Page 11

He woke slowly, the faint light of dawn creeping through the slats in the hayloft wall, soft rays of amber casting lines across the rough wooden floor and over the hay-strewn bedding. The morning air was cool, and the warmth of Ciarán’s body beside him only made the chill more pronounced. A dull throb in his bad leg jarred him from the stillness of sleep, and he cursed under his breath.

"Christ," Graham muttered, blinking against the light and shifting, trying not to wake Ciarán. The muscle in his leg was stiff, and the scar tissue from the old bullet wound pulled painfully as he flexed his foot. He winced and attempted to stretch it out without disturbing his husband, but that proved difficult. His movements were more jerky than he intended, and his discomfort was sharp, crawling up his spine.

Beside him, Ciarán stirred with a deep, rumbling yawn. Bits of straw tangled in his dark curls, and he blinked sleepily, his face soft and unguarded in the half-light of the morning. "Oof," Ciarán murmured, rubbing his eyes. "I’m a little stiff. Did you sleep well, Graham?"

"Always, next to you," Graham replied, his voice thick with the remnants of sleep. He tried to smile, but the effort was cut short by the sharp pain that lanced through his leg. His words came out strained. "Just a little sore, that’s all."

"What’s wrong?" Ciarán asked, his tone instantly full of concern. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, eyes narrowing with worry as he looked at Graham, already sitting on the edge of the makeshift bed.

"Was a bit cramped last night, I guess," Graham replied, trying to downplay it, but it was clear from his pained expression that it wasn’t just discomfort from the position. "My leg’s acting up."

Ciarán moved closer immediately, his face softening into an expression of gentle empathy. "Let me help?" he asked, his voice full of the unspoken understanding that had bloomed between them over the years.

In the early days of their marriage, Graham would’ve recoiled at such an offer. The thought of letting Ciarán see him vulnerable, exposed like that, would have been too much to bear. He would have refused him, even though the longing for care and touch was there. And Ciarán, just as shy and earnest, likely wouldn’t have asked in such an open, unassuming way. But time had taught them both differently. They’d shared more than a bed and a life; they’d shared the growing, tender understanding that intimacy came in many forms. And now, as he looked into Ciarán’s big, brown eyes, the only thing he felt was gratitude.

Graham sighed, leaning back against a bale of hay and giving a reluctant nod. "Go ahead, then," he murmured.

Ciarán moved toward him with a softness that felt almost reverent, kneeling beside him as he adjusted his nightgown. He was a quiet figure in the half-darkness, but his touch spoke volumes. Gently, he placed his hands on Graham’s leg, beginning to knead the sore muscles of his thigh. He worked with care, massaging the scar tissue with a tenderness that made Graham’s heart swell.

It was a different kind of intimacy than what they were used to, not charged with the heady warmth of passion, but with a depth of connection all its own. The touch wasn’t about desire, but about the quiet act of care, of making sure the other was okay, that the wounds of the body and soul were tended to. Ciarán’s brow furrowed slightly in concentration as he worked, his fingers pressing into the taut muscles with determination.

Graham closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax into the sensation, the gentle rhythm of Ciarán’s hands working away the stiffness in his leg. Outside, the rooster’s crow rang out, loud and insistent, as if proclaiming to the heavens that the sun had no right to be so bold in the sky. It was a familiar, almost comical sound—loud and raucous, and Graham couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it.

Ciarán caught his eye, a soft, tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They exchanged a fond glance, each of them feeling the same quiet acknowledgment that it was time to face the day, to step back into the world and the work that awaited them.

Graham reached out, pulling Ciarán closer. They shared a brief, but affectionate kiss, a quick meeting of lips that spoke more than any words could. There was no hurry, no rush—just a moment to connect before the day began.

"Good morning, Graham," Ciarán said softly, his voice still carrying the warmth of sleep.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Graham replied, his own voice thick with affection.

Down the ladder they went to lead the animals out to the pasture. A cow nibbled at Ciarán’s curls in a way that Graham worried was less affectionate and more that she thought his hair some sort of appetizing plant, and he shooed her away. She shot Graham a withering glare and wandered away to join the rest of the herd with a huff.

