Page 15

It was the middle of the night, and the stars were so bright they seemed to hang in the air like scattered diamonds. The soft glow of moonlight cast long shadows across the road as the cart rumbled along, its wooden wheels creaking with every bump and jolt. The night felt oddly serene, the kind of calm that followed chaos, like the world had exhaled after the storm. Graham could feel the cool night air brushing against his face, but it didn’t dull the heat of anger that still simmered beneath his skin.

Beside him, Ciarán sat quietly, his back straight, the rifle draped across his lap. There was a stillness to his posture, a quiet strength that always seemed to settle over him when things were most uncertain. The rifle was an extension of Ciarán, a promise of protection, and right now, it made Graham feel a little less exposed.

The cart was heavy with the weight of their mission—and of Jean Lachapelle. Behind them, the rich, arrogant man who’d dared to steal from them and their neighbors was trussed up like a hog, his hands and feet bound tightly with rope, and his mouth gagged with the very bandana he’d worn earlier. He’d been surprisingly quiet ever since they’d left the farm, though the muffled curses and grunts from the back of the cart still filtered through the night air. Lachapelle wasn’t a man who knew how to stay silent for long, but his options were limited now.

"Odder things have happened," Graham thought to himself, but at the moment, it was hard-pressed to think of any. He couldn’t recall a single instance that had felt more surreal than this. Just days ago, he and Ciarán had been tending to the cows, laughing and joking about the next meal they’d have, and now here they were, on their way to town with a bound and gagged thief in tow, prepared to turn him in. It was as if life had spun on its axis and dumped them into a whole new world.

Ciarán shifted beside him, a slight motion that had Graham glancing at him, just in time to see him hide a yawn behind his hand.

“You tired, sweetheart?” Graham asked gently, his voice low so as not to disturb the night too much. "Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when we get to town."

Ciarán shook his head, his lips pulling into a small smile, though his exhaustion was evident in the slight droop of his shoulders. “No, I’m fine. Besides, you can’t drive the cart and keep an eye on him—” He turned to glance behind them at Lachapelle, who was making an incoherent series of muffled noises, his movements jerky as he struggled against the ropes. “—at the same time.”

Graham chuckled softly. “You’re right about that.” His gaze flicked to Lachapelle, who swore at them from behind his gag, his words no doubt filled with venom. At least, that’s what Graham assumed. Lachapelle had been swearing ever since they’d tied him up, a constant stream of insults that was muffled to the point of being comical.

It was almost too easy to ignore him now, though. The man had always been a thorn in their side, and now he was little more than a nuisance—a noisy one at that. Graham was used to dealing with threats, but somehow, the absurdity of the situation made Lachapelle’s presence less threatening, more of an annoyance than anything else. The silence of the night was more of a comfort than a danger.

“All right,” Graham muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else, “I guess this is what happens when you decide to play the hero.” He couldn't help but smirk, though the moment felt strange. There was something surreal about this whole thing—the quiet night, the stars overhead, the tension coiled between them, and yet the odd, almost domestic feeling of it all. It was just another night for them, but this one was far from ordinary.

Behind them, Lachapelle’s voice rose, more muffled now, but still filled with defiance. "Mmmph... damn you... just wait—"

“Most pleasant Jean Lachapelle has ever been,” Graham muttered to himself with a dry laugh. He glanced over at Ciarán, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. They both knew exactly what he meant.

For all of Lachapelle’s bravado, he’d been eerily silent for most of the ride. Even with all his cursing, there was something about him that seemed smaller now, diminished by the ropes and the gag. The man who’d caused so much trouble for them and their friends was now just another criminal on his way to justice. The thought didn’t sit entirely well with Graham. He’d always preferred when things were simpler, when it was just him and Ciarán against the world. But life rarely worked out that way. Sometimes, the world was messy. Sometimes, it demanded they take actions they never imagined they would.

Ciarán let out another soft yawn, his eyes fluttering as he tried to fight it.

“Go to sleep,” Graham said again, this time with a gentle smile. "We’ve got time. Let me drive the cart. I’ll wake you up when we get to town."

“I’m fine,” Ciarán insisted, but his voice had the slightest edge of weariness now. “I’ll sleep once we’re done with this mess.”

“You sure?” Graham pushed.

