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Graham was 36 years old. He’d had a lot of troubles and faced them all to the best of his abilities and with as much courage as he could muster. As a boy he’d walked slowly to the schoolhouse chalkboard, trying to figure out the solution to the teacher’s question before he got there so he wouldn’t look like a fool in front of his classmates. When he was a soldier he'd stood tall and steady during the war, even during rifle volleys, even when he was exhausted, and hungry, and aching, never once thinking of fleeing. When he had just started the ranch he’d dealt with ornery livestock of all shapes and sizes and fretted over crashing thunderstorms that seemed ready to rival Noah’s flood and prairie fires that threatened to turn everyone and everything to ash.

Now he thought, with not a little bit of panic, that unbuttoning his husband’s shirt was the most daunting task he’d ever faced.

They were tiny, delicate, shiny little brass buttons, and Graham’s hands shook as he fumbled with them. Their boots were already in a pile next to the bed. Graham had kicked his off with little fanfare and carefully unlaced Ciarán’s before moving on to the cufflinks, which he set on the bedside table, blushing as he held his husband’s wrist, Ciarán’s pulse frantic underneath his thumb.

And then, the buttons.

Never before had Graham felt as large as he did now, kneeling on the floor at Ciarán’s feet, undressing him with hands that were scarred from war and tough from labor and surely just too big and ungainly for such a task. With every new inch of Ciarán revealed Graham grew clumsier and flushed all the more red. There was his husband’s neck, his collarbone, the white cotton undershirt he wore against his skin—slightly sweaty from all his activity in the morning—and then, as Graham helped him shrug off both layers, his bare, freckled chest with rosy pink nipples.

When he moved his hands to Ciarán’s belt buckle, however, his husband gave a little gasp and grabbed hold of his wrists to stop him.

“Am I going too fast, sweetheart?” Graham asked.

A lovely blush bloomed on Ciarán’s cheeks. “No! Well, um, yes, actually. That is, you’re so much more heavily clothed than I am.”

Graham glanced down at himself. Somewhat stupidly, he replied, “I took my boots off.”

“I only mean that I want to see you as well, Graham.” The blush on Ciarán’s face deepened. He twisted the bedsheets between his fingers, looking so very sweet and shy for someone who had just requested that Graham strip down to nothing.

Flustered, he started to pull at his own shirt when Ciarán stopped him once more.

“Oh, Graham—I mean that what I really want to is—I’d like to do it myself, if you’d let me.”

“Yeah, of course. If that’s what you want.”

“Yes, please.” His husband, before a little bashful, a little stuttering, now smiled, clearly pleased and, by the determined glint in his eye and the way he deftly dealt with Graham’s shirt, clearly very eager.

The air was cool on his chest and Diamuid’s touch hot. He shivered as his husband ran his fingers through his chest hair with a hum, looking like the cat who had gotten the cream.

“You’ve seen me without my shirt before,” Graham muttered, embarrassed.

Ciarán brushed his fingertips over Graham’s nipple. He gave his pec an experimental squeeze, and then, apparently satisfied by what he found, did it again. “Oh, yes, but last time I was so mortified that I’d walked out in barely anything—I scarcely got a glance at you, really. It was all a blur.”

Graham recalled the morning when they’d accidentally spied one another in their respective shocking states of undress. He remembered the panic he’d felt, but he especially remembered the sight of Ciarán’s bare, freckled thighs. They’d stirred an interest in him then, and now, with his husband half-dressed and practically purring against him, Graham felt himself growing hard. He shifted slightly on the bed and admitted, voice low and husky, “Ever since I saw you that day I’ve been dreaming about your legs. And all the little freckles on them.”

“R-really?” There was pure wonder in Ciarán’s voice.

“Yeah.” Maybe it wasn’t seemly to admit such a thing, even to one’s husband and even when he was about to bed him, but Graham suspected that Ciarán would like to hear it, so he said, “I’ve thought about you at night. Before I go to sleep.”

“And—and what exactly were you thinking about?”

“Your bare legs. All of you, bare, sometimes. But your legs especially. And you bending over in your old nightshirt. The short one. Or pulling up your night gown around your waist so that I can look at you.”

“What then?” Ciarán whispered.

With a gentle shove he pushed Ciarán onto his back. His husband lay on the mattress, staring up at him through long lashes, eyes dark, lips slightly parted. This time when he went for the belt buckle Ciarán allowed it, even lifted his hips a little so that Graham could more easily peel off his pants. In no time he was left with a husband clad in nothing but socks that ended just above his knee. “Well,” Graham said, voice thick, “Then I touch you.” He ran his hand along the inside of Ciarán’s thigh.

