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Graham couldn’t stop saying the name. Ciarán Ryan. Over and over, he tested it, tasting the rhythm of the syllables as they passed his lips. Ciarán Ryan. It felt foreign and familiar all at once, like a secret he had only just learned to speak aloud. He let the name roll off his tongue again. Ciarán Ryan. And then, in a burst of spontaneous joy, he tried a new combination, a new thought: Ciarán Shepherd. His grin spread wide as he imagined the sound of it, the two names entwined in something new and hopeful. He let out a sharp bark of laughter, an uncontained sound of giddiness that echoed in the quiet town square. He shook Oscar’s hand enthusiastically, his grip firm with gratitude.

"Thank you," Graham said, his voice full of sincerity. "Thank you for bringing me my letter."

Oscar, still bewildered, blinked at him in surprise. “It’s my job, Graham. But, you’re welcome all the same,” he replied, the usual air of detachment in his voice, though his eyes softened just a little at Graham's joy.

It might’ve been just another part of Oscar’s daily routine, another letter successfully delivered. But for Graham, this was something extraordinary. It was more than just a letter. It was an answer to the quiet plea he had whispered into the void, an answer that had crossed hundreds of miles of land and sea to reach him. Somewhere, in a place so distant and unknown to him, a man named Ciarán Ryan was sitting in a room with a blue door at Mrs. Edward’s boarding house in New York City. That man had read Graham’s words, seen the same longing in his heart, and had written back—not just with a polite reply, but with an eager yes. He would marry him. The words echoed in his mind like a prayer answered. Ciarán had read his letter, seen his offer, and had taken it. He would marry him. That was all that mattered. That was the miracle.

The letter had come from a man who wrote with such beautiful penmanship, whose words were full of longing and sincerity. And not only that—Ciarán had sent along drawings, little glimpses of his own imagination. Sketches of the prairie, flowers, and wide open skies. How could Graham ever have hoped for more? How could he ever have dreamed that someone would see his words, hear his heart, and respond so earnestly?

In the letter, Ciarán had written that he longed for a place where the city’s hustle and bustle didn’t overwhelm him, where he could find peace, contentment, and perhaps even a friend, a companion. And Graham—Graham could give him all of that. The prairie was ready for him. The flowers would bloom as promised. He would give Ciarán a place of quiet beauty, a home filled with the sounds of nature, and someone who would cherish him, someone who would take care of him and share in the days and nights ahead. He could give him everything he had longed for, everything he wanted.

Graham’s heart was light, giddy as a schoolboy in summer. He couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. Every step he took felt like a dance, every person he passed felt like a witness to the wonder inside him. He thanked Oscar once again, his voice still bubbling with excitement, and then he wandered aimlessly around town, barely noticing where his feet took him. His mind was spinning with thoughts, ideas, plans, and dreams.

There was so much to do. So much he hadn’t even realized he needed to do. He had to make the house ready. Make it a home. Right now, it was nothing more than a place to sleep, a space where he stowed his weary body when he wasn’t working. But now, it was going to be something else entirely. It would have to be a home for two. More chairs, another set of plates, more glasses, and utensils. Perhaps a vase, to hold the flowers Ciarán loved so much. There was so much to think of—so many little details that suddenly seemed so important.

He had to go to the railroad station, too, and figure out how much it would cost to bring Ciarán here. He imagined him stepping off the train, his face bright and full of hope. He would be here. On Graham’s land. With him. Graham could already see the two of them, walking side by side across the prairie, talking, laughing, finding their rhythm together. He could feel the excitement rising in his chest again.

Then there was the church. He had to talk to the priest. They would need a ceremony, of course. A formal union to mark this moment. A bond that would carry them into the future. He needed to find witnesses too. Liam and Ronan, maybe. They would be the most obvious choice—if they could spare a moment from their own homestead. Perhaps Oscar, if he was willing. It would be a small affair, nothing too grand, but it would be a wedding all the same. The day when he would stand beside Ciarán, look him in the eyes, and say the words that would bind their lives together. It was all coming together, faster than Graham could keep up.

And then, of course, there was the letter. He had to reply to Ciarán. To officially propose. To tell him that, yes, he was as eager as Ciarán was to meet and marry. To tell him that everything would be ready, that Graham had already started preparing for him, for them. It was more than just a response. It was an invitation to the future.

Graham walked out of the post office, a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t even married yet, and already his life had taken on a new energy. It was as though he had been sleepwalking through the years, moving from task to task without ever really feeling alive. But now—now he felt awake. His heart was full of purpose. Full of joy. And there was a spring in his step, as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Everything had changed in an instant. And it was only the beginning.

