Page 9

“There’s not a single puppy in this town,” Graham muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. He’d spent the better part of the past week traveling from farm to farm, asking every rancher and farmer he could find about the possibility of a dog with puppies for sale. He’d even put the word out to a few neighbors, hoping for a lead, but it was as if the very idea of puppies had evaporated from Larkspur. Not a single one to be found, not even a stray. He might as well have been searching for buried treasure.

Oscar, the postmaster, raised an eyebrow and glanced over at him with an expression of mild amusement. “Well, they’re not like chicken eggs, Graham. They don’t just pop out every day.”

Graham shot him a withering look. “I’m aware, Oscar. Thank you.”

“I’m only saying,” Oscar replied, turning back to his work, sifting through more letters and packages. He seemed completely unaffected by Graham’s visible frustration. “Give it a couple of months, though. I’m sure someone’s dog will get loose and turn up with a handful of puppies. Happens all the time around here.”

Graham grunted in response, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had hoped, even just once, to find a dog that might meet his needs—faithful, protective, and affectionate—but every visit had been a disappointment. And as the days passed, his impatience was growing. It wasn’t just about the dog anymore, either. Ciarán had been asking him about the guard dog idea more and more, and Graham felt the pressure of needing to deliver on his promise. It was a good idea, wasn’t it? To keep Ciarán safe. To have something that could protect their home when Graham wasn’t there. But if no puppies were turning up, he was starting to wonder if his plan would ever come to fruition.

Oscar’s voice broke through his thoughts, offering a slight diversion. “Ah, here we go. A package for Mr. Ciarán Shepherd, straight from Ireland.” Oscar tapped the top of the package with his finger, bringing Graham’s attention to it. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, neatly folded, with a green ribbon tied around it. There was something familiar about the handwriting on the label—Ciarán’s father’s handwriting, the letters flowing and dignified in their formation.

Graham felt his frustration momentarily melt away as he reached for the package. The weight of it seemed reassuring. It wasn’t enormous, but it was substantial enough to feel like something important, something Ciarán would appreciate. He felt a small thrill as he took it into his hands, his fingers brushing the green ribbon. It was always a joy to receive something from Ireland, but the fact that this was from Ciarán’s father made it all the more meaningful. It would mean a lot to Ciarán. It would give him a connection to his family, a piece of home that would remind him of where he came from. Graham could already picture the way Ciarán’s face would light up when he saw the package.

He glanced down at the package again, admiring the care with which it had been wrapped. This would be something special, something Ciarán could hold onto. Maybe it was a letter or a small token of some sort, or perhaps even something more. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. It would make Ciarán’s day, and that was all that mattered to Graham.

Oscar saw the change in Graham’s demeanor, and the postmaster smirked, clearly pleased to have provided a small bright spot in his otherwise mundane day. “There you go, Graham. Looks like it’s a little slice of home for your husband.”

“Yeah, it sure is,” Graham said with a genuine smile, his mood lifting as he tucked the package under his arm. The thought of Ciarán’s joy over the surprise was enough to make the rest of the day seem more bearable. Maybe he hadn’t found a dog, but at least he had something to bring back with him—something that would make Ciarán smile.

He thanked Oscar for his time and left the post office in a much better mood than when he had entered.

◆◆◆

Ginger’s ears twitched as the soft rays of the sun warmed her coat. She carried herself with a light, carefree canter down the familiar path, and Graham couldn't help but smile. He, too, was glad for the bright day. The warmth of it spread through him like a balm after a long morning of travel. His hand absently stroked Ginger's neck as they trotted toward home. The package from Ciarán’s father was nestled safely in Ginger’s saddlebag, and Graham couldn’t wait to give it to his husband. It felt like a tangible connection from the past, a little piece of Ireland coming across the sea to land in their hands, and he was eager to see Ciarán’s face when he opened it.

But as they neared the ranch, he was about to encounter a surprise that eclipsed even the one he’d been preparing for.

The sight that greeted him as he approached the house made him pause in his tracks. The line had been set up—perfectly, it seemed—with all manner of clothes fluttering in the breeze. But not just any clothes. No, there, hanging in full view, was a collection of garments that made Graham’s heart jump into his throat. His husband’s undergarments—his shifts, stockings, undershirts, and chemises—all billowing in the wind, as if they were the most ordinary things in the world. Some had delicate lace trim; others were simpler, worn and mended in places. White and cream fabrics gently swayed, catching the light. There was something almost delicate about it, the way they were all pinned to the line in such an orderly fashion.

And yet, all Graham could focus on was the fact that they were his—Ciarán’s personal garments, so intimate, so private. The mere thought of them drying in the wind made Graham feel conspicuously exposed. It felt almost… indecent, even though he knew it shouldn’t. There was no reason for him to be so embarrassed by the simple sight of his husband’s things hanging in the sun. But somehow, there it was, as if a layer of privacy had been peeled away and left out in the open for anyone to see.

He hopped off Ginger, ignoring the laundry as best as he could. He retrieved the package from the saddlebag and tucked it firmly under his arm, determined not to look at the fluttering clothes. The last thing he wanted was to make this moment awkward, so he focused instead on the task at hand—delivering Ciarán’s package. He couldn’t let anything ruin this moment.