“And do I like it?”

His words were playful, teasing. A surge of confidence rolled through Graham’s body. “Why don’t you tell me?” He wrapped his fingers around Ciarán’s cock, gave it a few leisurely strokes. “Do you like that, sweetheart?” It was a rhetorical question—the answer was obvious. He was hot and hard in Graham’s hand.

Ciarán let out a breathless little giggle. “V-very much so. I would like it more if I could see all of you, though.” He bit his lip and stared meaningfully at Graham’s lower half, still clothed. “Let me?”

Obediently, Graham straddled him, his knees on either side of Ciarán’s chest. Ciarán sat up on the pillows as he happily did away with Graham’s belt. His pants fell to his thighs to reveal his half-hard cock.

Whatever it was that Ciarán saw, it delighted him. He breathed, “Oh…” and reached out once more to touch Graham’s body, his fingers trailing along the scars along his hips, brushing through the coarse hair between his legs, and delicately, tentatively, with an uncertainty that was feather-light and near to torture, took Graham’s cock in his hands and began to touch and stroke and squeeze, testing the feeling and the reactions he caused.

He asked, “Do you—like that, Graham?” as he rubbed his thumb along the head of his shaft in little circles, precum glistening on the tips of his fingers.

Another rhetorical question. But that was something, too. Hearing each other voice their want, their pleasure. Graham shivered. “Yeah, I like it.”

With an impish smile, Ciarán brought his lips—so very pink and wet—to the head and kissed it.

A jolt of pleasure went through his body, swiftly accompanied by a twinge of pain in his leg. He winced. Ciarán immediately drew away, smile gone, his eyes wide and horrified. “Did I do it wrong?” he asked.

“No, no, no—you did it right. Everything was—right. And good. Great,” Graham panted. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s just my leg. I can’t stand like this anymore.”

“Oh—I’m sorry, Graham. We can stop—”

Graham gritted his teeth. “We are not stopping. Just means that I need to—change positions.” He cleared his throat, hoping that his husband understood his meaning.

He did. Ciarán’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Yes, of course. Let me grab the oil—” As Graham wrestled his pants all the way off and massaged his knee, Ciarán rolled over to the bedside table and grabbed a container that Graham had honestly thought was some sort of perfume.

“How long have you had that?”

The shy expression returned to Ciarán’s face. “Since we first went to town. I thought—well. I thought we’d have cause to use it together sooner.” Then, he pouted. “I’ve used enough just on my own.”

All this time, Ciarán had been lonely and wanting in their bedroom, thinking about Graham—touching himself to the thought of Graham.

“I’m sorry, Ciarán,” he said again.

Ciarán’s fingers were smeared with oil. He leaned back against the pillows once more and slowly, almost lazily, rubbed circles around his rim. “I knew you’d be kind from your letters. I just never imagined you’d be so handsome, too. And I hoped that eventually you’d want me like I wanted you. It’s been lonely at night.” With that, he slipped a finger inside his hole.

Graham’s mouth went dry. “Sorry, sweetheart.” It seemed all he was capable of saying at the moment, focused as he was on watching his husband open himself up, pumping and scissoring his fingers, gasping and shivering, his cock hard and leaking between his legs.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry that I left you here by yourself for so long. I’m sorry I was so dense. And I’m sorry that I could’ve been with you this whole time—touching you and kissing you and—” And a whole lot more.

Ciarán smiled. “We were both pretty silly about this whole thing, weren’t we? Why don’t we make up for it now.” He removed his fingers, still slick and shining with oil, and shifted to lay on his back, his head cushioned by the pillows. He spread his legs in invitation.

There wasn’t a prettier sight in the world. Just Ciarán, naked save his knee-length socks, open and ready for him.

Graham didn’t need to be told twice.

He crawled atop Ciarán, kissed all along his neck and jaw as he took hold of his cock and pushed, so slowly and so carefully, easing himself past Ciarán’s rim.

“Oh!” The cry was muffled as Ciarán buried his face in the crook of Graham’s neck.

As Ciarán went still underneath him Graham asked, “You okay? It doesn’t hurt?”

“It’s different from my fingers,” came his husband’s breathless reply.

“But you’re okay?”

“I’m okay, Graham. Please, keep going.”

He did so, burying himself into that tight heat until he was completely sheathed inside him, his balls, heavy and taut, resting against Ciarán’s ass. Graham all but collapsed on top of him, pinning him to the bed, their legs entwined.

He gave an experimental thrust and was rewarded with a sweet moan, Ciarán’s lips right against his ear. “Again—please, Graham.”

