Page 3

Two lengthy letters and a number of delicate, colorful sketches—and Graham had memorized them all as if they were the pages of a well-loved novel. The elegant, looping handwriting, the slight underlines that emphasized certain words, the way the ink seemed to almost dance across the paper. The color pencil drawings, bright but tender, seemed to capture the very essence of Ciarán—dreamy, thoughtful, a little whimsical. From these small clues, Graham tried to build a picture of the man who was to become his husband.

His imagination pieced together Ciarán bit by bit, like putting together a puzzle with no image to guide him. A straw hat with a green ribbon and a small paper flower tucked into the band—this seemed to fit, given how Ciarán had described his love of nature. Beneath the hat, Graham envisioned a pair of glasses perched on a narrow nose—glasses that spoke of someone who had spent many hours reading, learning, and reflecting. After all, Ciarán’s handwriting was so smooth and perfect, every word flowing effortlessly across the page. It suggested a man who was well-educated, someone whose mind was sharp and agile.

In Graham's mind, Ciarán’s fingers were long and graceful, the kind of fingers that could wield a pen or pencil with ease, drawing the world around him in exquisite detail. He imagined Ciarán to be a little smaller than himself, as most men tended to be. And though he had never met him, Graham could already picture the soft, kind smile that would greet him, a smile that made everything feel just a little bit lighter, just a little bit more hopeful.

"So, you really have no idea what the man will be like," Liam said, cutting through Graham's daydreams as he poured tea into a delicate china cup.

Graham looked up, a bit startled, then gave a sheepish smile. "He’ll have a—"

"Yes, yes," Liam interjected, his voice full of playful sarcasm. "A straw hat with a green ribbon and paper flower. You've said that already. But what do you really know about him?"

Graham shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling a little exposed under Liam’s questioning gaze. He had come to their house under the pretense of looking for a lost sheep, though it was really just an excuse to visit. The truth was, he had wanted to tell them about the wedding, to ask if they would be his guests. He had been putting it off for days, unsure how to broach the subject, but now it was time. After the initial surprise, Liam and Ronan had readily agreed to come, and Liam had insisted that Graham sit down for a cup of tea.

"I know he’s tired of city life," Graham said slowly, thinking back to Ciarán’s words. "He has a father still living, though I’m not sure where. He must like drawing, because he’s sent me a lot of sketches. And he’s Irish."

Liam’s face lit up instantly at the mention of Ireland. "Ah! Well, if he’s Irish, then you’ve made a good decision! Nothing like an Irish husband, eh?" He slapped Ronan on the shoulder with affectionate humor. Ronan, who was quieter than either of them, nodded slightly, taking another bite of his biscuit. His massive hand settled over Liam’s, a silent reassurance that spoke more than words could.

Graham smiled, grateful for the ease with which they accepted his news. But then Liam turned to him with an excited glint in his eye. "I’ll bake some things for the wedding. A nice soda bread. And a pie—though what kind? Hmm, I’ll figure it out. It’s the crust that’s all the work, not the filling. You can’t go wrong with a good crust, right?"

"You don’t have to bring anything," Graham said, though he already knew it wouldn’t be easy to convince Liam otherwise.

"Nonsense," Liam said, waving him off. "What’s a wedding without food? You’ll be having a reception, won’t you?"

Graham blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion. "I didn’t—"

"Yes, I know," Liam said, cutting him off. "You’ve been busy. You’ve got a lot on your plate. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it all planned. I’m fairly good at organizing these things, aren’t I, fear céile?"

Ronan drained his teacup, setting it down with a gentle clink before replying in soft, measured tones, "Sea, tá sé amhlaidh, mo ghrá." His Irish was thick with affection, as always.

Liam beamed, kissing the top of Ronan’s head. "There you are. A ringing endorsement."

Graham tried not to laugh, but it was hard not to feel the warmth of the moment. Liam had a way of making everything seem easy, of taking over the responsibilities others might hesitate to tackle. It was impossible to say no to him.

Before he left, Graham found himself overwhelmed, though in the best way. Liam had, without asking, taken charge of the wedding reception, promising to bake the bread, make the pie, and ensure the guests were fed. He had even insisted on bringing a few small gifts. It was both touching and a little overwhelming, but it was clear that Liam took immense pride in being part of this new chapter of Graham’s life.