Ciarán nodded, though his eyelids were starting to droop. “Yeah. I just... I don’t like leaving you alone with him. Not after what he tried to do.”

The protectiveness in his voice was clear, and Graham felt his heart soften. He didn’t mind. It was just another reason he loved Ciarán so deeply—how fiercely he cared. Even now, with everything they’d been through, with the darkness of the night pressing in around them, he was still worried about Graham’s safety.

“I’ll be fine, sweetheart,” Graham reassured him. “I’m not about to let him get the drop on us.”

Ciarán gave a soft hum of agreement, and finally, with one last glance at Lachapelle, he leaned back against the side of the cart, his eyes fluttering shut. Graham could see the tension in his face slowly melt away as he let himself relax.

It wasn’t long before Ciarán’s breathing evened out, soft and steady, and Graham was left alone with his thoughts.

The ride to town would take a while, but that was fine. It gave him time to think, to let the events of the past few days settle in. There were things he still didn’t fully understand, things that were left unspoken between them, but for now, the quiet night, the warmth of Ciarán’s presence beside him, and the knowledge that they were doing what needed to be done—that was enough.

As the cart rattled down the road, the sound of the wheels on dirt mixing with the rustling of the night, Graham’s grip tightened on the reins.

◆◆◆

The sheriff’s office was always busiest at night, when the saloon’s regulars spilled out onto the dusty streets, their laughter and rowdy talk drifting into the night air. Some of them stumbled their way down to the jail, needing a place to sleep off one too many shots of whiskey and not caring whose cot they crashed on.

Tonight was no different. From the noise and commotion inside, it was clear the saloon had been well-attended. Graham pushed the door open, stepping into the small, dimly lit office. Inside, the jail was populated with a mix of drunks and troublemakers. A handful of men lay in the cells, some sprawled out on the floor in varying degrees of unconsciousness. One snored loudly on a cot while two others shuffled a weathered deck of cards back and forth, their hands slick with the remnants of spilled liquor.

When Graham hauled Lachapelle inside, the man hopping awkwardly in his bindings, and Ciarán followed closely behind, rifle at the ready, the two cardplayers paused their game. They looked up, their eyes narrowing as they took in the scene.

One of them burst into a loud, mocking laugh. “Ha! Look at that! Caught a rabbit, did you? Found him nibbling in your garden?” He was clearly enjoying himself, his voice dripping with humor at the sight of the bound man struggling in Graham’s grip.

“Found him nibbling at something, I bet,” his companion added with a chuckle. He gave Ciarán a wink, his smile wide and playful, but it was clear from the way Ciarán's jaw tightened that the jest had rubbed him the wrong way.

“Watch it,” Graham growled, his voice low but sharp. He didn’t have the patience for this kind of disrespect, especially not when his leg ached like someone had tried to drive a knife through it. The man raised his hands in mock surrender, but the teasing smile remained.

“Where’s the sheriff?” Graham asked, his eyes scanning the room for the man in charge.

“Somewhere around here,” one of the card players replied, not bothering to look up from his hand. “Probably in the back.”

Graham grunted, eyes flicking to Lachapelle, whose angry murmurs and muffled curses filled the room. “He ought to get a bell. Ring him for service,” Graham muttered under his breath, the words carrying a bite of frustration.

The two men snickered at that, clearly amused by the idea. It was a long moment before the back door swung open with a squeak, and the sheriff himself appeared, looking as if he had been pulled from whatever quiet corner he'd been trying to nurse his own drink in. He looked cross, his brow furrowed as he stepped into the dim light of the office.

“Where’ve you been?” The sheriff started, his voice gruff, no doubt thinking they were just another pair of drunks with a complaint. “If you had a drink at the saloon, I’ll—” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes locking onto the sight of Jean Lachapelle, still bound and furious, and Ciarán, standing there with the rifle slung across his chest. The sheriff's expression shifted, recognition dawning. “What’s going on here?”

Graham crossed his arms, his gaze steady. “Caught the thief.”

“Jean Lachapelle? What was he—” The sheriff’s voice trailed off, but Graham didn’t wait for him to finish.

“Found him in our barn, trying to steal a couple of our cows. Put up a fight. Luckily Ciarán was there to help me,” Graham said, his tone dry but firm.

Ciarán offered a small smile, but his eyes were hard as he stood by Graham’s side, his rifle still pointed low, ready if anything escalated.