Again and again and again—with each thrust his husband squirmed underneath him, nails digging into his back, his hole squeezing his cock tighter and tighter until all Graham could do was hump with abandon.

The room was filled with Ciarán’s panting cries of delight and by Graham’s ragged moans. There was no longer a rhythm to his movement—he’d long dreamed of taking Ciarán and he did so in earnest now, thinking of nothing but his husband’s keening and frantically pumping his aching cock into Ciarán’s tight little hole.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck.”

“Yes, please, Graham. Oh! Please, more,” Ciarán begged. He lifted his hips to better meet Graham’s frenzied rutting.

Ciarán’s legs were wrapped tight around his waist, his knee-length socks rubbing deliciously against Graham’s skin. It felt good—all of it felt good. Holding his husband, his husband holding him, being inside him, being together, joined as one, a union of their bodies, their collective pleasure.

He sensed it now—Ciarán’s orgasm building. How his cries became short, high-pitched gasps, how his legs kicked at the air in an effort to chase his pleasure, how his nails raked at Graham’s back as he tried to pull him closer, ever closer—and then, suddenly, he was trembling and moaning Graham’s name, desperately rubbing his cock against his stomach as he spilled between them, wonderfully hot and messy.

He wanted to see him better—to watch him tremble through his climax—but as Graham tried to push himself up Ciarán said, “No! I want it—” He closed his eyes and groaned as Ciarán squeezed around his cock. “Graham—inside me—I want you to—I want my husband—”

That pushed him over the edge into his own release. Once more Graham let himself fall on top of Ciarán, let him coo and stroke his back and run his fingers through his hair and murmur such sweet things into his ear as Graham desperately continued to thrust, spilling his seed inside him in sharp bursts as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through him until he lay there, exhausted and spent and more satisfied than he’d ever been.

When the sweat had cooled on their skin and the cum was drying on their stomachs and leaking onto the bed, Graham asked, “Was that good?” He nuzzled Ciarán’s neck, kissed the delicate skin there. “Did you like that?”

Ciarán stretched against the sheets, a lazy smile on his face. “Oh, Mr. Shepherd. I think you’re fishing for compliments, now.”’

“I want to know if I made love to my husband the way he likes,” he growled. He gave Ciarán’s shoulder a sharp bite.

His husband squealed with laughter. “Oh! Graham! I wouldn’t know—that was my first time, after all.”

“Guess we’ll just have to keep going.”

“I’d like that. Maybe next time you could have me on all fours? Or—maybe I could ride you.” At the look of surprise on Graham’s face he added, “I’ve read—publications—about what goes on between a married couple.”

“Not in The Matrimonial Journal?” Graham had read plenty of articles in it when he'd had a subscription. He'd even clipped some of the useful ones about household management out and saved them in a scrapbook. He most definitely did not recall anything about bedroom activities. Those would have been squirreled away for sure.

“No, of course not. Its columns rarely mention the intimate duties of marriage. I had other subscriptions.”

He kissed Ciarán’s fingers and considered that. They had to have a lot of things in New York that they didn’t have in Montana. Or, perhaps, some material was just easier to find in a city. It wasn’t important. Whatever Ciarán wanted to try. Whatever he asked of him.

A buzzing, pleasant kind of warmth coursed through his body. A good tired, an intimate happiness, cozy and comfortable. Who would have thought that marriage could bring such bliss? Or, no—it had to be Ciarán especially. His husband, the man he was lucky enough to marry, the best in the world.

“Graham?” Ciarán was playing with his hair, tracing his finger along the shell of Graham’s ear. It tickled. “What are you thinking about?”

He blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “I want to get you a puppy.”

“W-what?”

Hell. Graham slapped his face with his hand and groaned in frustration. “I mean that—You make me so happy. And I want you to be happy. And protected. With this horse thief around, I was thinking that you should have a dog. It’d keep you company—keep you safe when you’re here by yourself.”

Ciarán’s hand stopped moving. “By myself?” he asked.

“That was before,” Graham said hastily. “Before we—you know, when I was sleeping in the barn. I didn’t want you here in the house alone. But now I’ll be here. With you. Won’t I?”

His husband gave a sigh of relief and snuggled closer to him, soft and warm. “Right.”

“But I still aim to find you a puppy.”

Ciarán hummed. “That’d be nice. I’d like a puppy,” he murmured.

◆◆◆

Their honeymoon had finally arrived and they indulged with vigor. Their nights were longer, their days started later, and their chores were often interrupted.

One morning Graham found Ciarán in the middle of cooking breakfast and had bent him over, palms flat on the kitchen table, and taken him from behind. The biscuits had come out of the oven slightly burnt, but it was nothing a little extra jam hadn’t fixed, and they’d eaten with wide grins on their faces.