◆◆◆

It was still early when Graham entered the general store, the bell on the door chiming softly as he pushed it open. The store was quiet, save for the owner, Mrs. Fournier, who was tidying up behind the counter, organizing a few items and putting things in their proper place. It was a small comfort for Graham, this rare peace before the bustle of the day began. The town wasn’t awake yet, and neither was the world at large. He could almost pretend for a moment that everything in it was still as he’d left it—calm, controlled, and certain.

Graham knew Mrs. Fournier only vaguely through their business dealings. She was a well-known figure, even in the neighboring towns, someone whose name carried weight, not just in Larkspur, but across the broader landscape of their shared history. Mrs. Fournier was not simply a shopkeeper; she was a woman of great resilience, a survivor of immense hardships who had set off on a journey from Louisiana years ago to find her family—people who had been torn apart, sold, or escaped the horrors of the past. And against the odds, she had found them. She had crossed state lines with a growing group of loved ones until they settled in Larkspur, where she established the general store. It wasn’t just a business—it was a testament to survival, determination, and the love of family.

Perhaps it was that history that had made her so at ease with people. Graham had always found her to be one of those rare individuals who was completely comfortable in her own skin, who exuded a quiet confidence, and whose sense of self made others feel at ease—or at least, not overly scrutinized. Graham, for all his taciturn nature, found solace in that. He was not a man for small talk, and Mrs. Fournier had long since learned to respect that. From the very first time they had met, she had greeted him warmly, acknowledged him with a smile, and then gotten straight to business. No questions, no pressure—just an efficient transaction, and that was all.

So when Graham stepped into the store that morning, he didn’t expect much more than the usual exchange. But this time, there was something different. There was more at stake, more on his mind, and he found himself hesitating as he approached the counter.

“Well, hello, Graham,” Mrs. Fournier said, turning to greet him as the bell above the door jingled. Her voice was soft but warm. “Buying or selling today?”

“Buying,” Graham replied, his voice rough with a tension he hadn’t expected to feel. He cleared his throat. “And I think I—need help, ma’am.”

She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “What are you looking for?”

Graham hesitated again, then exhaled, feeling the weight of his words before he even spoke them. “Everything. I’m planning on—getting married and I need to... get ready.” He cleared his throat again, uncomfortable with his own vulnerability, but there was no turning back now. “Things for the house and for—myself.”

“Congratulations, Graham! That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Fournier exclaimed, a genuine warmth in her voice. Graham felt a rush of relief at her kindness, but it was fleeting. He worried, just for a moment, that she might ask more personal questions—about Ciarán, about their meeting, about the path that had brought them here. But he needn’t have feared. Mrs. Fournier didn’t probe, didn’t pry. Instead, she offered her help with the same ease she always had.

“Well, we have the ready-mades here, if you’re looking for some new clothes,” she suggested, her tone practical and matter-of-fact. “We ought to have something nice that fits a man your size. We’ve also got some lovely new dinnerware patterns, if that’s of interest. And I can get you the furniture catalog while you browse. How’s that for a start?”

Graham nodded, feeling his chest loosen a little. “That sounds perfect.”

It wasn’t the first time he had visited the store, but today it felt different. Mrs. Fournier’s gentle direction made it easier for him to navigate the myriad decisions ahead. As he walked down the aisles, looking at everything from clothes to kitchenware, he felt the weight of the future settle in around him. He picked out a ready-made suit, something simple but nice enough for a wedding. He added a woven rug, a few more pieces of cutlery, and he ordered a fine china tea set, requesting that it be packed with utmost care. The thought of hosting Ciarán, of having him sit at the table with him, filled him with a quiet joy that he could hardly contain.

He also selected a dining chair, one with a cushion, thinking that it might offer some comfort on long evenings spent talking together. The chair would stand in contrast to his handmade kitchen table, and perhaps that bothered him, but it was practical—and Ciarán deserved comfort, deserved the best that Graham could offer.

Then, for the first time, Graham found himself looking for a gift for Ciarán. It was a strange thing to shop for, something he’d never truly considered before. He thought of the fields— the green grass, the open sky—and knew that Ciarán would need something for the changing seasons. So, he chose a dark green coat and a straw hat with a green ribbon tied around the center. The coat would keep him warm in the winter, and the hat would shield him from the sun during summer walks. It wasn’t much, but it felt like something Ciarán could wear, something that would fit in with the life Graham hoped to build for them.

By the time he’d made his selections, Graham had spent more than he typically did in two months. But what was money, after all, if not to be spent on things that mattered most? And what better way to spend it than on a future together?