“Watch yourself when you’re milking her today, or you might lose your hair,” he told Ciarán.

Ciarán chuckled. “You never mentioned that particular danger in your letters.”

“Slipped my mind. There’s so many,” Graham said. He was only half joking. The sight of Liam’s bloody, unconscious form and Ronan’s distraught face was seared into his mind. Curious cows, and the occasional murderous thief. Just a few perils a rancher might face. “We need to get ready. There’s a lot to be done today.”

◆◆◆

Breakfast was a hurried affair, with everyone working on autopilot, moving quickly despite the exhaustion of the previous night. Ciarán bustled about the kitchen, preparing sandwiches for the road and making sure they had enough to eat for the day ahead. Graham inhaled his breakfast in the same frantic manner, knowing they couldn’t waste any time. As soon as the last bite of food was swallowed, he grabbed his coat and went outside to check on the cart and the horses.

The morning light was still soft and golden, casting long shadows across the yard. The air was crisp, the kind of chill that made you draw your coat tight around you and wish for the warmth of a fire. The animals, however, didn’t seem bothered by the cold. They stood patiently, their coats gleaming in the light, the warm breath from their nostrils rising in little clouds. The cart, though, was another matter. While the horses seemed in good spirits, the cart was another story. There were stains of dried blood on the wheels, splatters that made Graham's stomach tighten. He forced himself to inspect the cart carefully, even as his throat went dry at the sight. He checked the wheels, looking for any signs of damage, but nothing appeared to be wrong with it. No cracks in the wood, no bent axles, just the remnants of the chaos from the previous night.

A shadow fell over him, and Graham straightened up, turning to find Ronan standing nearby. The Irishman was petting one of the horses, his hand moving slowly over its mane as though the motion itself provided him some small comfort. Ronan looked a mess—his clothes were rumpled, his hair wild, and the bags under his eyes were massive, as if sleep had eluded him entirely. The anguish in his face was raw, impossible to hide. It seemed as though the terror of the night had worn itself into his very bones, the worry over Liam eating him alive.

Graham cleared his throat and asked, “How’s Liam?”

Ronan’s voice was rough as he replied, “Codlaíonn sé.” His eyes flickered with a sorrow too deep to articulate, and he quickly looked away.

Ciarán, who had been finishing up the last bit of preparation for their trip, hurried to their side to translate. “Sleeping,” he said gently to Graham, his tone laced with the care he always gave to Ronan’s heavy heart. To Ronan, he added softly, “That’s good. Tá scíth de dhíth air,” which Graham knew meant, "He needs rest."

Ronan’s face crumpled at the words, and his lower lip trembled. For a long moment, he stood silently, his gaze focused on the horses, but his eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Graham and Ciarán purposefully avoided looking at him directly, letting him have this moment of quiet vulnerability. Finally, Ronan sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Mo grá. Ní féidir liom a iompróidh—chun é a fheiceáil gortaithe.”

The pain in his voice made Graham's chest tighten. Ciarán’s comforting hand rested on Ronan’s shoulder, and he spoke again, the words smooth and steady, a balm to the rawness of the man’s grief. “Beidh sé ceart go leor, Ronan.” It was the same thing he had said the night before, those simple words that meant, "It will be okay, Ronan." Graham could see in Ciarán's eyes the depth of that promise—whatever happened, they would make sure Ronan and Liam made it through this.

Graham clapped Ronan lightly on the back and said, "We should be on our way."

Ronan looked at him, a weary nod of agreement. "You won’t hear the end of it if Liam wakes up and the chores haven’t been done," Graham added with a small grin, trying to lighten the mood.

Ronan’s lips quivered, and he let out a watery smile, the first one Graham had seen from him since last night. “Tá tu ceart. Tá tu ceart, Graham,” he said quietly. You’re right. You’re right.

With that, they all set to work, preparing the horses and loading up the cart. Ciarán had packed them a generous stack of oatcakes, each one carefully wrapped in a cloth, as well as the remainder of the jar of raspberry jam. Three boiled eggs each, some strips of jerky, and a few apples filled the baskets. “Is that enough?” Ciarán asked, his brow furrowed in concern. “Oh, I’m sure I can manage to make something more for the two of you—”

Graham chuckled, cutting him off before he could get too carried away. "It’ll do just fine, Ciarán. Don’t worry." His husband had a way of over-packing, of always ensuring that every possibility was covered. Sometimes, it felt like the cart might collapse under the weight of Ciarán’s generosity.