As he left Liam and Ronan’s house, three warm biscuits with raspberry jam tucked carefully into his jacket pocket, Graham felt both comforted and bewildered. The weight of the upcoming wedding felt heavier now, more real. It wasn’t just his responsibility anymore—it was something shared.

◆◆◆

Before he went to see the priest, Graham made one final stop by the post office. The bell above the door jingled as he entered, and he found himself greeted by the warm sound of Oscar’s deep voice, laughing at something Mrs. Fournier had said. The two were standing near the counter, chatting amiably, as Mrs. Fournier adjusted the folds of her skirts. Her youngest child, a small girl with soft baby fat still lingering around her cheeks, stood at her side. The little girl wore a purple dress and a matching bonnet, both adorned with ribbons of the same color, and she clutched a fistful of her mother’s skirt in her chubby hand, swishing the material back and forth as though it were some grand piece of fabric that deserved her attention.

As soon as she saw Graham, the little girl’s face lit up, and she broke into a toothy, exuberant smile. “Hi, Mr. Shepherd!” she called out brightly, her voice full of uncontainable enthusiasm.

Graham tipped his hat politely, still a little surprised by her forthrightness, but smiled nonetheless. “Ma’am. Miss. Oscar.” His eyes moved from Mrs. Fournier’s face, where her smile mirrored the one of her daughter’s, to Oscar, who was watching him with a slight grin of his own.

“Well, hello again, Graham! I rarely see you so often,” Mrs. Fournier said, raising her eyebrows in mild surprise. “What brings you to town today?”

Graham hesitated for a moment, a wave of sudden nervousness overtaking him. His thoughts were already racing, and he could feel his face warming as he gathered his thoughts. This wasn’t how he imagined announcing something as personal as a wedding, but the words had already formed in his mind, and he wasn’t going to back out now.

“Actually—” he cleared his throat, his voice still slightly rough. “Lucky you’re all here right now. My—wedding is going to be in a—uh, a couple of days. I was wondering if you’d like to come. That, is, you, Oscar. And you and the family, ma’am.”

The words felt strange even as they left his lips, but they hung in the air for a moment. Mrs. Fournier and Oscar exchanged a surprised glance, their expressions shifting between shock and delight. But before either of them could speak, the little girl, Adeline, clapped her hands together and let out a gleeful cry, her voice ringing with excitement.

“A wedding! Mama, please, a wedding!” she practically danced in place, as if she were already imagining the cake and ribbons and all the sweet things weddings were known for. Her enthusiasm was enough to melt any lingering hesitation in Graham’s heart.

“I understand if you can’t,” Graham began, suddenly flustered by the unexpected attention. “I sprung this on you late and all,” he added quickly, though he immediately regretted his words. Why was he apologizing? These were people who had been kind to him. It was only right to ask them.

But before he could retract his words, Mrs. Fournier smiled broadly. “Oh, Graham, of course we’ll come,” she said, her tone warm and welcoming. “I need to get out of that shop more, anyhow. And I want to see what this man of yours is like.” Her voice carried a hint of playful curiosity, as if she were already imagining the man who had managed to capture Graham’s interest.

Oscar nodded in agreement, his easy smile never fading. “Yes, I’d love to,” he said sincerely. “Thank you, Graham, for thinking of me.”

Graham smiled gratefully. Why wouldn’t he invite Oscar? The man had been his steady companion on those Friday afternoons when the long hours of the week grew too heavy, and he’d always been generous with his time. And then there was Mrs. Fournier, who had not only helped him with his purchases but had also given him a thoughtful wedding gift—a kindness that was hard to repay.

Adeline, bouncing on her feet and nearly glowing with excitement, interrupted the adults’ exchange with a question that had clearly been on her mind. “It’s nice that you’re getting married. I’ve never been to a wedding before! Will you have sweets?” Her wide eyes shone with eager expectation.

“Adeline!” Mrs. Fournier admonished gently, though there was no real severity in her voice. She was clearly amused by her daughter’s curiosity. The child was only four, maybe five, but her enthusiasm was contagious.