Still, doubts crept in. He hadn’t even received a letter in return yet. He had planned for everything—he had the clothes, the goods for the house, the gifts for Ciarán—but was he moving too quickly? Had he counted his chickens before they hatched? He pushed the worries aside, remembering Ciarán’s letter—his words about eagerly joining him on the prairie. The man had written back positively. He had expressed an eagerness to marry him, to see the flowers in full bloom. Surely that meant something.

Later, at the railroad station, the clerk greeted him with surprise as he asked about ticket prices, about the quality of meals and train car conditions.

“Are you planning on taking a trip, Mr. Shepherd?” the clerk asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

“No. Someone’s...” Graham paused, wondering just how much to divulge. He hadn’t exactly kept his plans a secret, but not everyone in town needed to know about his personal life, about Ciarán. “I’m expecting a visitor soon,” he said, hoping that would be enough.

The clerk nodded, but Graham could see the questions still lingering in his eyes. He gritted his teeth and went to the bank, withdrawing enough money to cover Ciarán’s ticket and meals along the way. The train ride would take nearly a week, but he was determined that Ciarán would not want for anything. The journey was long, uncomfortable, but Graham would do what he could to make it easier.

But then there was the food. Graham had never thought about it much—his meals were simple, utilitarian. Biscuits and eggs, fresh garden produce when it was in season, canned vegetables in the winter. But Ciarán deserved more than that. Surely, he would expect more than that.

Back to Mrs. Fournier he went, once more. This time, he bought yeast, baking soda, a sack of sugar, and tins of vegetables that were out of season. He was sheepish as he placed the items on the counter, but Mrs. Fournier was as kind as ever, not commenting on his embarrassment but instead helping him with care, her smile unchanging and warm.

When Graham reached for his wallet to pay, she shook her head. “Consider this a small wedding gift,” she said firmly.

“I can’t—” Graham began, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“You can and you will. I insist. You’ve probably got enough on your plate right now getting things ready for him, am I right?” she said, her tone light but knowing. “This is just one less bill. And if you’re really that worried,” she added, her eyes twinkling mischievously, “Consider this: a Mr. and Mr. Shepherd will be buying twice as much from my shop.”

Graham couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you,” he said, grateful beyond words for her generosity.

Their conversation was interrupted by the loud jangle of the bell on the door, followed by the deliberate, heavy steps of someone entering the store. Graham turned to see Jean Lachapelle swagger up to the counter, a sneer already on his face.

“Ah, Celeste,” Jean said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re running a cabinet of curiosities now, I see. Why, it’s our mythical hermit, out and about in daylight.”

The words stung, but only just. Jean Lachapelle was nothing more than an arrogant son of privilege, a man who thought his good looks and inherited wealth gave him the right to belittle others. Graham had never liked him, and their history had been strained ever since Graham had refused to sell some of his prized cattle for a pittance. Jean had called it a deal. Graham had called it an insult.

But Graham said nothing. He simply looked past the man, as if he were invisible. He didn’t owe Jean Lachapelle the satisfaction of a response. The silence irked Jean, of course. He was a man used to getting attention, and Graham’s refusal to engage only seemed to rattle him more.

“You’d make more money off him if you taught him to speak,” Jean sneered. “A deaf and dumb halfwit won’t bring in the crowds.”

Mrs. Fournier’s temper flared, and before Graham could even react, she snapped at Jean in French. “Rien de tout ca, maintenant! Tu regardes ta langue dans ma boutique, garcon!”

Jean recoiled, but only for a moment. “Je m’excuse. Merely a joke,” he said, though the insincerity was obvious. “I’m here for my father’s order.”

Mrs. Fournier didn’t flinch. “Come around back,” she said sharply, “It’ll be easier for you to haul it in your cart.”

Graham watched as Jean left with a scowl, muttering something under his breath. Once the door slammed shut, Mrs. Fournier winked at him. “Best of luck to you, Graham. Be sure to bring that lucky man around sometime. I want to meet him.”

◆◆◆

After the meeting with the priest Graham left town as fast as he could, urging Ginger along, all his purchases jostling in the cart as they traveled back to the homestead. The money for Ciarán’s ticket was safe in his pocket, but Graham couldn’t help but gently pat it every so often, feeling its weight, making sure it hadn’t disappeared when he wasn’t paying attention.

The priest had been like the clerk at the railway station—surprised and curious. But he couldn’t be reticent with a man of the cloth. Graham informed him of as much as he could. They’d have the wedding when Ciarán arrived, but that was still weeks away.

