Page 4

When the church was first built, the entire town of Larkspur could fit inside of it. Back then, the town was a fledgling settlement, its population consisting of a few pioneering families, trappers, and hunters scattered about, and a handful of young, unattached dreamers hoping to carve out a future. The simple white church had been both a sanctuary and a gathering place, its humble pews accommodating the entire community.

By the time Graham arrived in Larkspur, the town had grown significantly. While it could hardly be called a city, its dirt roads often bustled with wagons, horses, and townsfolk going about their lives. On certain days, especially market days, Larkspur’s main street hummed with activity. Today, however, it seemed that a good portion of the bustling had funneled directly into the church, and as Graham stepped inside with Ciarán at his side, he was struck by how full the small building was.

The pews were crowded with faces both familiar and less so, a sea of curious smiles and warm gazes. Graham recognized the priest standing patiently at the altar, his hands clasped in quiet readiness. On one side of the church sat Liam, Ronan, Oscar, and Mrs. Fournier, who appeared to have brought not only her household but her entire extended family. The benches were crammed with her cousins, uncles, and a great-aunt or two, all craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the proceedings.

On the opposite side were townsfolk Graham recognized more by sight than by name. Near the front, he spotted Mrs. Murray, who had purchased sheep from him and Liam last spring, and Mr. Doherty from the mill. It dawned on him, with growing amazement, that Liam had likely invited every Irish family in the area to the wedding. Graham had expected a quiet ceremony with only a few witnesses, but it seemed word had spread far and wide.

He glanced down at Ciarán, who gazed at the crowd with a mixture of surprise and delight. His dark eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed pink, and the sight of him made Graham’s heart feel uncomfortably full.

Together, they walked arm-in-arm down the aisle, each step steady but slow, as if drawn forward by an unseen hand. The soft murmur of the congregation quieted, replaced by the low rustle of clothing and the creak of wooden pews as everyone turned to watch.

At the altar, the priest greeted them with a warm smile and began the ceremony. Graham listened to his words, though the meaning of them blurred at the edges. His focus narrowed to the man at his side—Ciarán, who stood close enough for Graham to feel the warmth of him, his freckled face upturned, his expression a mixture of calm and nervous energy.

When the time came, they mumbled their "I do's," their voices small and bashful under the weight of so many eyes. They exchanged rings with care, Graham fumbling only slightly as he slipped the band onto Ciarán’s slender finger. He marveled at the feel of Ciarán’s hands—soft but with faint callouses, an artist’s hands, gentle yet capable. The gold ring gleamed against his complexion, the carved vine pattern catching the light, and Graham felt a swell of pride.

“You may kiss your groom,” the priest finally said, his tone kind but expectant.

The kiss. Graham blinked, his breath catching as he met Ciarán’s gaze. His new husband—his husband—smiled at him warmly, clutching his bouquet to his chest. Graham hesitated. The idea of a kiss, even one so simple, felt like an enormous leap. Marrying a man after exchanging a handful of letters was one thing; kissing him, truly bridging the gap between acquaintance and intimacy, was another.

Swallowing nervously, Graham stepped closer and placed his hands on Ciarán’s shoulders. He leaned in, his heart pounding, and pressed a kiss to the corner of Ciarán’s mouth—a cautious, fleeting touch.

The guests erupted into applause, whistles, and cheers. Graham pulled back, his face burning, only to find that Ciarán looked just as shy and sheepish as he felt. They were, at least, well-matched in their awkwardness.

As the noise settled, Liam rose from his seat near the front. His booming voice carried over the crowd. “Alright now, come along! We’ve got a reception set up for the two of you. Time to eat and celebrate.”

The promise of food and festivities lightened the atmosphere, and the guests began to rise, their laughter and chatter filling the space. Graham turned to Ciarán and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Ciarán squeezed back, his grip firm but gentle, his smile small and genuine.

◆◆◆

The area behind the church was nothing short of idyllic, a place where nature seemed to collaborate in celebration. The grass was lush and green, soft underfoot, and the tall trees offered shade that danced with the sunlight filtering through their leaves. Over the years, the space had seen quilting bees, lively box socials, and countless wedding receptions. Now, it bore witness to another union—and, as it turned out, its most extravagant feast yet.