The sheriff’s frown deepened. “Baron’s not going to be happy about this,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else.

“I wouldn’t be happy either, if my kid turned out to be a shit-eating, thieving little fuck,” Graham shot back, his voice laced with venom. He turned slightly to Ciarán, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “Sorry for swearing, sweetheart.”

Ciarán glanced at him, a small chuckle escaping him despite the tension in the room. “No, I quite agree, Graham,” he said, his voice smooth and measured. He cleared his throat before turning back to the sheriff. “What happens now, sir?”

The sheriff sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well—my deputy and I will be taking over from here. Thank you for the work you did in bringing him in—” He trailed off, clearly not understanding the full weight of the situation.

But Ciarán was having none of it. He stepped forward, his voice sharp as he cut in. “Yes, my husband and I have done all the work, I think. What happens now? He was caught in the act of trying to steal our livestock—and he tried to hurt Graham, too.” He turned to Graham briefly, a flash of concern in his eyes.

Graham nodded, not bothering to speak. The ache in his leg had only gotten worse since Lachapelle had dug his heel into the sore muscle, but he didn’t want to make a bigger deal of it. Not yet.

“He nearly killed Liam,” Ciarán continued, his voice growing colder as he spoke of their neighbor. “And I bet the Duncans’ horses are somewhere on his father’s property, and—”

The sheriff held up a hand, his expression turning wary. “Now, son—” He paused when he saw Ciarán’s brow furrow. “I mean, Mr. Shepherd. If you want to be one of my deputies, feel free to ask me for a job. Hell, might even have an opening soon, if the fool I have now doesn’t find his way back to his office in a few minutes.But if not, then I’m going to have to ask you to just leave it to the lawmen for now.” He let the words hang in the air, his jaw set.”

Ciarán’s glare was icy, and it was clear he wasn’t going to let it slide so easily. “Before we leave it to you, I want it in writing. Everything that we told you, signed and dated. And the time, too.”

Graham didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his father-in-law’s pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. “It’s a quarter to midnight,” he said, his voice low but precise.

“Thank you, Graham,” Ciarán said, giving his husband a grateful nod before turning back to the sheriff. “A pen and paper, please, sheriff.”

The sheriff grumbled but motioned for his deputy, who was still busy nursing his own hangover in the corner, to fetch the necessary materials. “This isn’t how I expected my night to go,” the sheriff muttered to himself, but he didn’t argue further.

Ciarán tapped his foot impatiently as they waited for the sheriff to scribble down the information, his mind clearly running through the next steps. Once the sheriff had finished, Ciarán didn’t waste a moment, checking the paper thoroughly before nodding in approval.

The sheriff sighed, clearly eager to be rid of them. “There you go. Everything’s in writing. You happy now?”

Ciarán smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. “I will be when I know he’s behind bars for good.”

With the formalities out of the way, Graham and Ciarán turned to leave, Lachapelle still squirming in the corner of the room, bound tightly and glaring at them as though he could burn them with his eyes.

They left the sheriff's office with more than just a signed account of what transpired that night. Ciarán had expertly browbeaten the sheriff into not only writing the account but also making a copy for their records, much to the befuddlement of the two cardplayers who had been forced into their role as witnesses. Neither man had seemed to quite grasp the seriousness of what was happening, much less the intent behind Ciarán's firm and unwavering demand for justice. Lachapelle, now untied and gag removed, was left in the jail cell, looking just as confused, if not more so, by the turn of events.

As they walked back toward the cart, Graham couldn't help but wonder if Ciarán had expected some sort of grand spectacle—a showdown, perhaps, where the sheriff and his deputy would gallop out with guns drawn, racing to the estate of the Lachapelle patriarch, demanding that his son’s wrongs be righted on the spot. The scene might have played out like something from one of the dime novels that Ciarán liked to read: Baron Lachapelle would be dragged from his bed in the dead of night, forced to confront his son’s crimes, the Duncans' horses would be returned, and the elder Lachapelle would fall on his knees, begging forgiveness from Liam and Ronan for the sins of his son. But that hadn’t been the case.