Another day they were working together in the barn and Ciarán had bumped the side of Graham’s hip with his and smirked. They’d fought, playful, teasing, eager, until Graham shoved him into the hay bale and pulled Ciarán’s pants down and pulled his own cock out and pounded into his husband until they were sweaty and satisfied. Afterwards, they’d spent quite some time picking the hay from their hair and clothes.

And, every night, when the day was done, they always found the energy to kiss and rub and stroke one another, to simply enjoy making love and learn the contours of each other’s body.

The bed was too small, to be sure. They slept wrapped in one another’s arms with Graham dangerously close to tipping right off the side. But neither of them found that they really minded all that much—and if Graham was too busy with other activities and could only work on the new bed intermittently, then, well, it wasn’t too much of a bother.

◆◆◆

Graham’s sleep had been unusually peaceful lately, filled with dreams of sun-drenched days and Ciarán. In the dream, Ciarán was always waiting for him—lightly dressed, reclining on the soft, sun-warmed grass, a serene smile on his face. He’d wave and beckon, and Graham would walk toward him, his heart brimming with affection, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his hands, their fragrant petals filling the air. Every step closer to him made his heart beat faster, the feeling of finally reaching him overwhelming in its simplicity and joy.

But tonight, something felt wrong. Despite his every effort, Graham couldn't seem to get any closer to Ciarán. The figure of his husband remained just out of reach, always waving, always calling for him, but no matter how much he walked, the distance between them remained constant, unyielding. The dream began to fray at the edges. The air turned thick and heavy, the soft grass beneath his feet shifting into something darker, rougher.

Suddenly, a terrible noise shattered the stillness—a deafening series of crashes, each louder and more violent than the last. Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like cannon fire, the deep booms shaking the very ground beneath him. The sky darkened, swirling with clouds that had a hue of foreboding, and the once-soft grass beneath his feet turned to a thick, churned mud. The air smelled of gunpowder, thick and acrid, and there was only chaos around him.

And there, in the distance, was Ciarán—still too far away, still calling for him, but now with panic in his voice. Graham’s heart pounded in his chest. No, no, no, he thought. His legs moved before he even had time to think, propelling him forward through the growing cacophony. He had to get to Ciarán. He couldn’t let him be alone out there in the chaos. He couldn’t let anything happen to him.

He could hear Ciarán’s voice, desperate, calling for him. “Graham! Graham!”

His foot caught on something—his leg flared with pain, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He pushed forward, each step heavier than the last, his body screaming for rest, but his heart—his heart drove him onward. He had to reach him.

And just as the distance between them seemed like it would close, a horrific crack echoed through the night, and then—

“Graham!” A voice, sharp and real, broke through the nightmare.

Graham jerked awake, his body tensing as if he had been holding his breath for too long. His eyes flickered open, blurry and disoriented. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, only that something wasn’t right. The sounds of the nightmare still echoed in his mind, lingering like a shadow. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream.

Above him stood Ciarán, his face pale, a worried expression etched on his features. One hand rested gently on Graham’s shoulder.

Graham blinked, his pulse still racing. “What’s—what’s going on?” he muttered, still half-caught in the remnants of his nightmare.

“There’s someone outside the house.” Ciarán’s voice was tight, his eyes flickering toward the window, where the shadows seemed unnaturally still.

Before Graham could ask anything further, there was a terrible sound—a thundering, forceful knock that shook the front door. Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like someone was trying to tear it off its hinges. Graham’s instincts kicked in, adrenaline flooding his veins. His body, still groggy from sleep, responded automatically.

He sprang out of bed, reaching for the rifle that hung on the wall beside him. He grabbed it with urgency, the weight of it comforting in his hands, a steadying force in the chaos that had just erupted in their home.

“Stay inside,” Graham whispered to Ciarán, his voice low and firm as he turned toward the door.

He cursed under his breath. Should’ve found a dog—even a lazy hound would’ve been enough to alert them to any danger before it reached their doorstep. But now it was too late.

With a deep breath, Graham flung open the door, ready for whatever danger might lie beyond. But what he didn’t expect was the sight before him: the cart belonging to Liam and Ronan, both horses visibly spooked, whinnying and kicking up the dirt in a frenzy. The animals’ eyes were wide with terror, their bodies shaking, and at the back of the cart, a bulky figure was moving—Ronan, no doubt.

Graham lowered the rifle, his heart racing for entirely different reasons now. “Ronan? What’s going on?” His voice was rough with concern.