“All right, then,” Ciarán said, still looking at the cart with an anxious expression. “Be careful. Both of you.”

The parting felt strange. With Ronan right there, it didn’t seem right to indulge in the private moments of affection that Graham and Ciarán were so accustomed to. There was something almost obscene about their marital bliss in the shadow of Liam's unconscious form, still in bed, bloodied and bruised. It felt wrong to show the kind of closeness that was so natural for them while Ronan was silently suffering through his own private heartache.

As Ronan climbed onto the cart, Graham caught Ciarán’s eye, giving him a small, reassuring smile. He pressed his index and middle fingers to his lips, then placed them gently on Ciarán’s. "I’ll be back tonight," he whispered, his voice low but certain.

Ciarán's lips curved into a soft, fond smile, and he nodded. "I’ll be waiting," he said quietly, the words filled with an intimacy only the two of them shared.

◆◆◆

Graham rode ahead on Ginger, the horse’s steady gait cutting through the morning air with ease. The rhythmic clop of hooves accompanied the slow creak of the cart behind him, where Ronan followed with the horses pulling the load, their pace unhurried and methodical. The cart didn’t need much guiding, the animals were well-trained, and Ronan seemed to let the journey unfold before him, lost in his own thoughts. His gaze was distant, his mind no doubt still tangled in worry over Liam.

Graham glanced over his shoulder, watching the cart’s slow movement as the wheels turned in the dirt with a constant, almost soothing sound. The horses nickered softly, occasionally tossing their heads as they made their way down the familiar path. The air was still and mild, an unusual calm that contrasted sharply with the storm of emotions brewing in Graham’s chest. He could feel his own thoughts weighing heavily on him, though he tried to push them aside for the moment.

Theirs had never been a friendship that was built on constant conversation. That wasn’t what connected him to Ronan in the first place. They had always bonded over the shared work, the silent camaraderie that came with tending to cattle, fixing fences, and plowing fields. It was a relationship built on mutual respect and the understanding that words weren’t always necessary. But now, as the day stretched on with little more than the sound of the wheels and the distant calls of birds overhead, Graham found himself wishing for something—anything—to say. Anything that might ease the visible weight of grief and worry that Ronan carried.

Could he assure him that Liam would be okay? That he would pull through, despite the severity of his injury? The doctor had said as much, and surely, that should be enough to calm Ronan’s nerves. But Graham knew better than anyone that when it came to the people you loved, nothing—nothing—could erase the worry that gnawed at you. Especially when they had been hurt at the hands of someone else's malicious intent.

He could promise that they would catch the bastard who did it, that justice would be served. But the sheriff and his deputy had already shown their ineptitude when they arrived at the ranch. The deputy’s accusatory manner had made Graham’s blood boil, and the sheriff’s half-hearted assurances didn’t exactly fill him with hope for a swift resolution. The wheels of justice often moved slowly, and right now, it felt like they were stuck in the mud.

Graham was about to offer some sort of empty reassurances about the mild weather when the sound of another wagon approaching broke his thoughts. He looked up to see a family coming down the road, the driver waving with a broad grin on his face.

"Ah! Dia daoibh! Mr. Shepherd! Ronan! Good, we were hoping to run into you!" the driver called out with a cheerful tone, his voice carrying easily through the quiet morning.

Graham blinked, his mind racing. The family seemed familiar. He knew he had seen them at his wedding, but for the life of him, he couldn’t quite place their names. He raised a hand in greeting. “You were?”

The woman in the wagon laughed, the sound warm and inviting. “Well, more Ronan than you, truth be told. We wanted to check up on your Liam, Ronan,” she said, her eyes showing concern. “We got the news about what happened. Uafásach! Heard you were at the Shepherds’ place, wanted to see how you were doing, see if we could help.”

“Word travels fast,” Graham remarked, a little dryly, though he was grateful for the offer of help.

“In this town? Fast, yes. Among the Irish? Faster," the woman replied with a grin. She looked over at Ronan. "But, what are you two doing here?”