As he drew closer, Ciarán’s bright, welcoming face turned toward him. He grinned broadly, his eyes lighting up with a warmth that Graham couldn’t resist. “Laundry day!” Ciarán called out cheerfully. “I think I made good time on it all. It’s been a while since I’ve had to do laundry for two people, but look!” He beamed at the drying clothes with pride.

Graham, trying his hardest not to stare at the undergarments flapping in the wind, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yeah, looks good. Very—uh, clean. I went to the post office today. Something came in for you,” he said, holding the package out with both hands. His voice was slightly strained, but he was doing his best to act as though the laundry was just another part of their routine.

Ciarán’s face lit up the moment he saw the green ribbon on the package. There was a moment of breathless anticipation before a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a cry of delight—escaped from his lips. Graham half-expected him to grab the package eagerly, but instead, Ciarán stepped closer, almost reverently. He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of it, and gently lifted it as though it might break in his hands. He traced a finger lightly along the elegant handwriting on the package, his expression softening with emotion. “Oh, Graham,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips, “Thank you so much for bringing this to me.”

The warmth in Ciarán’s voice, the sheer adoration and gratitude, made Graham uncomfortable. He didn’t deserve such praise. He was merely the messenger, after all. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to respond. “I’m just the messenger,” he muttered, but his voice was quiet, as if even he didn’t believe the words.

Ciarán didn’t seem to mind. He cradled the package to his chest, clearly overcome with emotion. “Do you—have you eaten?” Graham asked, desperate to shift the focus elsewhere. He didn’t want to stand there feeling like he was some sort of hero. He just wanted to see his husband happy, and if Ciarán wanted to open the package, then that’s what he would let him do.

“Not yet,” Ciarán replied, his brow furrowing slightly in thought. “But I’m not in a hurry.”

“Well, just… Why don’t you sit down and take a look at what your father sent you? There’s got to be a long letter in there, right?” Graham suggested, trying to keep his voice light. He still wasn’t sure how to navigate this moment, but he was determined to make it feel comfortable for both of them. “I’ll make lunch. Won’t be anything fancy, but…” He trailed off, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous gesture.

Ciarán smiled softly. “You think I’ve eaten anything very fancy?” His voice was playful, teasing even.

“Well, you ate at the Harvey Houses,” Graham offered. He could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, a touch embarrassed by how little he knew about Ciarán’s life before Larkspur.

“They were nice,” Ciarán said with a soft laugh. “But I don’t know if I would call that fancy. Honestly, I can’t remember much of the train ride. All my thoughts were about, um… About you, Graham. And the wedding.” He looked down, a hint of pink coloring his cheeks as he spoke, but the tenderness in his words made Graham’s heart swell.

Graham wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The rawness of it caught him off guard. They stood there, caught in a moment that felt too intimate, too personal. His mind raced, his emotions tangled in a knot. He cleared his throat, trying to break the silence. “Right. Well, I’ll get started on lunch. Just, sit down and rest for a bit.”

Ciarán smiled that soft, genuine smile of his, and Graham found himself smiling back despite the awkwardness. But before he could turn and head for the house, Ciarán called after him.

“Oh, Graham—could you bring the laundry in? It should nearly be dry by now.”

Graham’s gaze drifted involuntarily back to the laundry line. There they were again—Ciarán’s underthings, delicate and private, fluttering in the breeze. They were so light, so soft, and they reminded him of the quiet moments they shared together at night, the way Ciarán’s freckled skin looked in the dim light, the way he felt so comfortable and safe in his arms. Graham swallowed hard, his voice suddenly thick with a mix of confusion and desire. “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said, his tone hoarse.

He turned back toward the laundry, trying his best to focus on the simple task ahead, but all he could think about was the weight of his husband’s words, the tenderness in Ciarán’s eyes, and the growing realization that, somehow, he was deeply, irrevocably in love.

◆◆◆

Graham washed his hands twice before taking a single piece of laundry off the clothesline. He didn’t want to dirty any of Ciarán’s hard work. He worked as quickly as he could, placing each article of clothing into the basket, careful not to cause creases or wrinkles but trying desperately to limit the amount of time he spent touching his husband’s undergarments because every brush of the material between his fingers made him think about Ciarán wearing said undergarments and those were very dangerous thoughts, to say the least.

When everything was safely in the basket and placed safely outside their bedroom he took a deep breath, berated himself for every indecent image that had passed through his head, and set about making lunch.

He wasn’t a chef by any means, but he’d been on his own for some time and he knew how to cook a decent meal.

Tea—Ciarán preferred tea to coffee—a few fried eggs, hashed brown potatoes, a fresh green salad sprinkled with dandelion flowers, a bowl of pecans and almonds, and a plate stacked with fried hand pies filled with peach preserves.

It wasn’t bad. A bit of everything. Graham wiped his floury and buttery hands on his apron and surveyed the spread with satisfaction. All that was left was to set the table. It always sent a jolt of happiness coursing through his body when he grabbed enough for two—two spoons, two forks, two knives, two plates—two people eating together, him and his husband.