Ronan stepped forward, his face pale and strained with fear. But it wasn’t just the cart that caught Graham’s attention—it was the limp bundle in Ronan’s arms. A deep dread settled in Graham’s chest as he saw who the figure was: Liam. His friend was bloody, his face ashen, his eyes closed. There was a deep gash on the side of his head, blood soaking the side of his shirt and dripping steadily onto the dirt beneath them.

Graham’s stomach twisted. “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered, moving quickly toward them.

“Cabhraigh liom, le do thoil,” Ronan’s voice was frantic, his words tumbling out in rapid Irish. “Le do thoil. Tá sé gortaithe go dona. Mo fhear céile—Níl a fhios agam cad atá le déanamh.” He was sobbing, his shoulders shaking as he cradled Liam’s head, desperate and terrified.

Graham’s mind raced. A doctor, they needed a doctor, and fast. But first, they had to get Liam inside, out of the cold, away from the cart. He spun around, calling over his shoulder, “Ciarán? It’s Liam and Ronan—they need help.”

Almost immediately, Ciarán emerged from the house, his face drawn with worry. He held a lantern in his hand, its warm glow lighting the space between them. His eyes were wide with concern. “What’s happened, Graham?”

“I don’t know,” Graham said, his voice tight with fear. “It looks like Liam’s hurt bad.” The words felt hollow in his mouth. He didn’t even know if Liam was still alive. “We’ve got to get him inside. Calm Ronan down, and I need to get the doctor.”

Ciarán’s face hardened with determination. “Yes. Of course.” His voice wavered only slightly, but there was no doubt in his eyes. He moved swiftly, gently taking Ronan’s arm and leading him toward the bedroom, speaking to him in a calming rush of Irish. Graham turned his gaze toward the back of the cart, and it was there—there was blood, staining the wood beneath Liam.

He placed his rifle back on the wall, his mind already running through the possibilities of what needed to be done next. Ciarán emerged from the house, his hands shaking as he held a bloodstained rag. His eyes were wide, and his voice was full of panic. “Oh, Graham, it’s terrible—someone tried to steal Liam and Ronan’s sheep. Liam tried to stop them—he was hit over the head. We’re so much closer to town than the doctor, and Ronan wasn’t sure if he’d make it.”

The blood had already soaked through Liam’s shirt, and from the looks of it, the injury was more than just a bad bump. It was a serious wound, and there was no telling how long he’d been out there before they arrived.

Graham’s heart clenched with helplessness. “We have to do what we can right now. If he doesn’t make it to the doctor in time…” He trailed off, his mind racing.

“I think—I think I can stitch him up,” Ciarán said, his voice unsteady, but determined. “But Graham, we need the doctor. We need him now.”

Graham nodded. “Right. I’ll take Ginger and—” He paused, then reconsidered. Ginger was too slow, too old for such a frantic ride. He would need to go faster, and that meant he would need Bó.

Ciarán’s face softened with understanding. “Go, go. Just… be careful, Graham, please.”

“I will,” Graham promised. He pressed a kiss to Ciarán’s cheek, feeling the brush of his husband’s skin beneath his lips. The sensation grounded him, anchoring him in the moment, before he turned and ran toward the stables, knowing every second counted.

◆◆◆

Mrs. Duncan had sold him a fine horse. Bó was strong and sure-footed, built for the hard miles that Graham needed to cover. The moonless night enveloped them in darkness, the prairie stretching out wide and silent before him. Graham kept one hand firm on the reins, guiding Bó through the thick night air, and the other clutched the lantern that Ciarán had lit just before he’d left. The light flickered in the wind, casting strange shadows against the vast emptiness around them. Traveling at night was always a risky business, but tonight, it was a necessity.

The pounding hooves of Bó against the hard-packed earth were steady, but the urgency in Graham’s chest didn’t subside. Liam’s injury was serious, and every second counted. The prairie stretched wide, the roads familiar, but the darkness made everything seem more foreboding. A single misstep or misjudgment could be the difference between getting to town and losing more precious time. But Graham had grown up on this land, knew every twist and turn, every landmark along the way, and he trusted that knowledge now more than ever.

They rode on, faster than Graham had intended, the horse's muscles rippling beneath him as Bó carried them through the night. Graham’s mind kept drifting back to Liam’s bloody, limp form, the pale face, the depth of the gash on his head. He pushed the thought aside. They weren’t there yet, and he couldn’t afford to lose his focus. Every thundering gallop of Bó’s hooves drove them closer, closer to the help that Liam so desperately needed.

As they neared the outskirts of town, a few people stumbling out of the saloon blinked up in confusion, barely registering the speed of Graham’s ride. One of them, a drunkard with a bottle in hand, shouted at him in a slurred voice. “What’s the hurry?”