Ronan, still lost in thought, took a moment before answering. As he explained the situation to the family, Graham tried desperately to place their names. The woman had three children—grown or nearly so, two sons and a daughter. They all looked very much like their mother: tall, blonde, with striking dark eyes. But no matter how hard he racked his brain, he couldn’t bring their names to the front of his mind.

Ciarán would remember, of course. Ciarán had an uncanny knack for remembering every detail, every name, every face. Graham envied him for that.

The woman turned to Graham and smiled as she spoke again. “Here, then,” she said, nodding toward her children. “Myself and Ethan, we’ll go check in on Liam and give a hand to Ciarán and the doctor if they need it. Callum and Bridget, you go with Ronan and Mr. Shepherd. How’s that sound?”

Her children muttered their assent, though it was clear they were more than a little uncomfortable with the sudden intrusion. Still, they followed their mother’s orders without hesitation.

Graham was about to protest the formality of “Mr. Shepherd” when he caught himself. With the way she addressed him, it was clear they weren’t particularly familiar with one another. He muttered an awkward, “You can just call me Graham, ma’am,” his voice thick with the discomfort of social niceties.

She grinned widely, a twinkle in her eye. “Then you can just call me Clodagh.”

It wasn’t long before they reached the ranch, and Graham was hardly surprised when yet another wagon pulled up, followed by a couple of other families. Word had spread like wildfire, as it always did in their small community, and now everyone seemed to be rallying to help, offering their well wishes and hands for labor. As each family arrived, Ronan split them up, keeping some to work on his own land and directing others to visit Liam and assist Ciarán. It was a flurry of activity, each person eager to lend a hand, to take some of the burden off Ronan’s shoulders.

As Graham worked to milk the cows, he couldn’t help but feel a strange mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. It was humbling, really—this outpouring of support—but also a little uncomfortable. Liam wasn’t even awake yet, and already the town was treating him as though he were a hero, even though all he had done was get injured while protecting their livelihood.

But then again, that was what neighbors were for, wasn’t it? In a place like this, where life was hard and no one could make it alone, a little help went a long way. And as Graham looked around, he realized that, at the very least, out of this whole predicament, he was finally learning the names of all his neighbors.

◆◆◆

The work on Ronan’s ranch had gone far smoother than expected. With so many people showing up to help, it almost felt as though they were building more than just the barn—it was a community. The wood was hauled, the beams raised, the foundation set. Despite the busy movement of so many hands, it took far less time than anyone had imagined. By midday, the barn was standing tall, much more than a frame now, and the hum of productivity slowed to a trickle.

Graham wiped the sweat from his brow as he surveyed the work. It had been a good day’s effort, but now the task was done. The chatter of the workers, the sounds of hands clapping and tools being set aside, filled the air. There was nothing more to be done. His work here was finished.

“I’ll stay if you still need me,” Graham offered, looking to Ronan, whose own weariness seemed to match his. Despite the stoic expression, Graham could see the deep lines under his eyes, the exhaustion weighing on him.

But Ronan only looked around at the group of people milling about, chatting casually now that the heavy lifting was over. People were hauling away the last of the supplies, some had even started to feed the animals. His lips turned up in the faintest smile, weary but grateful. "Tá muid ceart go leor anseo."

Graham nodded. "Thank you. I have some business to take care of." His thoughts turned to Ciarán, to the small yet thoughtful gesture he wanted to surprise him with. "Wanted to get Ciarán a puppy,” he said. "But now I’d rather have a guard dog."

At the mention of a dog, a young woman nearby who had been helping with the feeding stopped, the feed bucket in her hands jingling with the noise of it shifting. Bridget—Graham had recognized her from the wagon earlier—looked up, a goat nibbling at her sleeve as she answered, “I don’t think anyone around here has a dog to spare. And I haven’t heard of any whelping lately.”

Graham gave a dry chuckle. He knew all too well the situation with dogs around here. “Yeah, I know. We’re in a bit of a dog desert,” he said, the humor not quite reaching his eyes. He’d asked around before and had come to realize that there wasn’t a single pup to be had. "I was going to go out of town, look around there."