Graham’s eyes widened as he took in the long tables, groaning under the weight of plates piled high with food and pitchers filled with drink. “You said you were going to make some bread and a pie,” he said, turning to Liam.

His neighbor snorted, arms crossed in mock indignation. “And I did. They’re over there. I just thought a few extra things wouldn’t hurt.”

True to his word, there was a golden loaf of soda bread served with fresh butter, so yellow it was practically glowing, and a large pie with a sugary crust that smelled of cinnamon and sweet apples. But that was only the beginning. Beside them was a savory chicken pot pie, steaming gently under a flaky crust, and an assortment of sandwiches: some delicate and crustless, filled with cucumbers and herbs, while others were heartier, layered with thick slices of meat and cheese.

Children ran about with glasses of lemonade, their lips sticky and their laughter loud. Meanwhile, the adults gravitated toward a separate pitcher of lemonade that carried a decidedly stronger aroma, though more than one sharp-eyed parent was quick to reprimand any older child who tried to sneak a sip.

On one table sat a plate of wedges that looked like thick pancakes, and Graham might have passed it by if Ciarán hadn’t pointed them out with a delighted cry. “Oh, Graham, look—fadge!” His grin was so bright that Graham nodded, even though he had no idea what fadge was, and simply smiled back at his husband’s excitement.

But nothing Graham had seen—or smelled—could compare to the wedding cake.

“Oh!” Ciarán’s exclamation was almost a gasp as he caught sight of it. His hands clasped over his chest, and his dark eyes shimmered with unrestrained delight. “It’s so lovely!”

Liam, Mrs. Fournier, and Adeline stood beside the cake like proud artists unveiling their masterpiece. It was two tiers tall, covered in a snowy-white icing that carried the subtle fragrance of orange blossom. Brightly colored flowers—red, yellow, blue, orange, and purple—decorated the sides and crowned the top of the tiers.

“It wouldn’t all fit in my oven,” Liam admitted, his chest puffed out as though the challenge had been a badge of honor, “so Celeste very kindly let me use hers.”

“I helped decorate!” Adeline piped up, bouncing on her heels. Then, with a slight pout, she added, “The recipe called for blush roses, but we didn’t have any. Only the violets and nasturtiums.”

Ciarán leaned down to her level, his smile warm and reassuring. “Well, thank goodness for that! Otherwise, I’d never have seen such a beautiful cake. I love nasturtiums and violets—they’re so colorful and cheerful.”

Adeline’s face lit up. “You do? I picked the best ones myself! And Mama helped me candy them, so you can eat them too!”

Mrs. Fournier handed Ciarán the knife with a beaming smile. “Go on now, my dear. Cut the first slice. I promise you, it’s even better than it looks.”

Graham wasn’t sure if the cake was as miraculous as everyone claimed or if the magic of the moment colored his perception, but when Ciarán turned to him with the knife in hand and a hopeful look, his heart skipped a beat.

“Graham—won’t you help me with it?”

Without hesitation, Graham stepped to his husband’s side. His larger hand rested gently over Ciarán’s as they guided the knife together, slicing into the top tier. The crowd leaned forward with anticipation, a ripple of excitement coursing through the guests as the first slice was lifted free and handed to an eager child. They worked side by side, cutting and serving, first the children, then the adults, until only a single large slice remained, meant for the two of them to share.

The crowd erupted in cheers when Ciarán took the first bite, his face lighting up with delight as he tasted it. Another, louder cheer followed when he offered a forkful to Graham, who opened his mouth only to have the cake gently popped past his lips before he could take it himself.

The flavor was extraordinary. The icing was light, sweet, and fragrant with oranges, while the cake itself was moist and rich, studded with cherries, raisins, and flecks of citrus peel. Notes of brandy and warm spices—cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves—lingered on his tongue, blending the freshness of summer with the comforting warmth of autumn.

“It’s good,” Graham mumbled around the bite, his voice gruff but sincere.

Ciarán laughed softly, his cheeks pink. “I think so, too.”

And as they stood together under the shade of the trees, sharing that single slice of cake, Graham thought he’d never tasted anything sweeter than the sight of his husband’s smile.