Graham barely spared him a glance, his jaw clenched in frustration. The town’s noise and idleness were nothing to him right now. He was thinking of Liam, and that was all that mattered. “No time for idle chatter,” Graham muttered under his breath, urging Bó to keep going.

Graham could see the silhouette of the doctor’s office at the end of the street, just past Mrs. Fournier’s shop. The familiar sight was a beacon of hope in the otherwise oppressive darkness. They reached it in no time, the horse barely slowing before Graham threw himself from Bó’s back. He didn’t waste a second. His boots hit the dirt with a thud, and he hurried to the door of the doctor's office, his hand thumping against it with force.

“Doctor! Got an emergency!” he shouted, his voice carrying with the urgency of the moment.

There was a pause, a muffled thump, and then the door creaked open a crack. The doctor’s sharp eyes appeared through the narrow opening, narrowing as they fell on Graham. “You don’t sound drunk enough to be bothering me at this hour, Mr. Shepherd,” she said, her voice laced with dry humor, but her eyes were scanning him, gauging his seriousness.

“I’m not here for a drink,” Graham snapped, the tension in his voice clear. “Thieves got into Liam and Ronan’s ranch. Liam tried to stop them. He’s in real bad shape. We’ve got him at my house—my husband’s doing his best, but we need you, doctor. Right now.”

For a moment, the doctor just stared at him, then her gaze flickered to the lantern in his hand, to the palpable desperation in his stance. She sighed and nodded, her expression softening with understanding. “Fine. You’ve got my attention. Let me grab my bag.”

As the doctor moved to gather her things, her wife appeared at the door, a large leather bag slung over her shoulder. “You go on, dear. I’ll alert the sheriff,” she said with a concerned frown, glancing out toward the street, as if wondering what had brought on such a late-night emergency. “What’s this town coming to?”

Graham didn’t answer. The sheriff could deal with whatever mess was brewing in the town; right now, the only thing that mattered was getting Liam the help he needed. He looked at the doctor, who had already gathered her supplies, her expression grave. “You ready?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.

“Let’s go,” the doctor replied, her tone businesslike now, as she moved toward the door.

Graham mounted Bó again, and the doctor climbed onto her own mount. The town was quiet, save for the occasional rattle of a shutter or the distant murmur of the saloon. Graham didn’t look back. His focus was on the road ahead, on getting to his home, to Ciarán, to Liam—and praying it wasn’t too late.

◆◆◆

The doctor was a good rider. She and her horse kept pace with Bó, the two of them galloping through the darkened prairie as if they were chasing time itself. Graham kept his eyes ahead, the steady rhythm of Bó’s hooves a comforting beat beneath him, but his mind was consumed with the thought of Liam and the bloodied state he'd left him in. There was no time to waste. Every second could be the difference between life and death.

Behind them, Graham could hear the clopping hooves of the sheriff and his deputy, a trio of horses now following the frantic pace. If it’d been a race, they would’ve made it to the house in record time. But tonight, the race wasn’t for victory—it was for survival. Graham’s thoughts were clouded with the image of Liam’s pale face, the gash on his head, the blood that had soaked through Ciarán’s hands. All he could do was push forward, praying they wouldn’t be too late.

“Come on,” he muttered to Bó, urging the horse on. “Ciarán’s been tending to them—he’s holding on, he’s holding on…”

They reached the house, the flickering lights from the lantern in Graham’s hand casting eerie shadows on the land around them. The night was silent but for the soft rustling of the wind in the grass. It felt as though time itself had slowed. The moment they entered the yard, the house seemed so small in the vastness of the world, and yet tonight, it felt like the only place that mattered.

The house was cramped with so many people inside. The tension was thick in the air, palpable and suffocating. Not everyone could fit in the bedroom, so the doctor, being the first to arrive, went in alone. After a few hushed minutes, Ciarán emerged to explain, his eyes exhausted but resolute.

"I did what I could. His breathing is slow, and the bleeding's slowed, but—" He didn’t finish. The exhaustion was evident on his face, the weight of the night’s events pulling on him.

"But at least he's breathing," Graham interjected, trying to offer comfort, though his words didn’t quite have the strength they needed.

"Yes," Ciarán sighed, his shoulders heavy with the burden of what he had witnessed. "I think I’ll make some tea. Something to warm us all up."

Graham nodded absently as Ciarán went to the stove. His hands were shaking, and he could feel his stomach twist with the unease that refused to leave him. He’d done all he could for Liam and Ronan, but it still didn’t feel like enough. The doctor had said that Liam would survive, but the uncertainty of it all hung in the air like a storm cloud, waiting to burst.

