Page 14

Between the two of them they shared half a pitcher of lemonade, perfectly sweet and extremely refreshing, a small plate of gingersnap cookies, and a platter of tiny cucumber sandwiches, cut into triangles. A light lunch with good company, made even better by how proud Ciarán was to pay their bill.

“I like treating you,” he said as they left. They linked their arms together as they walked back to the cart.

Graham enjoyed being treated, but it didn’t have to come at the expense of Ciarán’s hard-earned money. “I can think of a few different ways you can treat me,” he said. A fresh cooked meal at home would suit him just fine. A nice walk around the ranch. Or maybe Ciarán could read aloud to him after dinner—he had a wonderful voice.

Ciarán, however, interpreted his words differently. He smiled flirtatiously, cheeks turning that pretty pink, and replied “Oh, well—so can I, Graham.” There was something quite promising in his expression, and Graham hastened them to the cart, eager to get home and in bed.

The cart clattered down the road at a steady pace. They were barely halfway to the ranch when Ciarán leaned against him, heavy and warm, and kissed his cheek. Graham smiled, turned his head to catch Ciarán’s lips, then returned to driving the horses along the path.

Something tickled his leg. Graham glanced down and saw Ciarán’s fingers graze his knee. When he met Graham’s gaze he smiled wider and reached between his legs to stroke his inner thigh. A blaze of heat surged through Graham’s body. He asked, in a somewhat strangled voice, “What are you up to?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Ciarán stared at him with wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just enjoying the beautiful day with my husband.” Without an ounce of modesty, he palmed Graham’s cock, rubbing him through the material of his pants.

Sweat beaded on Graham’s forehead. He looked around. They weren’t too far away from the ranch, and the road wasn’t busy. He stopped the cart. “Maybe we should take a walk, then,” he said, sounding more nonchalant than he felt.

Ciarán preened as though he had won a great victory. He swung his legs over the side of the cart and hopped out, a small skip in his step. Graham eagerly followed him, leaving Ginger and Bó at the side of the road, nibbling on wildflowers.

Once underneath the shade of the trees Ciarán immediately undressed. He tossed his hat to the ground, kicked off his shoes, stepped out of his pants, and stood there clad only in his shirt and socks, surrounded by junipers and oaks. He looked like a forest sprite, mischievous, alluring, impossible to resist.

Graham practically threw his belt onto the grass. “Come here, honey,” he said.

The grove rang with Ciarán’s delighted laughter as Graham hauled him up. He hooked his legs around Graham’s waist, clasping his hands at the back of Graham’s neck. He was a bit heavier, Graham thought, trying and failing to hide a grin. Married life had been good to him. Graham guided them toward the trees, so that Ciarán’s back rested against the tree trunk. If anyone happened by, Graham’s block would block Ciarán from view. And, it provided just a bit more support for his bad leg.

“You good?” Graham asked.

Ciarán laughed again. “Very good.”

“All right, then.” He eased Ciarán down onto his cock, chest swelling with pride as Ciarán’s laughter turned to a low moan.

It was rough and quick and messy. It had to be. There was a chance that they could be seen—even when they’d made love in the fields, they’d still been on their own property. Here, anyone might pass by and see Graham taking his husband against a tree like they were a pair of insatiable newlyweds.

Which, he supposed, they still were. When did a couple stop being newlyweds? A year down the road, or maybe two. He’d never been told the exact time, only to enjoy the honeymoon period, as the more time spent in marriage, the less romance there was. Graham had never paid it much thought before—he’d never imagined he’d find himself married and in love and happy. But as Ciarán clenched around him, lashes fluttering, nails digging into his back, moaning his name, Graham was sure that the bloom would never come off this rose. What could be better than being with his husband?

“You feel amazing, sweetheart.” He gave a sharp thrust into Ciarán’s tight heat.

Ciarán shivered in his arms. “Oh! Oh, Graham—" His words quickly dissolved into sharp cries as Graham hammered that spot over and over again. He writhed against him, stockinged feet pressing at the small of Graham’s back.