Instead, the sheriff had nodded, scribbled the details down with a gruff demeanor, and promised that justice would be done—eventually. It had all been much quieter, less dramatic than Ciarán had likely anticipated. Graham could see the slight disappointment in his husband's posture as they made their way home, but he kept his thoughts to himself, allowing the silence between them to grow as they walked under the stars.

By the time they finally arrived back at their little cottage, the quiet of the night settling around them, Graham's body felt the weight of the evening. His leg throbbed, his muscles stiffened, and the exhaustion from the tense moments of the night seemed to finally catch up with him. Ciarán, ever the attentive husband, had been mostly silent during their walk back, but once they were inside and the door was safely shut behind them, he turned to Graham with concern.

“It’s late, sweetheart,” Graham said gently, already sinking onto the bed with a sigh of relief as he stretched out his throbbing leg. “No one’s going anywhere. The sheriff’s got to sleep, too. It’ll be easier to find those horses in the daylight, besides.” He settled himself into the warmth of the blankets, the weight of the day easing off his shoulders now that he could finally rest.

Ciarán, standing at the foot of the bed, hesitated for only a moment before he climbed in beside Graham. “I just thought… well, I don’t know. You read stories in the newspapers about, oh, gunfights and whatnot,” he said softly, clearly still processing the events that had unfolded.

Graham chuckled, the sound a quiet rumble in the otherwise still room. “Larkspur isn’t known for its gunfights,” he said, though he knew exactly what Ciarán meant. He had expected more of a showdown, something dramatic, but what had really happened was far more subdued—and maybe that was for the best.

“I know that,” Ciarán replied, his voice almost apologetic. “I suppose I just thought that once we brought him to the sheriff, it’d be over. You know, the end of the story. But now it feels like…” He trailed off, his words faltering for a moment.

“Tomorrow,” Graham murmured, not needing to hear the rest. It was a simple truth: they couldn’t force the sheriff’s hand, and the situation wasn’t going to resolve itself in one night. Ciarán, ever the idealist, had wanted more than the quiet assurances of a sheriff who was unwilling to act hastily. But tomorrow, once the sun rose, there would be time for proper action.

“Tomorrow,” Ciarán repeated, sounding a little more resigned, but the tension in his voice still hadn’t fully disappeared. He paused, then turned to Graham with a sudden tenderness. “How’s your leg, Graham?”

Graham, about to respond with his usual reassurance, paused. For a brief moment, he considered lying—telling Ciarán that it was fine, that it didn’t hurt too much, that the dull ache wasn’t anything to worry about. But that wasn’t fair to Ciarán. His husband deserved the truth.

“Could be better,” Graham admitted, wincing slightly as he shifted his leg beneath the covers. “That fight did a number on me.”

Ciarán’s expression softened instantly, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Graham’s forehead. “But you had him! You’re so strong.” His voice was full of admiration, a mixture of pride and concern.

Graham chuckled, his lips curling into a smile despite himself. “Yeah, I had him. And he had me.” He shifted slightly, feeling the bruises in his side and the tightness in his leg. “Knew right where to hit me hardest.”

Ciarán made a sound that was half-laugh, half-grumble, clearly not pleased with the idea of Graham being hurt. He moved down toward the foot of the bed without a word, settling on the floor beside it. “Let me give you a massage. It’ll help you sleep,” Ciarán said, his voice determined. “You can’t very well go for a walk around the ranch at this hour.”

Graham looked up at him, about to protest, but Ciarán's eyes were already fixed on him with that familiar, gentle intensity. His touch was always a balm, a comfort, and so Graham allowed it—allowed Ciarán to tend to him, even when he would have preferred to do it all himself.

“Ah, sweetheart, you don’t have to,” Graham began, though he couldn’t bring himself to argue for long.

“But I want to,” Ciarán insisted, and with that, Graham knew there would be no more refusal.

Ciarán’s hands, warm and gentle, moved to Graham’s thigh. He pressed his palms to the muscle and began to knead, his thumbs working in firm, steady circles that seemed to melt away the pain. Graham sighed in contentment, allowing his eyes to close as Ciarán's rhythm worked its magic. He could feel the tension, the strain, all of it slowly easing with each passing second. Ciarán was skilled at this, practiced even, and it didn’t take long before Graham felt a wave of comfort and relaxation washing over him.

“How’s that feel?” Ciarán asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Really good,” Graham mumbled, his body relaxing more with each movement. “Really, really good.”