Bridget raised an eyebrow, a skeptical smile tugging at her lips. "You that desperate?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, but Graham didn’t hesitate. "Yes." His response was blunt, and his voice held a layer of honesty that, perhaps, he hadn’t fully acknowledged before. The truth was, it wasn’t just about getting a puppy—it was about having someone, something, to keep Ciarán safe when Graham wasn’t around. A guard dog wasn’t just an extra set of eyes; it was a silent protector for the one person in his life who mattered most.

Bridget looked thoughtful for a moment, then her face brightened. “Well, there’s a stray that wanders around near the church. A mutt. Sweet-tempered enough,” she said, her voice warming as she recalled the dog.

Graham’s ears perked up. "A stray?" That was exactly the kind of dog he needed, one that wasn’t bound by any obligations or expectations but simply wanted a place to call home. “Sweet-tempered enough, you say?” he repeated, already starting to think of how he could find this dog.

She nodded, a slight shrug rolling over her shoulders. “Yeah, but if it’s so sweet-tempered, how come no one’s taken it in?” Graham asked, his curiosity piqued. If the dog was so friendly, why had no one claimed it yet?

Bridget’s expression softened. “Not the prettiest beast in the world. It’s a stray, you know?” she said with a small grimace, as if the dog’s less-than-perfect appearance was somehow a mark against it.

Graham didn’t care about that. He didn’t need a pretty dog. He needed one with heart, with loyalty, and one that would protect Ciarán. Looks weren’t important; the safety of his husband was.

“That sounds like what I need,” Graham said decisively. He gave Bridget a quick nod, already turning to whistling for Ginger. “I’ll try my hand at catching a stray,” he said with a half-smile. He wasn’t sure how easy it would be to find a stray dog, let alone catch one, but there was no harm in trying.

Bridget’s voice followed him, a note of amusement in her words. “Good luck with that, Mr. Shepherd. He’s a tricky one to catch. You might need more than just your charm.”

Graham waved over his shoulder as he made his way to the horses. “I’ll make do,” he called back, a bit of humor in his voice, but determination in his step. After all, if anyone could find a dog that would protect his family, it would be him.

◆◆◆

Every Sunday, without fail, Graham and Ciarán attended the church service. It had become a part of their routine, one they both valued, even if the rest of the day rarely allowed for much rest. Between the ranch chores and the responsibilities that came with running their small farm, there was little time for relaxation. The service was a moment of peace, a small break from the endless list of tasks that awaited them at home. But it was brief. They didn’t linger long after the service ended. Most Sundays, they exchanged pleasantries with the few people who remained, but then it was back to work.

The last time Graham had wandered the area behind the church had been at his and Ciarán’s wedding reception. That had been a day to remember—one of joy and laughter, the kind of celebration that could last a lifetime. The food had been plentiful, the drink flowing, and the music had filled the air. It was the day that marked the beginning of everything. He smiled at the memory, the way Ciarán’s laughter had echoed across the yard, how his husband’s eyes had shone brighter than the sun itself.

They hadn’t danced since that day. It wasn’t for lack of desire; Ciarán had always enjoyed dancing. He’d mentioned it a few times, the way he missed it. Graham had promised himself that the next time there was a shindig in town, he’d ask Ciarán to dance. Maybe he could even ask Mr. Fournier if he’d be willing to teach him to play the violin, just so he could play a song for his husband and watch the joy light up his face as he danced for him again.

But for now, he had his work cut out for him. The ranch was calling, as it always did.

Suddenly, Graham’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud snort from Ginger. He turned to see the horse shifting her weight, her head lowered toward the ground. A dog was cautiously sniffing at her leg, its nose twitching as it investigated her scent. When Ginger lowered her head further to nudge the dog, it jumped back in surprise, its tail wagging in excitement.

"Hey," Graham muttered, amused by the dog’s sudden timidity.

The dog’s ears perked up at the sound of his voice, but when Graham stepped closer, it gave a small bark and darted behind a tree. Graham blinked, surprised by the animal’s cautiousness. He’d half expected it to be more outgoing.

“Well, I guess I found you,” Graham said with a wry smile.