Sweat ran down Graham’s neck. He could feel it pooling in his shirt, the cotton material damp against his skin hot. Leaves, bright and green, fluttered to the ground around them as their movements shook the tree. Graham panted against Ciarán’s flushed neck, wondering at the turn his life had taken, that here he was on a beautiful, warm, sunny summer day, fully clothed, rutting into his husband without a care in the world.

He let out a breathless laugh. “I love you,” he said.

Ciarán clutched his shoulders, spilling onto Graham’s shirt with a shuddering gasp. “Oh!” He tightened around Graham’s cock, milking the orgasm from him not a few moments later.

“God, Ciarán—” Graham panted. He pressed a wet kiss to Ciarán’s neck, felt his pulse against his mouth. “So good, sweetheart.”

Ciarán hummed, content and satisfied. He leaned against the tree, knees shaking, as Graham took a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped away the cum dripping down the inside of his thighs.

“Still good?”

“Still very good.”

He couldn’t resist giving the soft skin of Ciarán’s freckled thigh a kiss. “Good.”

His own shirt wasn’t so easily cleaned. Graham gave it an honest try, dabbing at the stains with the same sticky handkerchief before simply unbuttoning it and draping it over his shoulder. It wasn’t the most seemly thing, to be out in his undershirt, but it was far better than walking around with his husband’s spend all over his stomach.

“Maybe we should try this more often,” Ciarán said, slipping back into his shoes. “I think that—"

“Hello?”

They both tensed at the sound of a stranger’s voice. Ciarán gasped, lacing up his shoes and fixing his hair. “Oh, Lord,” he murmured.

“Hello?”

Graham quickly buckled his belt. He called back, “H-hey, there!”

A man wandered tentatively into view. Graham knew his face, but not his name. Someone from town. He gave a jerky, awkward wave.

The stranger waved back. “You all need any help? Saw your cart stopped.”

Graham spluttered, flailing for an excuse, but Ciarán grabbed his hat from the ground, brushed a few blades of grass from it and placed it firmly back onto his head. “The wind took my hat off! We had to chase it down.”

The man frowned. “Hasn’t been much of a breeze today, I don’t think.”

“Sudden gust of wind. Surprised us both,” Graham grunted.

Before the man could respond, Ciarán cheerily said, “Thank you for your concern! We’ll just be on our way, now. Have a nice day!” He grabbed Graham’s arm and dragged him back to the cart, waving goodbye to the befuddled man as Graham took hold of the reins.

When they were safely out of ear shot, they burst into peals of laughter.

◆◆◆

On the way home, the wagon swayed gently over the dirt path, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the fields. Graham held the reins loosely, his shoulders relaxed, while Ciarán sat beside him, a contented smile playing on his lips. Their earlier conversation about the market had meandered into other topics, eventually landing on one of their more daring pastimes.

“As enjoyable as it was to have sex outside,” Ciarán said with a slight flush creeping up his neck, “I think we ought to keep those instances few and far between. You know, in case a neighbor happens upon us.”

Graham raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Even on our property?”

Ciarán paused, clearly weighing his words. “Well,” he said slowly, “I’m not saying never. Just that we should be more careful and aware of our surroundings.” His tone was practical, though the faint pinkness in his cheeks betrayed him.

Graham bit back a laugh. He decided not to mention that it had been Ciarán who’d proposed both their tumble in the field last summer and the romp in the woods just a few weeks ago. Each time, Ciarán’s enthusiasm had been infectious, leaving Graham more than willing to go along with the idea. Still, he had no intention of embarrassing his husband by pointing that out now.

Instead, he nodded solemnly. “Of course, honey,” he said, his voice laden with affection.

Ciarán narrowed his eyes at Graham’s tone. “You’re humoring me,” he accused, though there was no real heat in his voice.

“Am not,” Graham said, grinning. “I mean it. I’ll be careful. We’ll both be careful.”