As the minutes passed, Graham let himself sink into the warmth of the bed, into the rhythm of Ciarán's touch. And before he knew it, sleep was pulling him under, his mind wandering to the quiet moments of their life together.

He glanced at Ciarán, catching his eye. There was his husband, still wearing his nightgown, a soft smile on his lips as he continued his work. He looked at Graham with a quiet affection that made Graham’s heart swell.

“Oh, Graham,” Ciarán sighed, the tenderness in his gaze unmistakable. And in that moment, Graham knew that everything would be alright—tomorrow, justice would come, and for now, they had each other.

With a final sigh, Graham closed his eyes, content, and let the quiet of the night take him into sleep.

◆◆◆

The following day, Graham and Ciarán found themselves enjoying the most normal and pleasant morning they’d had in a long while, a respite after the tension of the previous evening. The morning sun shone warmly, casting a soft glow over the ranch, and the gentle clucking of chickens and the occasional bleat of the sheep filled the air. Graham quickly made a breakfast of egg on toast and oatmeal, topped with a handful of juicy, ripe blackberries. The sweet, tart berries stained their lips a deep red as they ate, and Ciarán’s usual sweetness seemed to linger even longer when they shared a kiss before setting off to begin their chores.

It was a quiet morning in many respects—Ciarán, Roisin, and Graham were the only ones who seemed particularly bothered by the events of the previous night. Everyone else went about their tasks with little concern. The livestock didn’t seem to mind the events of the night before, nor did the land. While Ciarán tended to the animals—feeding the cows and counting them as he went—Graham checked over the animals one by one to ensure none had been harmed in Lachapelle’s attempt at thievery. The hens squawked in outrage as he moved through their pen, the sheep regarded him with their large, dark eyes while they nibbled lazily on the grass, and the cows, who seemed to think he was merely giving them attention, headbutted him in affectionate play when they thought one of them was getting too much affection. Thankfully, all was well—especially the two prized heifers that Lachapelle would’ve made off with had Graham not been wandering around the property the night before.

Ciarán was in the barn feeding the cows when one of them licked his outstretched hand, causing him to laugh. Graham couldn’t help but smile as he watched the interaction, a bit of warmth blooming in his chest. It had been a rough week, but moments like this—moments of simple joy—reminded him of how good life could be.

“Remember your first day with them?” Graham asked as Ciarán wiped his hand on his apron.

Ciarán chuckled. “I was worried they wouldn’t like me,” he admitted, looking at the cow in front of him, who seemed perfectly content to be near him. “Now, look at me. A proper rancher.”

“I don’t know about that,” Graham teased. “But I think you're doing all right. You’re getting better every day.”

Ciarán gave him a grateful smile, bending down to give the cow one last stroke on its head before turning to Graham. “Thank you, Graham.” He leaned in to kiss Graham’s cheek.

Next, they moved on to the garden, where they weeded, watered, and harvested the crops that were ready for picking. Graham couldn't help but smile as he watched Ciarán’s delight over the growing crops. The garden was a rainbow of colors—blueberries and blackberries, bright yellow zucchini flowers, verdant herbs, and the vibrant red of ripe radishes and tomatoes. It felt like their hard work was finally paying off, and the satisfaction was evident in Ciarán’s face as he bent to carefully pluck the ripe produce.

They started with the tomatoes. Those that had ripened to a bright ruby red were plucked and placed carefully in their basket, while others, still tinged with green, were left to ripen further. As Graham inspected the leaves for signs of pests, he was pleased to see that the ladybugs had been doing their job, keeping the aphids at bay.

But then, Ciarán let out a small cry of dismay. “Oh, no!” He’d pulled a plant with a bit too much force, snapping a stem that held a perfectly ripe tomato along with two others that were still unripe.

Graham, who had seen this kind of mistake before, just shrugged. “It happens. We have plenty. Don’t worry about it.” But Ciarán’s crestfallen expression lingered, and Graham felt the need to ease his worries. “Look, don’t worry about it. We can still use the unripe ones.”

“What?” Ciarán asked, looking up with surprise.

“We can fry up the green ones.” Graham smiled at the thought of fried green tomatoes, a treat that always reminded him of simpler times.

Ciarán’s eyes brightened immediately. “Really?”