Graham couldn’t help but laugh at the girl’s unbridled excitement. She was so fresh and untainted by the reservations that often came with age. He knelt down a little, smiling at her in return. “Well,” he said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. “It’ll be even more special then. The first wedding you’ve ever attended.”

Adeline clapped her hands together, her face alight with glee. “Ooooh, thank you!” she exclaimed, before bouncing back to her mother’s side and tugging at her skirts again, her mind already drifting to the sweets and celebrations.

Graham’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he thought about what he could provide for the reception. “I know there’ll be some kind of pie, at least,” he added thoughtfully, his mind now turning to the food as he imagined the small gathering of guests. He chuckled when Adeline’s eyes grew wide and she clapped with excitement, her earlier question now answered.

“Well, that sounds good,” Mrs. Fournier said with a knowing smile. “I’ll make sure we’re there. And I’m sure Adeline will be just as thrilled to have pie as she is to see a wedding.”

Graham stood up, still grinning. “Thank you,” he said to both Mrs. Fournier and Oscar. He felt his shoulders relax, the weight of his earlier anxiety beginning to fade away. Having them there, at the wedding, felt like the right thing. He wasn’t sure why he had been so nervous. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to judge him. It was, after all, a celebration. A new beginning.

◆◆◆

The day of the wedding arrived, and in a few hours so would Graham’s husband-to-be. He hitched Ginger to the buggy and rode to the train station, heart pounding in his chest. At various points along the way he stopped beside the dirt road and just—

Breathed.

Wasn’t as bad as it used to be. When the war ended and his leg had pained him something terrible Graham had sometimes just lost himself in panic for no reason at all, suddenly overcome by dread, sought out a quiet place to shiver and cry with the desperation of a man in the desert crawling toward an oasis.

Now, at least, he had reason to panic. His first meeting with the man he was going to marry. Knees bent, palms on his thighs, he breathed in and out and in and out, slow and steady, trying to curb his fear. The train would not derail into fiery mass of melted and twisted metal, its passengers would not find themselves beset by bandits and outlaws, and Ciarán would come. He had said so in his letter. He had written his father to tell him he would be living with Graham. It would be okay. It would all work out.

Eventually his blurred vision cleared. He sniffled and wiped his eyes. As he straightened up, calmer but a little flushed, Graham noticed wildflowers dotting the field. Bright and blossoming and lovely, just like in Ciarán’s sketches. The petals were soft between his fingers.

Graham gently plucked one, and then another, and another, until he had a veritable bouquet. Butter yellows, sunrise reds, the blue of deep, clear water, the white of sheared, cleaned wool—Graham held all the colors in his hands, marveled at their freshness, their vibrancy, and then carefully stowed the flowers in his bag. A welcoming present for Ciarán.

◆◆◆

At the train station, Graham waited and watched. He wasn’t alone in his vigil; the bustling platform was alive with others engaged in their own stories. A woman in a sharp navy suit impatiently checked her pocket watch, the sharp snap of its case echoing above the low hum of conversation. A frazzled man with three small children struggled to shepherd them onto one of the wooden benches, their shrill giggles contrasting with his tired sighs. Nearby, someone fanned themselves with such fervor that their face was obscured by the blur of motion, their bright paper fan a whirl of color.

And yet, among the crowd, Graham stood apart—not physically, but in his purpose. He was the only one clutching a bouquet of flowers, the stems pressed awkwardly to his chest, and he felt the weight of his self-consciousness as if the flowers themselves had grown heavy with judgment. He always felt exposed in public, as though every eye was on him, dissecting his presence, measuring him against some inscrutable standard. Now, with the added pressure of awaiting Ciarán’s arrival, the sensation was nearly unbearable.

What if he didn’t make the right impression? What if Ciarán didn’t show at all? The mere thought of waiting in vain, his loneliness so plainly displayed, made his palms sweat. Graham gritted his teeth and pushed the spiraling doubts aside. Ciarán had written such kind, thoughtful letters. The man was as good as his word, Graham reminded himself. He just had to hold on to that faith.

The tracks began to hum beneath the station, a low vibration that grew into a rhythmic clatter. The train’s whistle cut through the air, sharp and commanding, scattering idle chatter into excited murmurs. Around him, people straightened, craning their necks, eager to greet loved ones or secure a coveted seat on the departing train.