He glanced down at his pack and pulled out one of the oatcakes Ciarán had baked that morning. The smell still lingered faintly on the pastry. Graham broke it in half, quickly eating one piece before tossing the other toward the tree where the dog had disappeared. The dog’s nose appeared first, sniffing furiously at the ground before the rest of its head followed. With a small hesitation, it bolted out from behind the tree and leapt forward, snapping up the oatcake with lightning speed, almost as though it had been starving for weeks.

Graham paused to observe the animal. It wasn’t a puppy, but it was still young, the kind of dog that hadn’t quite grown into its large paws yet. Its fur was sparse, and it looked a little too thin for comfort—probably a result of its life as a stray. One of its ears was ragged and torn, the other hanging limply at its side. The dog’s eye was cloudy, a scar around it, but its remaining eye was bright and alert. Despite its rough appearance, there was a spark in the animal, a gleam of hopefulness in its gaze as it licked its chops, tail wagging cautiously.

Graham’s heart tightened in sympathy. He knew what it was like to hope for something, to cling to the smallest glimmer of affection when it seemed as though the world was against you. The dog’s longing was palpable.

Whistling softly, Graham called to the dog, watching as it hesitated for only a moment before bounding toward him with eager steps. “Hey, boy,” he said softly, extending a hand toward the animal.

The dog responded eagerly, pressing its head into Graham’s palm, its body wriggling with delight at the attention. Graham scratched under its chin, his fingers finding the soft fur there. “You’re going to love Ciarán,” he murmured, smiling down at the dog. He could already imagine Ciarán’s delighted reaction when they brought it home. This dog might not be the most well-bred, but Graham had always believed that what mattered most was loyalty. And this dog, with its weathered exterior and its battered eye, had loyalty written all over it. It was exactly the kind of companion Ciarán deserved.

“Come on,” Graham said, reaching down to tug gently on the dog’s collar, guiding it toward Ginger. “Let’s get you home.”

The dog followed obediently, as if it already trusted Graham, its tail wagging in joyful anticipation.

◆◆◆

Graham rode Ginger at a canter, the rhythmic thud of hooves pounding in the dirt beneath them, and the dog followed eagerly, his tail wagging furiously and tongue lolling out of his mouth. He barked with pure joy, his paws kicking up dust as he frolicked beside the horse. The dog was hardly a beauty by any standard—his fur was thin and ragged in places, his good eye still a little cloudy—but his temperament was as sweet as Bridget had promised. Every now and then, the dog would dart ahead, tail wagging excitedly, as if to urge Graham to go faster. The two of them—man and beast—formed an unlikely, yet perfectly matched, team. It felt good to see the dog enjoying himself, to see something, someone, full of life in such a simple, carefree way.

As they reached the ranch, Graham slowed Ginger to a trot, and the dog, as if sensing that they were almost home, trotted alongside them, still full of energy but starting to calm down as they approached the familiar place. The ranch was quiet, the sounds of the animals milling about in the pasture a comforting backdrop to the day’s tasks. The barn was just ahead, and Graham saw Ciarán in the yard, corralling the chickens back into their coop, his face contorted in determination as he waved a kitchen towel at the birds, who squawked in protest.

“Ciarán!” Graham called out with a grin.

His husband looked up at the sound of his voice, his eyes lighting up when he saw the dog bounding along beside Graham. “Graham!” Ciarán’s voice was full of warmth, a reflection of the joy in his expression. And then, his face broke into a wide smile as he saw the dog clearly for the first time. “A puppy!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees and opening his arms wide.

The dog, sensing the invitation, raced toward Ciarán with such speed that it knocked him right over when it reached him. “Oof!” Ciarán’s surprised yelp was drowned out by the dog’s excited barking. The animal’s affection was immediate, and it nearly knocked Ciarán flat on his back as it covered him with licks and nuzzles.

Graham chuckled, watching the scene unfold. His heart warmed at the sight. “I knew he’d love you,” he said softly.

Ciarán struggled to sit up, laughing as the dog continued to shower him with affection. “What’s his name, Graham?” he asked, still grinning.

“None yet,” Graham replied, shaking his head. “He’s your dog, honey. You name him what you want.”

