to face Graham. But Graham was faster. He swung a heavy blow, not a punch, but a forceful strike with his closed fist, hammering into Lachapelle’s face. The force sent the man stumbling backwards, and Graham followed up, delivering hitafter hit. Each blow landed with a sickening crack as bone met knuckles. Blood flowed from Lachapelle’s nostrils, but Graham didn’t stop. He couldn’t—he was past reason now, past restraint.

It wasn’t until the fourth hit that Lachapelle retaliated, his fist landing squarely in Graham’s side, knocking the wind from him. The shock of the hit made him stagger, a sharp pain flashing through his ribs.

Lachapelle took advantage of Graham’s moment of weakness and kicked him in the knee. Pain flared in Graham’s leg like a fresh wound, and he gasped, biting back a curse. The thief shoved him backward, sending Graham crashing to the dirt.

A sharp breath of pain escaped Graham as he tried to get his bearings. But Lachapelle wasn’t finished. He was still standing, though shaky, his bloodied face twisted in rage. He sneered as he lifted his foot.

“You’ll regret that!” Lachapelle spat, his voice thick with venom.

And then, with a cruel laugh, he brought his heel down onto Graham’s bad leg. The pain was immediate, a blinding burst that nearly sent Graham back to the ground. But before he could react, there was a blur—a shape moving fast.

“Roisin?” Graham blinked, disbelief flashing across his face.

The dog came charging in, snarling and leaping at Lachapelle with a ferocity that Graham hadn’t expected. Roisin snapped at Lachapelle, dodging his attempts to swipe at him with his arm. But Lachapelle’s wild swing connected with the dog, his elbow catching Roisin in the side. The dog yelped in pain.

“Don’t you hurt my dog!” Graham’s heart leaped in his chest. He lurched forward, trying to reach them.

As Lachapelle aimed another kick at him, Graham grabbed Roisin by the scruff, yanking him out of the way just in time. Lachapelle’s boot missed its mark but sent Graham stumbling. He let go of Roisin with a growl of frustration, his knee throbbing with pain.

“What do you think’s going to happen here?” Lachapelle taunted, his voice slick with arrogance as he wiped the blood from his lips. “You going to march me to the sheriff with that fucked up leg of yours? Huh, little soldier boy?”

The words hit like a slap, but Graham didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, his jaw tight with fury. “Nah. You aren’t walking anywhere. I’ll have you hogtied and in the back of my cart. We’ll go right through town, and everyone will see I caught a thief.”

Lachapelle’s eyes narrowed as he spat a bloody glob into the dirt, a look of disdain crossing his face. “You could’ve just sold me the cows to begin with—”

“Shut up!” Graham snapped, his voice cold with fury.

He didn’t dare take his eyes off the man, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement—Ciarán.

Ciarán emerged from the house, his face a mask of fury, dressed in his cream-colored nightgown and work boots. The rifle in his hands was aimed squarely at Lachapelle.

“If you lay a hand on my husband again,” Ciarán warned, his voice fierce, “I swear you will regret it!”

Lachapelle’s dumbfounded expression was priceless, but he didn’t say anything. “You don’t know how to use that thing,” he sneered, eyeing the rifle.

“You don’t know a thing about me,” Ciarán retorted, his gaze hard. “But I know you’re nothing but a thief.”

“Graham, are you okay?” Ciarán asked, his voice softer now but still tinged with worry.

“Fine, sweetheart,” Graham replied, though his side ached and his leg throbbed.

Ciarán nodded, his face still set in determination. “Okay. Okay, I think—” He swallowed, glancing quickly at Lachapelle, who was still standing there, bloodied and defiant. “We need rope. If you really want to hogtie him.”

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