“Yeah. Just slice them, dip them in batter, and fry them up like that. Or we can pickle them. We have options, sweetheart,” Graham explained. “Even if something’s underripe, or bruised, we can still make use of it. So don’t worry about it too much.”

A little ruefully, Ciarán smiled. “Maybe I’m a proper rancher, but I’m not much of a farmer yet.”

“You’re doing just fine.” Graham gave Ciarán a reassuring pat on the back. “Sometimes the crops are just as difficult as the animals. Just try giving it a twist next time if it doesn’t want to be picked. Like this.” He demonstrated by twisting a shiny, ripe tomato off its vine with a flick of his wrist. He handed the tomato to Ciarán. “Go on. Take a bite.”

Ciarán set the basket down, wiping his hands on his apron before inspecting the tomato carefully. He took a large bite from it, and the burst of juice flooded his mouth, dripping down his chin as he chewed.

Graham swallowed, feeling a sudden heat rise in his chest at the sight of Ciarán’s satisfaction. “How is it?”

“Delicious,” Ciarán replied, licking the juice off his lips before handing the rest of the tomato to Graham. He ate the rest of it, savoring the sweetness of the fruit. It was perfectly firm on the outside, juicy and almost like a plum on the inside, with a satisfying sweet-and-sour tang.

Graham grinned. “Fruit of our labor,” he said with pride, feeling a sense of fulfillment that had little to do with the work itself and everything to do with the satisfaction of sharing it with Ciarán.

They continued their work, snipping some chard and pea greens for a salad later and gathering a few sweet peppers and radishes. As they moved from section to section, Graham continued to impart bits of wisdom on the crops. He felt a little like a teacher—pointing out which radishes were fit for eating and which should go to the chickens, showing Ciarán how to check if a green bean had snapped, and explaining that the melons still needed another month before they were ready for harvest.

“When it comes to the zucchini,” Graham added, adjusting his hat, “pick some if you want. I can fry those up for you later, too.”

“Really? The flowers?” Ciarán asked, surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

◆◆◆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her words worked like a balm to soothe Ciarán’s frazzled nerves. He managed a small smile, a flicker of hope returning to his eyes. Graham shot Mrs. Duncan a grateful smile in return, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Duncan,” Graham said. “What happened next? After you left the sheriff’s office?”

“Well,” Mrs. Duncan continued, “Baron Lachapelle was still in the middle of arguing that his son hadn’t done anything worth being jailed for when Ronan and Liam burst in, followed by the deputy and that big bear of a man and the little spitfire himself. Jean saw Ronan and practically begged to be put back in the cell, he looked like a man who knew he was caught. And then Liam starts hollering, telling the sheriff to put the bandana back on him so he could be sure it was the same man he’d seen trying to steal their sheep.”

Mrs. Duncan chuckled at the memory. “Then, there’s Nathan, who’s standing by the door, watching it all go down. He sees Jean trying to slink away, so he goes, ‘Děng yīxià!’—‘Wait a minute!’—and grabs him to pull him back. And Jean, naturally, growls out, ‘Get your hands off of me!’”

At that moment, Mrs. Duncan clapped her hands together in delight. “Would you believe it? Liam just points and shouts, ‘That’s him for sure! That’s what he sounded like when I tried to stop him from stealing our sheep!’”

What followed, Mrs. Duncan said, was chaos—worse than anything that had happened before. “Ronan, of course, being Ronan, throws aside the sheriff, the Baron, the sheriff’s desk, and wraps his big hands around Jean’s throat, shouting in Irish. Lachapelle, in a panic, admits to everything. Every last bit of it. He tells them where the horses are, on his father’s ranch, just wandering around. The bastard took care of them at least, but only because he was hoping to breed them. He thought he could get the best from all the stock around here. The horses, the sheep, the cows. But it didn’t quite work out for him, did it?”

Mrs. Duncan paused, her face a mixture of disbelief and disgust. “Anyway, that’s what I came here to tell you. I figured you’d want to know. And, well, here’s a little something for your trouble.”

She reached into her pocket and slid a small stack of bills across the table. Graham stared at it, his eyes widening at the amount.

It was nearly $300.

Ciarán immediately objected, his voice soft but firm. “Ma’am, that’s too much.”