Ciarán leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest, though his lips twitched with a smile. “Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

The path grew narrower as they passed the tree line marking the boundary of their property. Birds chirped lazily in the heat, and the faint rustle of the wind in the leaves was the only other sound. Graham stole a glance at Ciarán, who was gazing out over the fields, his expression soft and thoughtful.

“I’ll admit, though,” Ciarán said suddenly, breaking the silence, “there is something thrilling about it, isn’t there? The open air, the wildflowers, the—freedom of it all.”

Graham chuckled. “Now, don’t go tempting me again. You’re the one who just said we need to be more careful.”

“I know, I know,” Ciarán said quickly, his blush deepening. “I’m just saying—”

“That you’re not entirely against the idea,” Graham finished for him, his voice warm and teasing.

Ciarán sighed, but his smile gave him away. “Fine, yes. Just not when there’s any chance of someone stumbling across us. I mean it, Graham.”

“Message received,” Graham said, his grin widening. “I’ll make sure we’re alone next time.”

“Graham!” Ciarán’s laugh bubbled up, light and unrestrained, and the sound made Graham’s chest ache with affection.

The house came into view as the wagon crested the final hill. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting a golden glow over the land. Graham pulled the horses to a stop near the barn, and they set about unloading their purchases and supplies in companionable silence.

Later, as they sat together on the porch, sipping cool water and watching the sky turn shades of orange and pink, Ciarán rested his head on Graham’s shoulder. Graham wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

“You know,” Graham murmured, pressing a kiss to Ciarán’s temple, “I’d say today was just about perfect.”

Ciarán hummed in agreement, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Graham’s arm. “It was, wasn’t it? Even with our little… debate about outdoor activities.”

Graham laughed softly. “Well, as long as I’ve got you by my side, I don’t much care where we are.”

Ciarán tilted his head up, his eyes shining in the fading light. “I feel the same, Graham. Always.”

◆◆◆

The evening air was soft and cool as it drifted through the open window, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and freshly turned soil. Dinner was quiet at first, punctuated only by the occasional clink of spoons against bowls as they ate. Graham savored the rich flavors of the chicken and dumpling soup, but his attention kept wandering back to Ciarán’s earlier words.

His husband sat across from him, his head slightly bowed, as though lost in thought. There was a nervous energy about him—his usual light chatter was absent, replaced by a pensive silence. Graham let it stretch for a moment, waiting for Ciarán to speak, but when the younger man didn’t, he decided to gently nudge him.

“You know,” Graham said, setting his spoon down and leaning back in his chair, “bringing your father here—he’d be lucky to have you looking out for him.”

Ciarán looked up, startled. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so,” Graham replied. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and a big heart. Anyone can see that.”

Ciarán’s lips curved into a small, shy smile. He set his spoon aside, his hands folding in his lap. “I’ve just been thinking about him a lot lately. He’s getting older, and the work back home—it’s hard, Graham. Too hard for a man his age. And I think about how much he’s done for me, how he sacrificed so much so that I could—so that I could have a chance at a better life.” He swallowed, his voice thick with emotion. “It doesn’t feel right, leaving him there alone.”

Graham nodded, his expression softening. He’d heard bits and pieces about Ciarán’s father before—a man who had taught his son resilience and a strong work ethic, even in the face of hardship. It didn’t surprise him that Ciarán wanted to repay those sacrifices.

“I get it,” Graham said after a moment. “Family’s important. And if bringing him here is what you want, then we’ll make it happen.”

Ciarán’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “But what if it’s too much? What if it’s more than we can handle?”

Graham reached across the table, his calloused hand covering Ciarán’s smaller one. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Like we always do.”

Ciarán nodded, but there was still a shadow of doubt in his gaze. “It’s not just the money,” he admitted. “I worry about how he’ll adjust. America’s so different from Ireland, and he’s not...he’s not as young as he used to be.”

“That’s why he’ll need you,” Graham said firmly. “And he’ll have both of us to help him settle in. He’s your family, and that makes him mine too.”

The words seemed to lift a weight off Ciarán’s shoulders. He squeezed Graham’s hand, his grip warm and steady. “Thank you,” he said softly. “You always know how to make things feel possible.”