Graham stayed seated, his back rigid, and tightened his grip on the bouquet. His heart pounded in time with the metallic screech of the train’s brakes as it pulled into the station. Sparks flew briefly as the wheels ground to a halt, and then the passengers began to disembark—a chaotic, almost celebratory exodus.

The man with the three children found a woman in a bustling gown, and the children squealed in delight as they mobbed her, their joyous reunion drawing smiles from the bystanders. Elsewhere, parents lifted children from the train steps, their laughter ringing out as luggage was juggled and hugs exchanged. Businessmen in fine suits strode onto the train, paying little heed to the scenes of connection around them.

Graham scanned the crowd, his gaze darting between hats and faces. His heart caught when he spotted a telltale sign—a large paper rose, folded expertly from a newspaper page, nestled in the ribbon of a slightly battered straw hat. The green ribbon swayed as its wearer turned his head, chatting animatedly with a porter as he retrieved his bag.

That had to be him. Graham rose to his feet, his mouth suddenly dry.

“There you are, Mr. Ryan,” the porter said, handing over a well-worn suitcase.

“Thank you,” the young man replied, his voice soft and high, the lilting Irish accent confirming his identity. “I really appreciate it. You’ve been—oh!” His words broke off as his gaze met Graham’s, and his eyes widened.

For a moment, Graham could only stare, rooted in place. His gaze lingered on the hat, the paper flower that had been described so fondly in letters, before finally drifting to the young man’s face. He was younger than Graham had expected—so much younger. His letters had carried a maturity that belied the youth standing before him now. Graham couldn’t help but think of the boys he had served with in the war, barely out of their teens.

Ciarán was slight, with wild brown curls escaping the confines of his hat and a face dotted with freckles. His dark honey-colored eyes were wide with nervous energy, and when he smiled tentatively, Graham was struck by how unexpectedly beautiful it was.

“Mr. Shepherd?” Ciarán’s voice was tentative, his hand adjusting the brim of his hat.

“Graham,” he corrected gruffly, his tongue feeling clumsy. He thrust the bouquet forward, the gesture abrupt and almost clumsy. “You can call me Graham.”

Ciarán’s cheeks turned a soft pink as he accepted the flowers, his long fingers grazing Graham’s briefly. “Oh—thank you! These are lovely.” He held the bouquet close, inhaling deeply. “I—thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

The train station seemed to blur around them, its noise and bustle fading into the background. Graham’s focus narrowed entirely to the man standing before him, his cheeks pink from the crisp spring air or perhaps something more.

The church bells in the distance struck the hour, jolting Graham back to reality. He cleared his throat. “We should get going.”

Ciarán nodded, his smile growing a little steadier. “Of course. Do I—do I look all right for my own wedding?” His laugh was soft and self-conscious, his hands fidgeting with the ribbon of his hat.

Truth be told, Graham’s gaze hadn’t strayed from Ciarán’s face since he’d first laid eyes on him. Every freckle, every subtle movement of his lips as he spoke, seemed like a small revelation. But, realizing he’d been staring too long, Graham forced himself to glance over Ciarán’s clothes. The young man was dressed neatly, in a crisp, white, collared, long-sleeved shirt and a dark green waistcoat. The color suited him, Graham thought, and he felt a quiet satisfaction knowing that the green coat waiting at the house might also please his new companion. Ciarán’s black trousers and freshly shined shoes spoke of care and effort, though Graham suspected they were not new.

“You don’t even look like you’ve been on a train for near a week,” Graham said, his voice as gruff as ever but warm with approval.

“I made sure to freshen up! I changed before we pulled into the station,” Ciarán replied, his cheeks coloring again with that endearing pink flush that Graham was quickly becoming fond of. “You look very handsome, Mr. Shepherd. I mean, um, Graham.”

Graham smiled faintly at the compliment, though it was more polite than accurate. His suit, a readymade one bought for the occasion, fit poorly on his broad, muscular frame. The jacket was tight around his shoulders, the trousers straining at his thighs. Suits weren’t made for men like him—men who had spent their lives working hard in fields and barns, their bodies shaped by labor. He was far more at ease in a work shirt and jeans, but he had made the effort, and hearing Ciarán’s kind words made it feel worthwhile.