Mrs. Duncan shook her head. “No, it’s not. You deserve every penny. We should’ve posted a reward, but the sheriff and his deputy insisted the horses might’ve just wandered off. As if Nathan or I would’ve just let them wander off.” She sighed, frustrated by the whole ordeal. “Then with the incident at your neighbors’ place and now this at your ranch, the whole town’s been on edge. You caught Jean, put an end to the madness. So, here’s a reward. You two did a good thing, and I’m glad it’s over.”

“I got something in mind,” Graham said, his tone thoughtful as he looked at the money. There was someone else he had in mind for it—his father-in-law, still overseas. This brought them that much closer to making their reunion possible, and Graham could already picture the joy on Ciarán’s face when they could finally bring him home.

Ciarán didn’t protest anymore, his eyes softening with a quiet acceptance of Mrs. Duncan’s generosity. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Duncan smiled, rose from her seat, and turned to head back out. “Don’t mention it. Just keep your heads down. The storm’s passed for now, but the wind’s still blowing. You’ve done good work, and now you get your reward.”

With that, she left them, her horse waiting for her at the gate.

Graham looked over at Ciarán, who was still holding the stack of bills, the weight of the situation settling in. A future that seemed uncertain now felt a little more tangible. He squeezed Ciarán’s hand. “We’ll get him back here. We’re closer than we’ve ever been.”

Ciarán nodded, his smile returning, brighter this time. “Yes. Together.”

◆◆◆

It wasn’t until they finished up for the day and were washing up for supper that Graham decided to ask Ciarán exactly what happened between him and Jean Lachapelle.

Maybe it was a dirty trick—catching his husband by surprise when he was underdressed and vulnerable—but it was better than broaching the subject while they were eating, or before they went to bed.

Ciarán dipped a cloth in a basin of cool water, wrung it out, and wiped the sweat from his neck and chest, running the damp material along his freckled skin. His curls were windswept, his cheeks flushed pink. Droplets of water glistened on his collarbone, his stomach, his hips. He looked gorgeous. He always looked gorgeous.

Graham watched him. He took a deep breath. “Ciarán—will you tell me what Lachapelle said to you that day I was at Ronan and Liam’s?”

For a moment Ciarán didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard him. Instead, he asked, “Will you help me wash my back?”

He handed Graham the cloth and turned around. Graham placed a hand on his hip and gently brushed the cloth down his back in slow, smooth swipes. Ciarán was just as freckled there as he was anywhere else.

“I’m not mad, sweetheart,” Graham said. “I just—I’d like to know.”

Ciarán took a deep breath. “I’m embarrassed.” But then he said, “He came with flowers, and asked about Liam. If he’d woken up, if he saw who’d attacked him. I thought he was concerned, but now I know he was just seeing if he had anything to worry about—if Liam could identify him. He was relieved when I said he was still sleeping. That’s when he said that we’d gotten off to the wrong start, and that he had just come to check up on me because he wasn’t sure of your—skills. As a rancher, or as a husband.” Ciarán’s cheeks were red. “He offered to buy some of the cows, because it’d be easier for us if they were off our hands so there’d be less work for us and more—free time. For other things. He said he could show me what I was missing. I told him I’d never been happier, Graham. I told him to leave.”

That made sense, Graham thought. That made a lot of sense. He’d already refused to sell his prize cows to the Lachapelle once before. It was just like the man to try again—and to proposition his husband in the process.

Graham let the anger inside him flicker and die. There was no point to it now. Jean Lachapelle was in the law’s hands now, and Ciarán was safe and sound here with him. He did wish that he’d gotten a few more hits in, though.

To Ciarán he said, “I’m sorry he said those things to you, sweetheart,” and held him close.

“I just—didn’t want to make you worry when there was already so much going on. And I was also a bit worried that, well. That I might’ve done something that made him think I was courting his attention.”

“Jean Lachapelle thinks everything and everyone on this Earth has been put here to serve him,” Graham said, flatly. That’s why it galled him so much that anyone would refuse his offer. “I’m glad you stood up to him that day. And I’m glad you were there to save my hide last night.”

His husband sighed. “I love you, Graham.”

“I love you, too.” Graham cleared his throat. “Now, what do you say we sit down and eat? We got a lot more to talk about. Like getting things ready for your father. With that money Mrs. Duncan gave us, I can start buying the material to add another room onto the house.”

Ciarán’s eyes were shining.