Page 57 of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband

“They’re good like that.” Graham grinned, though he suspected that Ciarán was beginning to suspect that Graham thought pretty much anything was good when fried. But it was true—the fried zucchini flowers were a delicacy, and they always had a way of making everything feel a little more special.

“And what will we sell?” Ciarán asked, already thinking about the future as they continued to work.

Graham adjusted his hat again. “First, we think about ourselves. Some of it will keep in the cellar. Cold enough there. The rest, we’ll pickle or preserve. You’ll be a big help with that. We have to plan for winter, especially if we’re going to get things ready for your father.” He paused, glancing at Ciarán, who was listening intently. “Once we’re done here, we’ll separate it out. The really good-looking stuff can go to market. I usuallysell by the pound—have the crates, just like with the eggs and the cheese. They go to Mrs. Fournier’s shop. Sometimes people come to buy in bulk, sometimes just for what they need for dinner. Either way, it’s good business.”

He stopped as he noticed Ciarán grinning at him with an almost amused look. “What’s with that look?” Graham asked, confused.

Ciarán just gazed at him with a quiet affection, his dark honey-colored eyes warm with admiration. “Oh, I was just thinking about how much you know. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you speak for so long before.”

Graham, suddenly shy, felt his face flush. “It’s not all that interesting, though,” he mumbled, embarrassed by the fact that he had just spent so much time talking about work. There was nothing particularly romantic about it.

Ciarán sniffed in mock indignation. “Well, I’ll be the judge of that,” he teased. “I think it’s extremely interesting. I enjoy listening to you.”

Blushing, Graham replied, “I could tell you more about pickling cucumbers, if you wanted.”

Ciarán nodded eagerly, but before Graham could launch into a lengthy explanation of his perfected pickling recipe, Mrs. Duncan rode up the path, her horse kicking up a cloud of dust behind her.

She halted at the gate, hopped off the horse, and led it to the water trough. As the horse drank, Mrs. Duncan waved to them. “Hey there! The heroes of the hour! What are you doing there in the dirt?”

“Work,” Graham said, grinning. “I don’t think you’ve met my husband yet.”

“I haven’t,” Mrs. Duncan said, extending her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Annie Duncan. My husband William and I breed horses.”

Ciarán shook her hand with a smile. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Ciarán Shepherd. I believe Graham purchased my mare, Bó, from you?”

“Bó, now, is she?” Mrs. Duncan smiled warmly. “Yes, indeed! Ginger, too. We’ve done good business, your husband and I. And now, you’ve both done me and mine a good turn. You ought to have been in town today, since you’re the ones that caught our horse thief!”

Graham motioned for her to come inside out of the heat. “So, the sheriff went through with the arrest?”

Mrs. Duncan nodded. “Arrested, charged. Our mare and stallion, found. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you what happened this morning…”

???

What a morning Mrs. Duncan described. The men from the saloon had been released a little after dawn, and, to no one’s surprise, they were only sleeping off a night of drunken revelry. But the two card players, who had remained sober enough to recall the events of the previous night, could remember Jean Lachapelle being dragged into the sheriff’s office by Graham Shepherd and his handsome young husband, Ciarán.

“Oh!” Ciarán blushed at the mention of their involvement, but Graham just grumbled as he brought Mrs. Duncan a cup of water and a few warmed day-old biscuits with butter, feeling both proud and a little awkward. It wasn’t every day that you were the talk of the town.

The sheriff, presumably wanting to take some time to collect himself and talk to Lachapelle about the situation, was handling matters with great care. He was also strategizing on how best to address the situation with the Duncans, Ronan and Liam, and Baron Lachapelle, as the whole ordeal wasquickly becoming a powder keg ready to explode. Thanks to the loose lips of the newly energized saloon-goers, word of what had transpired last night had spread quickly, and by the time breakfast had rolled around, nearly everyone in town had already heard the story.

Determined to settle the issue once and for all, Mr. and Mrs. Duncan rode to the sheriff’s office, demanding—quite reasonably, according to Mrs. Duncan—that Lachapelle return their stolen mare and stallion before they tore down his father’s property, board by board. The sheriff, ever the calm and collected figure, refused, citing the more pressing crimes that Lachapelle was accused of: attempted theft, actual theft, and most serious of all, attempted murder. It was clear that the theft of their horses would have to wait, as the sheriff had already sent his deputy to collect Ronan and Liam to see if the latter could identify Lachapelle.

While the Duncans hotly debated this with the sheriff, Baron Lachapelle stormed through the door, demanding his son’s release. According to him, Jean had acted foolishly but there was no reason for him to be held in jail. He had, after all, only made a mistake in judgment.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “What, exactly, was this foolish act?”

Baron Lachapelle scoffed, dismissing the situation with a wave of his hand. “All he did was be too indiscreet during a late-night rendezvous. Hardly a crime.”

Here, Ciarán, who had been listening intently, couldn’t hold back his confusion. “Excuse me? A what?” He shot a glance at Graham, who was listening with a furrowed brow.

Mrs. Duncan sighed, looking at Ciarán as if he should have expected it. “Jean told his father he was coming over to see you, Ciarán. He said he made some sort of offer to you a whileback, and that you were… well, amenable to it. He claimed he was coming to collect.”

Ciarán recoiled at the accusation, pushing himself away from the table in a mixture of shock and anger. His face flushed crimson as he spoke. “How dare he! That cad! The things he said to me! He showed up when Graham was gone, asking me to—” He paused suddenly, his eyes wide with realization, then turned to Graham. “Oh, Graham, I swear, I never agreed to anything he asked of me. I told him to leave!”

Graham reached across the table to take Ciarán’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

Ciarán sighed, his voice becoming smaller. “But what will everyone else think?”

Mrs. Duncan’s voice cut through the air, firm and reassuring. “That Jean Lachapelle is a lying piece of shit, that’s what they’ll think.” She sipped from her cup of water, her expression not even the least bit perturbed. “I don’t think anyone who’s seen the two of you together could believe you’d have eyes for anyone but each other. The man’s a thief, a near-murderer, and a liar. He’s been lying about all his escapades, not just this one. So don’t you worry about it.”

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