After two cups of tea—too much sugar and too little comfort—Ciarán finally led the deputy and sheriff to the main room. There, they would question Ronan about the events that had led to Liam’s injury. Graham watched from the corner, his chest tight, as the deputy leaned forward with his typical brusque tone.

“Well, what’d they look like? Was it someone from town or a stranger?” the deputy demanded, his tone clipped.

Ronan, still clearly in shock, began to speak in a rapid stream of Irish, his words tumbling out like a river that couldn’t be stopped. Ciarán, standing close by, translated quickly, his voice calm but strained with concern.

“He didn’t see,” Ciarán explained. “They heard a noise and thought one of the sheep had escaped the barn again. Apparently, they’ve a very clever one, and Liam went out to check. That’s when he found someone trying to carry off some of their livestock. Liam called for help, but by the time Ronan reached the barn, the thief had already gone, and Liam was… was hurt.”

Graham could see the deputy’s impatience growing. “You just let him get away? You didn’t go after him?” he asked, the accusation thick in his voice.

Ronan’s glare could’ve leveled a city. He stood stiff, the tension in his muscles visible. The words that left his lips were thick with anger, and Graham didn’t need a translation to understand the tone. “Is beag nach bhfuair m’fhear bás! Is é do phost gadaithe a ghabháil! Ní tharlódh a leithéid dá mba rud é—”

He broke off with a sob, his shoulders shaking with emotion. Ciarán, ever steady, reached out and placed a hand on Ronan’s arm, whispering soft words of reassurance. “Beidh sé ceart go leor, Ronan.”

Graham could feel the anger bubbling in his own chest. He didn’t speak much Irish, but he understood what Ronan was saying. If it had been Ciarán lying on the ground, bleeding, what would he have done? The same thing. Ciarán was his world, just as Liam was Ronan’s. But the deputy didn’t understand that. He didn’t understand the gravity of a man’s love for his partner.

“Maybe if you’d taken the theft at the Duncans’ place seriously,” Graham snapped, voice low but thick with frustration, “the thief wouldn’t have gotten so bold and we wouldn’t all be here in the first place.”

The deputy straightened, his face going red with indignation. “Are you implying this is our fault?”

“I’m not implying shit,” Graham retorted, standing taller. “I’m stating it.”

The deputy moved to retaliate, his chest puffing up, but before he could open his mouth, Ciarán’s voice cut through the tension like a whip.

“See here!” Ciarán said, his voice sharp and commanding. Despite his smaller stature, his presence filled the entire room. “We’ve had enough excitement for one night! There’s a man who dearly needs rest in the other room! You will not argue in my house! If you’re going to quarrel, do it outside!”

The deputy, stunned by the outburst, mumbled an apology, his face turning pink with embarrassment. Graham flushed as well, his temper having gotten the better of him. He turned to Ciarán, his voice dropping. “I’m sorry, Ciarán.”

But Ciarán, ever gracious, simply gave him a soft look. “It’s alright, Graham. Just… just breathe.”

Turning back to the sheriff, Ciarán said, his voice much calmer, “I don’t know if there’s anything else we can tell you.”

The sheriff sighed, looking toward the door. “In the morning, we’ll take a look around the ranch, see if we can find anything. And we’ll put out a bulletin in town, let everyone know to be on the lookout. Thank you for the tea, Mr. Shepherd.”

“You’re welcome,” Ciarán replied softly.

Graham stood up and offered to walk the sheriff and deputy out. He saw them to their horses, the tension in the air still thick, but nothing more was said. The sheriff tipped his hat to Graham with a solemn look in his eyes. “Looks like you found yourself a fine husband, Graham.”

“I know it,” Graham replied quietly, his eyes on Ciarán, who was standing in the doorway of the house, waiting for him.

The sheriff cleared his throat, looking away. “We’ve had thieves before. And drunkards—many a drunkard. Even some brawls. But I think this is the first time something like this has happened in this town.” He shook his head. “An attack. A near-murder.”

“Make it the last time,” Graham said firmly, his voice low and unwavering.

They tipped their hats once more, and Graham watched them ride off into the night, their figures slowly fading from view. With a heavy sigh, he turned back toward the house, his heart still pounding with adrenaline. It wasn’t over. Not yet.