◆◆◆

It was, from what Graham could tell, an entirely successful wedding reception. The air hummed with laughter, conversation, and the sounds of joyful feet skimming over the makeshift dance floor. People talked in close circles, their smiles wide and unguarded, and they danced in pairs or groups, hands clasped or twirling freely. Most importantly, Ciarán seemed comfortable, happy, and completely at ease—a remarkable state for a man who had just spent a week on a train to marry someone he had never met before. The oddity of the situation might have unsettled anyone else, but not Ciarán. Perhaps that was why he seemed utterly unflappable, even in the face of the town’s more eccentric residents.

At some point during the evening, Ronan—who was even quieter than Graham most days—was nudged and cajoled by his husband and a few others into giving a speech. Rising to his full height, his broad frame commanding attention, he took a deep breath. His voice, deep and rumbling like a bear’s growl, filled the air as he said, “Comhghairdeas leis na leanaí nua. Go líonfar do chuid ama le chéile le sonas. Buíochas le Dia as nuachtáin agus traenacha.”

The toast brought a ripple of laughter, applause, and some knowing cheers. Among them, Mr. Fournier, who had stopped by earlier to shake hands with both Ciarán and Graham, clapped the loudest and hollered his approval.

“You know Irish?” Graham asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Mr. Fournier grinned, his face alight with mischief. “No, can’t say that I do. But I think I caught the drift.”

Later, as the festivities rolled on, an elderly man with a snow-white beard approached their table. He didn’t seem as interested in offering congratulations as he was in inspecting the newly arrived groom.

“And where are you from, lad?” he asked, squinting at Ciarán.

“Kilmannán, sir,” Ciarán replied evenly.

The name sparked recognition in the man’s sharp eyes. Stroking his beard thoughtfully, he murmured, “Kilmannán, eh? I know of the place. Wouldn’t happen to know the Foley family, would you? Thomas Foley, their patriarch—older than me, even.”

Ciarán smiled, his tone measured and polite. “I can’t say that I’ve ever associated with the Foleys, sir.”

The old man let out a delighted bark of laughter, slapping his knee. “Excellent, excellent. I could tell you were a good one the moment I laid eyes on you. The tales I could tell you about that family! Speaking of, we’ll have to have you over for tea once you’ve settled in. Mr. Shepherd, you’ve married a fine young lad.”

“I know,” Graham managed, still bewildered by the man’s energy.

Ciarán, meanwhile, looked as though he were biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Throughout the evening, people filtered to their table bearing congratulations, warm welcomes, and gifts. Three bolts of fabric, a gleaming new pot, a basket of crabapples—“Perfect for jelly,” they were assured—a jar of gumdrops purchased with Adeline’s allowance. The little girl beamed as Ciarán thanked her with genuine enthusiasm, making her blush and shuffle her feet. Their table groaned under the weight of the guests’ generosity, and Graham silently wondered how they would fit everything into the buggy for the trip home.

Mr. Fournier, ever the showman, played the fiddle with the confidence of someone born with the strings in his hands. He sang as he played, laughed as he sang, and danced as he played, coaxing out songs so lively that Mrs. Fournier giggled and blushed like a courting girl when he made a show of serenading her. Their children wailed in mock dismay, Adeline throwing an arm dramatically over her eyes and crying, “Mama! Papa! Act modestly!” sending everyone into fits of laughter.

Others, too, indulged in the festive spirit. Liam and Ronan, perhaps emboldened by drink or simply caught up in the magic of the evening, shared slices of sweets, feeding each other with an intimacy that left Liam grinning and Ronan murmuring low words in Irish. Their quiet exchange, though incomprehensible to Graham, earned a choked spray of lemonade from Oscar and a scandalized flush on Ciarán’s face that rivaled the sunset. Graham didn’t need to know the words to catch their meaning—it was immodest enough to make even the unflappable Ciarán shy.

Watching the couples around him, Graham felt a pang of longing. They weren’t in love, not yet, but wasn’t he allowed to indulge in a moment of closeness with his husband? The thought grew in him until he leaned closer and asked, “Do you want to dance, Ciarán?”

Ciarán hesitated, glancing at the others. “Oh, I—well, I’m a bit tired, and we’ve just eaten. I don’t think I’d be very light on my feet.”

Graham smiled gently. “No one is. But do you want to dance?”

Ciarán looked up at him, his blue eyes wide and uncertain but bright with something else—a quiet, unspoken yes. “I would,” he whispered. “If you want to, Graham.”

“I do.”