“He’s Catholic, is he?” the man asked.

Uncertain, Graham answered, “Well, he’s Irish.”

That answer hadn’t endeared him to the priest, but he still promised to oversee the wedding whenever it happened.

It was a relief to get home. The people and the socializing took more out of Graham than a day’s work in the fields and with the animals. Peace and quiet and solitude—that was what he craved, and that was what he needed in order to reply to Ciarán’s letter. Words didn’t come so easily to him, verbalized or written, and he wanted time to think and scratch out mistakes and start anew if need be.

Dear Mr Ciarán Ryan,

Thank you very much for your letter. It was heartening to receive and your message to me was kind and I think perhaps we would get along well together. Your sketches are skillfully done and have brought me good cheer. I hope you find the land here as beautiful as in your drawings.

This brings me to my next point. I would greatly enjoy more letters from you but as you have been bold then I will be bold also and declare that I would enjoy your company even more. You said that you are tired of city life. Well I cannot say for certain that life on the prairie will be an Eden because I cannot lead you wrong. The flowers do not bloom in all seasons and animals are as ornery and unpleasant as people sometimes. But I can promise you that it will be a different life altogether and that I will teach you about it if you are willing and that I will always take care of you as a husband should.

It is my hope that you will accept my proposal of marriage. Enclosed is the fare for a train ticket and also extra for meals as the journey will be long and I do not want you to be hungry if you decide to make the trip.

I wish you well,

Graham Shepherd

He copied the return address from Ciarán’s envelope with utmost care, down to the heavy, insistent underlining of Room 4, On the Left, Blue Door.

The next day he made the trip to town again to hand Oscar his own overstuffed envelope filled with plain stationery smudged with graphite, numerous bills for Ciarán’s fare, and all of Graham’s hopes.

◆◆◆

Two long weeks passed before Graham received his answer, and in those two weeks, he occupied himself with the routine of daily life. Every hour spent in work was both a distraction and a burden. Whenever he wasn’t busy, his mind churned with worry. Had the letter been lost in the mail? Would Ciarán’s response be favorable, or had he changed his mind? Was the money Graham had sent enough for a ticket, enough for meals along the way? What if Ciarán had found someone else, someone who wasn’t a hermit of few words but someone better, someone he could see a future with?

The doubts gnawed at him throughout each day. The mornings started with the usual chores—waking early, eating a simple breakfast, then feeding the animals. He milked the cows and collected the eggs, each task automatic and steady, the rhythm of his labor offering a small measure of peace. In between feeding the chickens and weeding the garden, Graham found himself constantly returning to the same questions: Would Ciarán still want to come? Had he received the letter in the first place? Every task felt like a small battle, and yet, the work cleared his head, giving him a chance to push the worries back down, if only for a little while.

One part of his daily routine gave him both comfort and distress—the reading of The Matrimonial Journal. His advertisement had been published, and it was now in its second and final print, but no one else had written him back. A part of him was grateful for this, as it was clear that no one could compare to Ciarán—not to his humor, his kindness, his beautiful sketches of the world, or the way he could fill a room with laughter. No, no one could measure up to that. Yet, there was a deeper fear lurking beneath the surface—that if this didn’t work out, if Ciarán decided he couldn’t follow through, there would be no one else. His heart could not even fathom the thought of trying again. This was it. If this marriage didn’t happen, Graham wasn’t sure he’d ever find another like Ciarán.

So, he kept himself busy, working the land, feeding the animals, taking care of the house. Every moment between tasks was consumed with a quiet tension. He moved from anticipation and joy to worry and fear, back and forth, as the days crawled by. And as always, it was labor that gave him some relief from the storm of his thoughts, the sweat of his brow grounding him, making the uncertainty of the future seem a little less unbearable.

It was on the morning of the second week of waiting, when the tension had reached its peak, that Alonso Fournier found him out in the fields. Graham was bent low, pulling weeds from the garden, the soil cold and damp beneath his hands. He heard the sound of hooves before he saw the rider, and a familiar voice rang out, calling from behind him.

“Good morning, Graham!” Alonso Fournier’s voice was jovial, and Graham turned to see him riding up on his horse, tipping his hat in greeting. “Your order came in, so Celeste sent me out here.”

Graham stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands, and watched as Alonso’s cart pulled up beside him. The man jumped down from his horse with a practiced ease and began to unload the goods. Graham immediately spied the dining chair with the cushioned seat and the fine china tea set—everything had arrived, just as he had requested, carefully packed and padded in straw and cloth. A small wave of relief washed over him, the physical goods a reminder that he was preparing for something real, something tangible.