“This way,” he said, gesturing for Ciarán to follow as they exited the station. Outside, Ginger stood patiently hitched to the buggy, her chestnut coat gleaming in the afternoon light.

“She’s a very lovely horse,” Ciarán said, his voice full of genuine admiration.

Graham stepped forward, holding out a hand to help him climb into the buggy. As Ciarán’s hand rested in his, Graham noticed its long, graceful fingers—hands that seemed made for something delicate, like playing a piano or painting. Just as he had imagined, they were the hands of an artist. He must have lingered on the thought too long, though, because Ciarán blushed again, his lashes lowering as he glanced away.

The young man blushed so prettily, Graham thought, hauling the luggage onto the buggy. Ciarán wasn’t fragile—there was a sturdiness to him, a quiet strength—but he was smaller than Graham, as most people were. Still, there was something about him that struck Graham as vibrant and lovely, like the wildflowers he held so carefully in his lap.

Clearing his throat, Graham tried to explain himself. “I—uh. Was looking at your hands.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced internally. What a thing to say. “We need to go to the jeweler’s first,” he added quickly. “Didn’t want to buy a ring and not have it fit on the wedding day.”

“Oh, of course,” Ciarán replied, his tone light but still tinged with shyness.

The buggy wasn’t particularly spacious, and as they began the journey along the uneven dirt road, their legs brushed, their shoulders occasionally bumping. Graham’s awareness of Ciarán beside him felt magnified, each small contact setting his nerves on edge. He had longed to talk to Ciarán for months through their letters, imagining all the things he would say once they were finally together. Now, with the young man sitting so close, the words seemed to evaporate.

“Long trip for you,” Graham said at last, grasping for conversation.

“It was,” Ciarán replied, his face lighting up. “But I thought it was quite exciting! I spent most of my time looking out the window. Someone told me it might upset my stomach, but I couldn’t help it. Traveling from one part of the country to another—it was all so new to me! And I didn’t get sick, not even once. My appetite was fine.” He paused, his cheeks flushing slightly before he continued, “Oh, the food! The meals in the dining car were so fine. And the Harvey Houses! What a peculiar thing, having the same menu at every stop. I tried something different each time.”

His enthusiasm was infectious, and Graham found himself smiling. “Sounds like you had quite the experience.”

“I did!” Ciarán nodded, then hesitated. “And I still have the change you sent me.”

“The change?” Graham asked, frowning slightly. “You didn’t spend it all?”

“No! You were so generous to send the ticket money, and—well, I didn’t want to waste it. I brought sandwiches, too, so I didn’t always buy meals.” He glanced at Graham, his wide eyes full of concern. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—did you want me to—?”

“Don’t apologize,” Graham said firmly, his chest tightening. The thought of Ciarán rationing his food during the journey made him feel both protective and guilty. He should have been clearer in his letters. “Did you eat today?”

Ciarán hesitated, then admitted softly, “No. I was just too excited about… the wedding. I couldn’t eat a thing.”

Relief flooded Graham as he remembered that Liam, ever practical, had ensured their wedding reception would include plenty of food. “There’ll be pie,” he said. “Afterwards.”

Ciarán’s shy smile returned, radiant as the wildflowers in his lap. “What kind?”

Graham’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. “It’s a secret.”

◆◆◆

Graham was no stranger to town now. Ever since he’d posted his ad in The Matrimonial Journal, he’d made it a habit to show up every Friday like clockwork. In the past two weeks, his visits had become even more frequent as he scrambled to prepare for the wedding. Every shopkeeper, merchant, and rancher in Larkspur knew his broad shoulders and quiet demeanor, but today, riding into town with a stranger seated beside him, he drew more than the usual nods and greetings.

The stranger wasn’t just anyone, after all. He was a handsome, well-dressed young man, and their arrival together sent whispers flying. People paused mid-step, staring openly as Graham hitched Ginger to a post outside the row of stores.

“This is a very pretty town, too,” Ciarán said, his gaze roaming over the neatly painted shopfronts, the flower-lined sidewalks, and the distant view of the surrounding hills. His expression was alight with curiosity and warmth, and when Graham helped him down from the buggy, he smiled. “Thank you, Graham.”