Graham chuckled. “That’s what husbands are for, isn’t it?”

They finished their meal in a lighter mood, their earlier tension replaced by a shared sense of purpose. After the dishes were cleared and the kitchen tidied, they sat together on the porch, watching the stars appear one by one in the vast night sky.

Ciarán leaned against Graham’s side, his head resting on his shoulder. “I’ll start saving up,” he said. “Every penny I make from selling the jam and the cheese—it’ll go toward bringing him here.”

“And I’ll start drawing up plans for the addition,” Graham said. “We’ll need a proper room for him. Something comfortable.”

“You’re really amazing, you know that?” Ciarán said, his voice soft and full of wonder.

Graham smiled, wrapping an arm around his husband and pulling him close. “I’m just doing what any good man would do for the person he loves.”

◆◆◆

That night, he dreamed of war.

More specifically, he dreamed of the medic’s tent, where they’d carried him after a Minié ball tore through his leg. The air in the tent was thick with the stench of mud, blood, and alcohol—a harsh reminder of the battlefield that still raged just beyond the canvas walls. The canons roared in the distance, their thunderous blasts vibrating in his chest. The cries of dying men, desperate and guttural, rang in his ears. But despite all this, it was daytime, and the battle was far from over. Yet, he knew it wasn’t real. He could tell by the way his perspective shifted—looking down at the scene below him from a bird’s eye view. He wasn’t really lying on the table; he was observing, distant from the pain that wracked his body in that fleeting moment.

His jaw was clenched tight, teeth grinding against the unbearable agony. His voice, hoarse from screaming, cracked as the medic dug his finger into the raw wound in his thigh, trying to dig out the shards of metal embedded deep within. “Fuck! God, fucking damn it!” The pain was unspeakable, far worse than anything he’d ever endured, but there was something more in his voice: fear. Fear of dying. Anger. Anger at the thought of making it so far, surviving the horrors of war, only to be felled now.

The surgeon, cold and detached, with a blood-splattered apron, examined the injury with clinical precision. “We ought to take the leg,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any compassion.

Graham’s heart raced, his hand shaking as it reached up, gripping the surgeon by the collar. “You put that saw near my leg, and I’ll break every fucking one of your fingers,” he growled, his face twisted in a grimace of fury and fear.

Was it a memory or just another piece of his dream? He couldn't say. The surgeon’s face paled, but whether it was from Graham’s threat or from the nightmare’s influence, he couldn’t recall. The dream seemed so real—so sharp—that he could almost feel the blood rushing from his body as he shoved the man away, his strength seemingly unbroken despite the blood loss, before passing out from the pain.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him trembled, the unmistakable smell of gunpowder thick in the air. His surroundings shifted, the blood-stained table in the medical tent becoming the familiar bed he shared with Ciarán. His leg still throbbed, the ache a dull reminder of his past, but instead of a medic’s hands, there were Ciarán’s, gently pressing against his thigh, trying to ease the pain.

“Oh, Graham,” Ciarán murmured, his voice filled with concern, his hand firm but tender on the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, but his gaze never left Graham’s face, worry etched in the lines of his brow.

Graham’s eyes fluttered open, and the darkness of the night surrounded him. It took a few moments before his surroundings began to take shape—the comfort of their bedroom, the weight of Ciarán’s presence beside him, still asleep. The ache in his leg was sharper now, an old pain, a constant companion that flared up unexpectedly. He shifted slightly, and a twinge of pain ran from his foot up to his hip.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered softly to himself.

Ciarán stirred beside him, his voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just my leg acting up,” Graham lied, wincing slightly as he tried to stretch it. He didn’t want to admit it, but the strain earlier that day had taken its toll.

“I’ll give you a massage,” Ciarán mumbled, his hand groping blindly in the darkness, smacking Graham’s chest with an awkward pat. His eyes remained closed, and there was a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth, making Graham chuckle despite himself.

“Nah, sweetheart. Go back to sleep. I just need to walk around. Stretch my legs a bit.”