◆◆◆

The bedroom was full. Not just of bodies, but of the heavy atmosphere that came with a life teetering between life and death. Liam lay in their bed, looking so small under the blankets, his head carefully bandaged and stitched. His breaths were steady but slow, each one a reminder of how close he'd come to losing everything. The doctor sat on one side of the bed, her eyes constantly flicking between Liam’s condition and the small things she needed to monitor. Her focus was unwavering, but Graham could see the fatigue in her posture. Ronan, on the other side of the bed, was a contrast in his tenderness. His large hands held Liam’s smaller ones, his thumb gently stroking over the knuckles. He whispered soft words into Liam's ear, words that Graham didn’t need to understand fully to know they were gentle and full of love. Ronan was a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, and right now, that heart was completely devoted to the man lying in front of him.

But that left Ciarán and himself to figure out where to sleep for the night. The house, which usually felt so spacious, now felt unbearably small, too crowded for the four of them, especially with Liam in such a fragile state.

Ciarán set the teacups back on the shelf, his eyes lingering on the scene before him for a moment, as if he were trying to memorize the moment in case it was all too fleeting. He sighed and turned to Graham. "We can just sleep in here, I suppose. The stove is still warm, after all."

Graham shook his head, his heart heavy. “I don’t want you sleeping on the ground,” he said, voice low. The very thought of his husband curled up on the floor, vulnerable and exposed, unsettled him to his core. Never. "We could—we could sleep in the hayloft."

Ciarán gave him a small, soft smile, one that made Graham’s chest ache with affection. "We?"

"It won’t be very comfortable with both of us up there," Graham admitted, "but it'll be better than sleeping on the floor."

Ciarán’s smile widened, and then, without a second thought, he wrapped his arms around Graham, pulling him into a tight hug. “So long as I’m with you, Graham, I’ll be just fine,” he whispered, his voice thick with warmth.

Graham held him for a long moment, his heart full, yet heavy with everything they had faced tonight. Then they said their goodnights to Ronan and the doctor, who had nodded gratefully at Graham before turning back to her work. The two men made their way out of the house, Ciarán’s hand never leaving his, a silent comfort as they walked through the cool night air toward the barn.

The livestock were all asleep, peaceful and unaware of the storm that had raged just outside. The cows and horses were nestled in their stalls, calm, their steady breathing filling the air with a rhythm that was almost soothing. Graham went to the hayloft and hauled their pillows and blanket up with a grunt. He settled them as best as he could, making a small nest for them to sleep in, then helped Ciarán up the ladder, making sure he was steady before letting him climb on his own.

It was snug up there in the loft, the small space filled with hay and the lingering scent of the animals below. But despite the discomfort of it, Ciarán didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to find peace in the smallness of the space, as though the closeness brought a sense of security. Graham, too, found himself relaxing just a little, the weight of the evening finally starting to fall from his shoulders as he pulled Ciarán close.

Ciarán nestled into his side, his voice quiet in the dim light of the barn. “What do we do tomorrow?”

Graham shifted slightly, pulling Ciarán a little closer. “Liam’s in no condition to be moved, and the doctor will still be here tomorrow. Do you think you can take care of the chores by yourself in the morning?” He hesitated. “I don’t want Ronan to be alone right now, and he’ll need help at their ranch in the meantime. A rancher’s work never ends.” It was a stark reality that neither of them could afford to ignore, no matter what had happened tonight. Just because Liam had been hurt didn’t mean the rest of the world stopped turning. The fields needed tending, the animals needed care, and the crops needed attention.

Ciarán nodded without hesitation, the quiet strength in his voice unwavering. “I can, Graham. I’ll take care of everything. You don’t have to worry. I promise.”

But Graham couldn’t help it. He would always worry. He’d worried about Ciarán from the first moment they met, wondering if he was happy, if he was safe. He’d worried about the days they spent apart, and now he worried about the possibility of another thief, another attack. He had never been taught that marriage meant constantly worrying about the other person’s safety, about whether they'd be there when you returned, or whether they'd come home at all.

"I’ll be back in the evening," Graham murmured, more to himself than to Ciarán. "And I’ll have a dog."

Ciarán chuckled softly, his breath warm against Graham’s chest. “A dog?”

“Definitely. A good one. A watchful one,” Graham said, trying to sound lighter than he felt. “There’ll be no more thieves on our land. Not while I’m here.”

Ciarán’s arms tightened around him, and for a moment, they just lay there in the hayloft, listening to the distant calls of the night animals and the steady, comforting rhythm of the animals below. The world outside might have been chaotic and unpredictable, but here, in the stillness of the barn with Ciarán in his arms, Graham felt the first real peace he’d had all night.

“We’ll be okay, Graham,” Ciarán whispered, as though reading his thoughts.

Graham nodded, but he didn’t say anything. There was no need to. As long as they had each other, they would always find a way through. And for tonight, that was enough.