He led Ciarán to a cooler, quieter patch of grass, giving them space for Graham’s sturdy steps and Ciarán’s effortless grace. It didn’t take long for Ciarán to take the lead, his movements fluid and confident, his guidance gentle but sure.

“Not light on your feet?” Graham teased, a lopsided grin spreading across his face.

Ciarán laughed softly. “Oh, well—I do very much like to dance.”

Graham tucked that little fact away, making a mental note to remember it. He wanted to know everything about Ciarán, every like, every dislike, every small detail that made up the man who had changed his life with a single yes. If he could make Ciarán half as happy as he felt in this moment, it would be enough.

◆◆◆

By the time the reception was finally winding down, most of the food had been eaten—thank God. The buggy was so full of gifts that some of them had spilled over onto the seats, and they had to arrange them carefully to avoid losing anything. Not all of it fit, of course; a few bolts of fabric had to be unraveled and draped across Ginger’s back, and Graham couldn’t help but worry they might end up smelling like horse before they could air out properly. But Ciarán, ever calm and reassuring, insisted that it would all be fine after a little airing.

They made their way through a final round of thank-yous, shaking hands repeatedly as guests gathered their coats and made their way to their own homes. Liam, ever the spirited one, called out with a grin, “I expect you both over for dinner soon. Don’t be strangers, now.”

“Of course!” Ciarán had replied, his voice bright, a hint of laughter in it.

And then, with the last of the well-wishers headed off to their own homes, it was time to leave for their own. Their ranch. Everything that had once belonged only to Graham, every corner of it, was now also Ciarán’s. The house with its creaky floorboards, the barn filled with livestock, the fields stretching out as far as the eye could see, even the chickens in their coop—they were all his too now.

Graham, lost in his thoughts, hoped Ciarán would like it.

The journey back was peaceful, but quiet. Ciarán sat beside him, his hands folded delicately in his lap, the jar of gumdrops that Adeline had given them resting there like a treasure. From time to time, he leaned ever so slightly against Graham, his head turned to look at the fading light outside the buggy’s canopy. Graham’s thoughts, though, were on something else.

“I have—something else for you,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

Ciarán looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Really?” he asked, his fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the jar.

“Yeah. Just for you,” Graham said, his voice unsteady with a mix of excitement and nerves.

“Thank you,” Ciarán murmured softly, but there was warmth in his tone that Graham hadn’t expected. “You’ve already given me so much.”

“Well,” Graham said, a bit sheepishly, “you haven’t seen it yet.”

When they arrived at the ranch, it was dark, the silhouettes of the land barely visible against the stars. It might have been better this way. Tomorrow, when the sun rose, he’d show Ciarán the animals, the flowers—the life they would begin building together. But tonight, tonight they could settle in, just the two of them, in their new home.

After helping Ciarán down from the buggy and leading Ginger to the stable, Graham turned back to find his husband waiting for him by the house, the jar of gumdrops held tightly to his chest like a child with a beloved toy.

“Did you want me to go in?” Ciarán asked hesitantly. “I didn’t want to go in without you. Um, sorry, I—”

“No, it’s—my fault,” Graham quickly responded, feeling a strange, inexplicable pang in his chest. “I should’ve—said something. We can go in now. Together.”

They stood there for a moment, facing each other, unsure of what to do next, but both silently understanding that this was the beginning of something far greater than either of them had imagined. Finally, Graham cleared his throat, opening the door and stepping inside.

On the kitchen table, amidst the soft light of a single candle, sat the tea set.

Graham had agonized over picking it, worrying that he might have chosen wrong. There were so many patterns to choose from, so many styles, some ornate, others austere. But when he saw the pansy design—simple, elegant, with delicate blue blooms surrounding each cup and saucer, a golden trim dancing around the edges—he knew it was the one.

But now, standing there, watching Ciarán’s quiet gaze fall upon the set, a familiar doubt crept up inside Graham. He had spent so much time choosing the right gift, but what if it wasn’t enough? “Wasn’t sure what you’d like best,” he muttered. “I could return it if you don’t—”

“No!” Ciarán’s voice was immediate, almost scandalized. “No, please—I love it! It’s beautiful. It’s all... so beautiful. Thank you, Graham. I didn’t expect this. I don’t even know what I expected, but certainly not for you to go through all this trouble for me.”

Graham’s heart skipped a beat. “I promised I would take care of you,” he said softly.