Ciarán responded with a quiet murmur of agreement and rolled over, taking most of the blanket with him. Graham eased himself out of bed, careful not to wake him, though no sooner had he stood up than Roisin, the dog, hopped up onto the mattress to claim his spot. Graham couldn’t help but smile, though he couldn’t resist giving her a playful warning.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said, watching him look up at him with a smug expression.

He moved quietly, making his way toward the door, his leg heavy and aching beneath him. As he stepped outside, he let out a deep sigh, the familiar ache settling in his muscles. The night was still, the air crisp, the only sound the crunch of his footsteps on the ground. It was just an old war wound, he told himself. Nothing more.

He’d taken this walk a hundred times before. The pain had become a part of him, a reminder of the past he couldn’t forget, but tonight, it seemed easier to bear. Especially knowing that Ciarán was waiting for him, warm and safe in their bed.

Graham limped toward the well, his steps slow and deliberate, his hand resting on his thigh as he massaged the aching muscles. When he reached the stone well, he ran his hand along the cool surface, trying to steady his breathing. Then, with a grunt of effort, he continued on toward the barn. He hoped the walk would ease the pain before he reached the far end of the property.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he froze. There, standing just outside the barn, was one of their cows. She turned her head as he approached, her large, liquid eyes meeting his. She seemed as startled to see him as he was to see her. Her tail flicked nervously, and she shuffled a bit, her hooves clattering softly on the ground.

“How’d you get out here, girl?” Graham asked, scratching the cow’s velvety head. They’d corralled all the animals back into the barn before dinner. How had one of them managed to escape?

Before he could think more on it, another cow emerged from the barn, lowing softly in the quiet night. Graham’s lips curled into a small smile at their late-night wanderings. But before he could laugh, another figure stepped out from the barn behind them.

A human figure stood in the dim light of the barnyard. Tall, with a bandana obscuring their face, their outline was all too familiar. The thief.

Graham’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt a rush of anger flood his chest. His pulse pounded in his ears as he stepped forward, his limp more pronounced with every stride. His heart was hammering, but his voice was steady as he called out, “Hey!”

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 hit after 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.”

“We’ve got some in the barn,” Graham replied, his voice low. “But—”

“But you don’t want to leave me alone with him?” Ciarán finished for him.

Graham nodded grimly. “Exactly.”

“I’m fine,” Ciarán reassured him, his gaze flicking to Roisin, who stood protectively at his side. “I have a guard dog, don’t I?” He whistled, and Roisin bounded to him, tail wagging.

Graham hesitated only for a moment before limping toward the barn, grabbing the rope from the wall. When he returned, he bound Lachapelle’s wrists and ankles tightly, his hands shaking with the effort to contain his anger. Lachapelle struggled and protested, but Graham wasn’t listening. He gagged him with the bandana, securing it tightly over his mouth.

“I don’t want to hear another word from you,” Graham growled as he stepped back. To Ciarán, he said, “I’ll stay here with him. Can you bring me a shirt and my boots, sweetheart? Can’t go into town half-naked.”

Ciarán looked down at himself, realizing the state he was in. “Goodness, I’ll need to change, too. Give me a moment.” He handed Graham the rifle before darting inside the house.

A few moments later, Ciarán returned, hastily dressed in pants and a shirt, carrying Graham’s clothes and boots. As Graham changed, Ciarán fussed over him, concern written all over his face. “Graham, you’re sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Graham reassured him, though his side throbbed with every breath. “You saved me before I really got hurt.” He cupped Ciarán’s cheek gently. “You were like a hero out of a dime novel.”

Ciarán blushed, his smile soft but pleased.

Graham smiled back, pressing a quick kiss to Ciarán’s cheek before standing up. “Let’s get him in the cart. The horses are getting quite the workout these days.”

He snapped his fingers at the cows, motioning toward the barn. “Get back in there. You two have had enough excitement for one night.”

The animals, seemingly unbothered, chewed their cud, mooing softly as they ambled back into the barn.