“It must be a lot different from New York,” Graham remarked, his voice low but steady.

“Yes, but that’s not a bad thing,” Ciarán replied, his smile softening into something thoughtful. “In the city, things are always so busy—noisy, crowded, fast-paced. This feels more like…” He hesitated, then added, “Like where I grew up. In Ireland.”

The comparison warmed Graham’s chest, though he didn’t let it show. The idea that Ciarán already felt at ease in Larkspur, that the town reminded him of home, pleased him more than he expected.

Their destination was the jeweler’s shop, a small building wedged between Mrs. Fournier’s general store and the tailor’s. Graham had passed it a hundred times before but had never gone inside. Until now, there had been no reason.

Inside, the shop was cozy, its walls lined with wooden shelves and glass cases displaying delicate chains, polished cufflinks, and rows of rings. Graham glanced around, vaguely aware of Ciarán exchanging greetings with the clerk.

“Hello there!” the woman behind the counter said brightly. “What can I help you with today? We’ve just gotten a new order of chains for pocket watches, if you’re interested.”

Ciarán smiled, polite but a little nervous. “I’m sure they’re lovely, but actually, we were looking for, um, wedding rings.”

“Oh, how exciting! When is the wedding?”

“Today,” Ciarán blurted, his cheeks coloring. He glanced at Graham for reassurance. “Um, right after we get our rings. Right, Graham?”

Graham, who had been examining a necklace of amethysts and pearls, looked up. “Right.”

“Right,” the clerk echoed, blinking but recovering quickly. “Well, let’s see what we can find for you. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

Ciarán hesitated, glancing at Graham again. “W-well. I don’t want anything ostentatious. Just something simple. But I’d prefer gold to silver. It seems, um, warmer to me? Do you agree with that, Graham?”

Gold. Graham hadn’t considered it before, but the idea settled easily. Gold would suit Ciarán’s warm brown eyes, his freckles, his sun-kissed complexion. It would look right on his long, elegant fingers—those hands Graham had noticed and admired, which seemed made for artistry. He realized he’d been quiet too long and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Get whatever you like best.”

“But what do you think?” Ciarán pressed, his brows furrowed.

“I’m not much of a—jewelry person,” Graham admitted, feeling awkward. “I trust you. Pick out something we’ll both like.”

Ciarán nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I will.”

As the clerk laid out trays of gold bands, Ciarán leaned forward, studying each design with care. Graham, however, couldn’t take his eyes off him. This was the man who had answered his ad. The man who had sent letter after letter filled with words so tender and sketches so detailed they had made Graham feel as if he were being seen for the first time in years. And now, here he was—real, tangible, and beautiful.

Ciarán’s brows furrowed in concentration, his delicate fingers tracing over each ring as he weighed his decision. Graham felt an uncharacteristic surge of nerves, the kind he hadn’t felt since boyhood. It was the same feeling he’d had when he’d shared his lunch with another boy at school, hoping for nothing more than a kind word and some company.

Lord, how he wanted Ciarán to like him. Not just now, but always. He wanted him to want to stay.

“I—I think these ones,” Ciarán said finally, holding up a pair of gold bands with an intricate leaf-and-vine pattern. “It’s a pretty design, isn’t it?”

Graham barely glanced at the rings before his eyes returned to Ciarán’s face. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Real pretty.”

The clerk boxed the rings with a cheerful, “Enjoy the day! And your wedding!”

Their next stop was the church. It wasn’t an especially grand building—just a modest white structure with a teal roof and a small bell tower. But as they approached, Ciarán gasped in delight, his eyes shining as if it were a cathedral.

Ginger was set beneath the shade of a tree with a bucket of fresh water and a couple of apples to keep her content. Graham, his hand resting in his pocket to feel the reassuring weight of the rings, turned to Ciarán.

“Ready?” he asked.

Ciarán hesitated, then searched his bouquet. Carefully, he plucked a single white daisy and tucked it into the lapel of Graham’s suit. His hand lingered, and when he looked up, he smiled—a soft, private smile that felt like a promise.

“Okay,” Ciarán said. “I’m ready now.”

Graham returned the smile, his chest tight with a feeling he couldn’t quite name, and pushed open the church door.