“You did,” Ciarán responded, his voice gentle but full of emotion. “Thank you, Graham.”

Graham looked down, feeling a little embarrassed. “I ought to thank you some,” he muttered, but Ciarán shook his head.

“You’ve already given me more than I could have imagined,” he said, his eyes flicking over the tea set again before setting the gumdrops down and carefully placing the tea set next to it.

They spent the next few minutes unpacking the food and gifts, the house filling up with small, meaningful tokens of affection from friends. The crabapples were moved to the cellar, the extra plate of fadge set aside for breakfast. The space that had once seemed so quiet and lonely now felt full, alive, warm.

Ciarán took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the room with obvious satisfaction. Then, with a soft yawn, he apologized, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

Graham shook his head, smiling. “You must be tired. I can clean up here. You go to bed.”

And then it hit him. He had been so caught up in the excitement of the day, he hadn’t even considered their sleeping arrangements.

The bed.

He froze. How could he have not thought of this? They had only just met, and yet they were married. Where would they sleep?

Before he could voice any of his concerns, Ciarán frowned. “Graham?”

“Sorry, just—thinking,” Graham said quickly. “You’ll have the bed. I’ll sleep in the barn.”

“Oh!” Ciarán looked surprised, clearly unsettled by the idea. “We won’t be—um, sharing the bed?”

Graham rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “It’s not the biggest bed, even for me. We’d be right on top of each other. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Ciarán blushed. “I see.”

“Don’t worry,” Graham assured him, though he felt awkward. “I’ll make another bed. A bigger one. It’ll take some time, but I’ll make it work.”

“You built your bed?” Ciarán asked, clearly intrigued.

“Yeah,” Graham said with a shrug. “It wasn’t too difficult. Had all the materials. Didn’t want to spend the money on something I could just make myself.” And then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Built the house too.”

Ciarán stared at him, a look of quiet admiration in his eyes. “This is... this is amazing. You never mentioned you were such a skilled carpenter.”

Graham blushed, feeling embarrassed. “It’s nothing special.”

Ciarán didn’t seem to agree. “It’s incredible. You’ve done so much for us.”

Graham shifted the conversation, eager to learn more about his husband. “And you? You never—mentioned what you did in New York. I know you’re a talented artist.”

Ciarán chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, I’m not that good. Really, it was just something to pass the time. But... well, I went to school for stenography and typing, hoping to find work as a secretary. But, um…” He paused, his smile faltering. “A lot of places didn’t think I was refined enough.”

Graham frowned. “That’s ridiculous. You’re plenty refined.”

Ciarán’s smile was bittersweet. “Not everyone saw it that way. But I did find some sewing work. My father’s a tailor, you know. I was proud to be able to tell him that what he taught me was being put to good use.”

Graham’s heart ached. He knew what it was like to work hard for little reward, to feel as if the world was working against you. “I’m sorry you were treated like that, Ciarán. It won’t happen here.”

“It’s all right,” Ciarán said softly. “It worked out in the end.”

“But if anyone ever gives you trouble, you come find me,” Graham said firmly. “I’ll always have your back.”

Ciarán smiled again, though it was tinged with something Graham couldn’t quite place. “Thank you, Graham.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, though both men seemed unsure of what to say next. Finally, Ciarán spoke again, “I’m rather tired. I think I’ll go to bed now.”

“Yeah, of course,” Graham said quickly. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Ciarán replied, his voice soft. Before closing the bedroom door, he added, “Thank you for everything. The flowers, the ring, the wedding. It was more than I could have ever asked for.”

Graham stood there, speechless for a moment. He felt a swell of emotion, his chest tight. “It was the least I could do,” he muttered, though in his heart, he knew it hadn’t been enough. He should have done more.

“I’m glad you’re here, Ciarán,” Graham said softly.

“I’m very glad to be here,” Ciarán responded.

They exchanged one last smile, and then Ciarán disappeared into the bedroom. Graham, suddenly aware of the silence that filled the house, turned and made his way to the barn. The stars glittered above, the air cool and comforting. He paused for a moment, taking it all in—the vast, open sky, the land that stretched before him, and the house behind him, where his new husband lay waiting.

What a tremendous day it had been.

With that thought, Graham climbed into the hayloft, stretched out, and closed his eyes, letting sleep claim him at last.