Ciarán’s expression softened, and he began rubbing the dog’s head, showering it with compliments. “What a lovely, handsome boy. Oh, you need a fitting name.” He paused thoughtfully, his fingers running through the dog’s fur as he contemplated. Then, his eyes lit up. “What about… Roisin? How’s that? Will you be my Roisin?”

Graham wasn’t entirely sure where the name came from or what it meant, but he could tell that Ciarán felt a deep connection with the dog. And the dog, with his wagging tail and eager eyes, seemed to agree. Roisin—it was a name full of care, a name that sounded as though it belonged to something or someone precious. The dog immediately preened under Ciarán’s touch, basking in the affection. It was clear that the name was a fitting one.

Graham stood back for a moment, hands in his pockets, watching the two of them interact. He felt a touch of envy—he was used to being the one to receive Ciarán’s attention, but seeing the bond form between his husband and the dog was something special. A different kind of love. He looked around the ranch, admiring how well everything was coming along. The garden was neat, the crops were thriving, and the livestock seemed content, wandering peacefully in the pasture.

A cow lifted her head and stared at Graham, her large brown eyes chewing on what appeared to be a bouquet of flowers. Her contented chewing was accompanied by the occasional swish of her tail.

“What’s that?” Graham asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he stepped closer.

Ciarán looked over at him, puzzled. “What’s what?”

“That,” Graham said, nodding toward the cow. “What she’s eating.”

“Oh. That.” Ciarán’s face flushed slightly as he wiped his hands on his pants. “Well, a lot of people came by today, asking about Liam and offering to help. And Jean Lachapelle came by too.”

Graham raised an eyebrow at the mention of Jean. “And he brought flowers for him?” His voice held an undertone of surprise. Jean hadn’t exactly struck him as the kind of man who would offer flowers.

Ciarán’s blush deepened as he glanced at the ground, his fingers absently playing with Roisin’s fur. “They weren’t for Liam,” he murmured, his voice a little tight.

Graham’s mind quickly pieced things together. “He came here to see you,” he said, his voice calm but steady. He tried to keep the edge out of his tone, but a flicker of anger sparked within him.

Ciarán nodded reluctantly. “He did ask about Liam, about whether he’d woken up or if he’d seen the thief. At first, I thought the flowers were for Liam, but Jean said they were for me—an apology for how he acted in town. I said I’d accept the apology, but I didn’t think it was right to accept the flowers. But he insisted.” Ciarán’s expression darkened slightly. “He also wanted me to show him around the ranch. He said a few things, but I told him I was too busy. So, he just wandered around by himself. When he left, I threw the flowers to the cows.”

Graham’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t angry with Ciarán, not at all. But the thought of Jean Lachapelle showing up here—using Liam’s injury as an excuse to get close to his husband—made his blood boil. “All right,” Graham said, trying to keep his voice level. “All right, then.”

Ciarán looked up at him, concern etched across his face. “Are you angry?”

“At you?” Graham shook his head firmly. “No. Never. But if there’s a next time, I’ll be here. The dog and I will be right by your side.”

Ciarán’s face softened at his words, and the mood lightened a bit. Graham smiled and clapped his hands together, changing the subject. “So, you like him then? R-Roisin?”

Ciarán’s face lit up again, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Roisin. I love him. Thank you, Graham.”

◆◆◆

The chores had been completed remarkably early that day, leaving Graham with an unexpected sense of free time before Ronan would return to be with Liam. He had no immediate tasks on his mind and decided to make the most of the quiet moment. When he found Ciarán in the garden, wiping his hands on a cloth, Graham called out to him, inviting him for a walk across the prairie.

“Want to take a stroll with me? There’s time before Ronan gets back,” Graham said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Ciarán looked up and smiled, his warm, brown eyes sparkling in the late afternoon light. “I’d love to,” he said, setting the cloth aside and reaching out for Graham’s hand. They wandered away from the house, leaving behind the familiar comforts of the ranch for the sprawling fields beyond.

The day was still warm, with a gentle breeze ruffling the tall grasses that swayed beneath their feet. The air was thick with the scent of earth and new growth, and the prairie seemed endless, stretching out before them in a patchwork of green and gold. The wildflowers that dotted the landscape were a vivid contrast against the vastness of the fields, bright spots of color that created an impression of tranquility.