“Thank you,” Graham said, grateful but distracted, his mind still lingering on the letter he had yet to receive.

“No trouble at all,” Alonso said with a grin, wiping his brow. “Let me help you get it all down. There’s still a lot of stuff in there, and I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.” He gave a small chuckle and looked around the fields. “Been a while since I’ve been out here. Look at this place—you’re doing well for yourself.”

Graham smiled slightly but didn’t respond right away. Alonso continued unloading the cart, clearly enjoying the brief respite from his day’s work. As he shifted some packages around, he paused, his eyes twinkling.

“Speaking of deliveries, Oscar asked me to give you this.” The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a familiar envelope. His smile deepened, knowing the weight it carried. “Said you usually come in on Fridays, but that you’d want this as soon as possible.”

Graham’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the letter. Even from a distance, he recognized the elegant, looping handwriting that filled the front of the envelope—Ciarán’s handwriting. It was unmistakable, beautiful, and full of promise.

The moment felt suspended in time. Graham wanted nothing more than to snatch the letter from Alonso’s hands, tear it open right there and then, and devour every word. But instead, he forced himself to remain calm. He thanked Alonso again for the delivery, tucking the letter carefully into his own pocket as if it were something fragile, something precious.

Alonso, seemingly unaware of the internal storm Graham was weathering, continued to help him with the parcels. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said with a cheerful wave as he climbed back onto his horse. “You’ve got plenty of work to do, but take your time with that letter. I imagine you’ll be reading it over a few times.”

Graham waved goodbye and watched him disappear down the path before rushing inside and ripping open the envelope.

Dear Mister Graham Shepherd,

For just this one letter I will still address you as such, because while I will soon marry you we are not wedded and should not be so familiar to border on intimacy just yet. I ask that you think on the matter: when I arrive and we are joined in matrimony, would you have me refer to you by your Christian name, or Mister Shepherd, or shall I simply call you husband?

I have no real affairs to settle, as I previously mentioned. My material possessions are packed, and my landlady has gotten over the shock of losing a paying tenant and is now eager for me to leave so that she may find the next one. I’ve written my father, to tell him that soon he will have a son-in-law, and I’ve included your address so that he’ll know my new place of residence.

The clerk at the railway station is very familiar to me now because I have been pestering her about travel times. Letter and body travel at the same speeds these days, it seems. Roughly five days for my letter to reach Larkspur, and roughly five days for me to meet you, what with all the stops that must be taken.

Have you ever traveled by train before? I haven’t! You’ve said it’s not very comfortable but I cannot think it would be more unpleasant than my journey to this country! I do not recommend a crowded ship in a storm-tossed sea, not one bit!

This, I think, will be a much more pleasant adventure. And my sincere thanks for the fare. I admit that I had planned to carefully ration some sandwiches along the way. But now I can sample the meals in the dining car and compare them to those at a Harvey House. How exciting! I feel like a world traveler!

Here, I have also thought of how we shall recognize one another at the train station. Unfortunately, since I have no photograph to send to you, and as I have no description of you, either, I fear that whatever I saw about myself might be subjective. Perhaps, compared to you, I am very short, or of average height, or my hair is more auburn than brown, more wavy than curly.

But I own a straw hat, trimmed with dark green ribbon. I would like to think that it is so very unique that no one else has ever heard of a straw hat with dark green ribbon, and that you will be in awe of my elegance and new fashion, but alas, I bought it from a milliner, and if one such item caught a customer’s eye than no doubt she made another. Therefore, I will add a paper flower to my hat. I highly doubt that there will be another man with a straw hat with a dark green ribbon and a paper flower arriving at Larkspur!

And I will search for you, too. I will find you, I hope, by the earnest expression you’ll wear, eager to meet the man who will become your husband. I plan on buying my ticket on the fifth, so that we shall meet on the tenth.

Yours,

Ciarán Ryan

Graham was struck immediately with the realization he’d purchased a gift of a straw hat with a green ribbon, and yet the man already possessed one. Should he return it? Find something more suitable? Maybe he might like to have an extra just in case something happened to his original. Then, the real truth of the matter almost seemed to strike him in the head as he reread the letter.

The tenth. The tenth—that meant that Ciarán was already on the train, traveling west. He’d be in Larkspur in less than three days time. And Graham still had so much to do. Clean the house, get his suit ready, figure out what to prepare for dinner, ask Liam and Ronan and Oscar to be their guests, tell the priest that the marriage would, in fact, take place.

His marriage. Soon, he’d leave the house in the morning a bachelor and return in the afternoon a newlywed, with his husband by his side.