Ciarán entered just as soon as Graham placed a vase of wildflowers in the middle of the table. Draped over his arm was what appeared to be a new waistcoat, a pocket watch, a choker necklace of red velvet with a shell cameo pendant. In his other hand was a letter. Ciarán’s eyes were red and puffy—he’d been crying. Graham’s worry must’ve shown on his face, because Ciarán sniffled and said, “Everything’s fine. I just miss him terribly.” He gave Graham a watery smile. “But, look! We've got some wedding presents.”

The waistcoat was Ciarán’s; his father apparently knew his measurements by heart and had tailored it for him. It was beautifully made, with a red and gold brocade pattern, and matched the necklace. The cameo depicted a pastoral scene of a young man reading underneath a tree. “That’s very pretty,” Graham said. He imagined Ciarán wearing them to church, how sweet he’d look, the admiration of all in attendance.

And Rory, the father-in-law that Graham had never met, had given him a silver pocket watch. When Ciarán showed it to him Graham balked. “I can’t take that. That’s too much—”

“Oh, he didn’t buy it, it’s an heirloom.”

Christ, he really couldn’t take it. “He didn’t have to go through all the trouble. He could’ve given it to—to family, or something.”

Ciarán frowned. “Graham,” he said, slowly, “You’re my husband.”

“I know, but. He doesn’t know me. He hasn’t even met me.”

“He knows what I’ve told him about you. That you’re so kind and hard-working and that you—” Ciarán paused, blushing, freckled cheeks pretty and pink. He seemed to be working up the courage to continue. “That you’re so very handsome.” Trembling, Ciarán placed his small hand over Graham’s large one. “I, um. I really want us to share the bed. Even if it’s cramped. I wouldn’t mind that, not at all.”

Graham stared at him, mouth agape. Ciarán’s words settled into his mind, nestled in nice and cozy and snug like a sparrow returning to its nest to settle down for the night. He squeezed Ciarán’s fingers, gently, and asked, a bewildered smile spreading across his face, “You didn’t—you didn’t tell your dad about that, did you? About the bed and, uh. Wanting us to share it?”

The tension left Ciarán’s shoulders. He burst out laughing. “Graham! No, of course not! I just told him that I, um. That I liked you very much and that—that I hoped in time we would grow—closer.” Ciarán’s face had gone as red as the sunrise. “But I—I’ve been hoping that you would see me as your husband in—all aspects of life.”

Without a word, Graham took the waistcoat, the letter, the necklace, and the pocket watch. He folded the waistcoat, set it on the shelf, and placed the necklace and pocket watch on top of it, and the letter on top of them. Then he returned to the side of the table, where his husband stood with the most hopeful expression Graham had ever seen.

He placed his hands on either side of Ciarán’s slim waist. “Ever since our wedding I’ve been dreaming of kissing you again. Kissing you right.”

“Me, too,” Ciarán murmured. “I’ve wanted to kiss you. I’ve wanted you.” His lips were full and soft and slightly parted, expectant and needy, and Graham had done his best to give his husband everything he could possibly desire and he wasn’t about to stop now.

He kissed him.

Ciarán’s eyes fluttered shut. He grasped the back of Graham’s shirt. Graham’s hands moved to the small of his back, pulling him closer. The movement of Ciarán’s hips against his forced a shuddering moan from his mouth. Nothing had ever felt so right—how soft his husband’s lips were, how sweet his mouth tasted, how lovely the little noises that he made as Graham’s hands roved his back—curious and greedy, eager to learn the contours of Ciarán’s body after so much time.

They surely would’ve kept kissing longer, but a twinge in Graham’s bad leg made him break away with a grimace.

“What’s wrong?” Ciarán asked.

Graham gave him a peck on the nose. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just my leg acting up.”

“Do you, um.” Ciarán glanced at the bedroom door then back up at Graham through his long, dark lashes. “Do you want to lie down? We could—continue, if you wanted. Oh, but your lunch—”

“Lunch will be there when we’re done,” Graham said, firmly. There wasn’t anything on the table that couldn’t be warmed, or eaten cold if they worked up enough of an appetite and didn’t want to wait.

And that was a very interesting thought.

Ciarán laughed. He grabbed both of Graham’s hands and led him to the bedroom. Their bedroom. The first time that Graham had been inside of it since their wedding day.

Before, it had been practically empty. Now, however, it was clean and tidy, with a little rug on the floor, a flowerpot on the windowsill, a number of drawings and paintings that Graham recognized as Ciarán’s adorning the walls, Ciarán’s trunk at the foot of the bed, with the bed itself covered in a great many more blankets and pillows than he remembered. Clearly, Ciarán had wasted no time in making himself comfortable and at home. The sight warmed his heart. A bedroom, lived in, comforting and warm and intimate.

Ciarán asked, “What now, Graham?” He was still flushed from their kissing, his lips wet, his eyes dark.

Graham swallowed hard. Then he shut the door behind them and took his husband to bed.