But the flowers weren’t the main attraction. As they walked side by side, arms gently brushing against each other, their conversation turned to the events of the day. Graham began recounting the events at the ranch, the unexpected arrival of the neighbors, and how Clodagh’s family had come to offer help.

“Everyone came to help out,” he explained, his voice carrying a sense of warmth. “Clodagh and the others worked all day. They wanted to make sure we had everything we needed, with Liam down and out.”

Ciarán listened attentively, his hand occasionally slipping into Graham’s, a gesture that spoke volumes. “Here as well,” Ciarán murmured. “So many people came to ask about Liam, and they wanted to help with whatever they could. Someone was always there with him, keeping him company while the doctor did his work. They brought me lunch, and helped me with the chores. It was overwhelming. I couldn’t have managed without them.”

Graham nodded, understanding the weight of the situation. “It would’ve been foolish to turn them down, though,” Ciarán continued, a faint frown creasing his brow. “But… I wish I could’ve done it all myself.”

“Why?” Graham asked, genuinely curious.

Ciarán’s gaze dropped to the ground, his voice soft. “So that when you came back, I could show you that I managed everything on my own. That I didn’t need help.” He smiled faintly, as if the thought was bittersweet. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Graham squeezed his husband’s hand and stopped walking for a moment. He faced him, taking in the honesty in Ciarán’s eyes. “I managed everything alone,” he said thoughtfully. “But I was always alone. Do you know what I mean?” His voice softened, the weight of those words hitting him in ways he hadn't quite realized. “I’m glad that you’ve got people around here who care about you. I’m glad you’ve got friends. You deserve that.”

Ciarán smiled up at him, his eyes shining with affection. “They care about us, Graham,” he corrected gently. “They care about both of us. And you’re a part of this town now, too. You’re not alone.” His words seemed to settle into the quiet space between them, and for a moment, neither of them said anything more. They simply stood there, holding each other close, the prairie stretching endlessly before them, the sounds of nature filling the air.

Graham pulled Ciarán a little closer, feeling the warmth of his body against his own. There was so much to be thankful for—Ciarán, the land, their home—and he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in that moment.

Ciarán cleared his throat suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. Graham glanced down at him, his smile growing in response to the soft flush creeping onto his husband’s cheeks.

“Are you, um…” Ciarán’s voice trailed off, and he looked almost sheepish. “In the mood?”

Graham blinked, his heart skipping a beat at the question. “Here?” he asked, surprised, his eyebrows rising in disbelief. The last thing he’d expected was a suggestion like this out here in the open.

Ciarán, blushing furiously now, continued, “The grass is tall. Even taller, if we were… lying down.” His voice was low, and his gaze flitted between Graham’s face and the tall prairie grass surrounding them.

Graham stared at him in stunned silence for a moment, his mind working to process what his husband was suggesting. Then, he glanced around. They were at the far edge of their land, where the prairie seemed to go on forever. The wind rustled the grass, and the silence was almost complete, save for the distant calls of birds and the rustling of leaves. They were alone, with no one else in sight.

The image of Ciarán—naked and freckled, laying amongst the wildflowers—sent a surge of heat through Graham’s veins. He swallowed hard, trying to collect himself. “You sure?” he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse. His mind was racing, caught between desire and the knowledge that they were still in the open.

Ciarán nodded, his blush deepening. “We still have some time before supper,” he said, his voice a little breathless. “It’ll be our secret.”

Graham’s lips curled into a smirk as he gave Ciarán’s hand a playful squeeze. “All right, sweetheart,” he said with a wicked glint in his eye. Then, he added, teasing, “But you don’t have to thank me for the dog.”

Ciarán laughed, and without warning, he playfully slapped Graham’s shoulder. The sound of their laughter rang out across the fields, blending with the breeze and the soft whispers of the prairie. And then, they were beneath the sky, hidden amongst the tall grass and wildflowers, lost in the moment and each other. The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them, wrapped up in the simple joy of being together.

For a while, nothing else mattered—just the warmth of their bodies and the peaceful solitude of the prairie surrounding them. Graham knew there would be more challenges ahead—Ronan and Liam’s situation, the future of the ranch—but for now, as he held Ciarán close, everything felt perfect.