Song of Oestend (17 page)

And as far as Frances knew, that was it. But Aren knew better. Deacon was the one who had arranged for Simon to talk to him. Deacon was the one who had carefully planned who would go to town and who would stay behind, depending on whether or not Frances

decided to stay. Despite playing the role of the bully—of the
boss
, Aren corrected himself—he had done everything in his power not only to make sure Frances stayed, but to make sure things went well.

“Thank you,” Aren said, “for helping him.”

Deacon shook his head, uncomfortable with the sentiment as he always was. “Just

doing my job. I’m sorry that…” he stopped, letting his words trail away.

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“That what?” Aren prompted him.

Deacon shrugged heavily and drained the whisky from his glass.

“Sorry you always have to be the bad guy?” Aren asked.

Deacon shrugged again, looking sad, and Aren decided to change the subject. He was

happy Deacon was back. He didn’t want to ruin the evening.

“How was the McAllen ranch?” he asked, teasing. “Those maids take good care of

you?”

Deacon grinned at him. “Good enough, I guess.” His grin grew mischievous. “Brought

something back for you, too.”

“Something better than the whisky?” he asked.

“Suppose that depends on who you ask.”

“Where is it?”

“Back at the house, far’s I know.”

“When do I get to see it?”

“Right soon, I guess. Jeremiah told me to invite you to the house for supper.”

“You brought something for me, and I have to go to supper at the house to see it?”

“Yup,” Deacon said, looking sheepish. “Want you to know right now it ain’t my fault,

either. I don’t want you getting mad at me again.”

“What?” Aren asked, laughing. “Did you bring me a maid looking for a roll?”

“No,” Deacon said. “Brought you a couple of daughters, looking for a spouse.”

It took a moment for those words to register. The enjoyment Aren had been feeling as

he bantered with Deacon was quickly replaced by alarm. “You
what?
” he asked, jumping up from his chair. His eyes flew to the front door, as if a girl might suddenly appear there. He had a sudden and irrational urge to run.

Deacon laughed. “I knew you were gonna fly off the handle.”

“Are you insane? Why would you do that to me?”

Deacon held up his hands as if in surrender, but Aren noticed he couldn’t keep the

smile off his face, either. He was having great fun. “I told you,” he said. “It ain’t my fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?” Aren asked.

“Tama’s, I guess.”

“What?
How?
”

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“She had me take a letter back to her daddy, and she must have told him all about you living in this house, and how much you needed a wife, ‘cause when we came back through on our way home, he’d already decided he and his daughters was coming with us to the BarChi to meet you.”

“Holy Saints!” Aren swore. “What do I do?”

“Well, seems to me like you go on over to the house and have supper and wait for Fred McAllen to offer you a bride. I’m sure he’s got a dowry in mind. You can bet it’s a lowball offer, too, so don’t take it without talking him up some first.”

“I don’t want a dowry! I don’t want a wife!”

Deacon cocked his head at him, looking puzzled. “Why you so set against it?” he asked.

“Is it the money? Brighton’s always joking about how much it costs to keep one. Jeremiah not paying you enough?”

“It’s not the money! It’s that—”

I don’t like women.

He couldn’t say that. Not to Deacon. He swallowed all the whisky left in his glass and went to the table to pour some more.

“You think if you show up drunk, they’ll change their mind?” Deacon asked.

“It’s worth a try,” Aren said, swallowing the shot.

“Well,” Deacon said, standing up, “you best start getting ready. Don’t want to show up in your work clothes.”

“What about you?” Aren asked.

And although Deacon tried to hide it, Aren did not miss the hint of pain those words

caused him. “I ain’t invited,” he said.

“Wait a minute!” Aren said with sudden realisation. “You told me when we first met

that you didn’t make enough money to support a wife and didn’t have a house to keep one in.” Deacon turned away, looking extremely uncomfortable, but Aren went on. “This house is yours, and I do the books, so I know you lied about the money, too! You’re paid more than anybody on this ranch!” And he earned every bit of it, too.

“So?”

“‘So’? Why aren’t you the one going to supper?”

“Ranch hands don’t marry daughters.”

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“But—”

“Aren, stop!” Deacon said, turning to face him, and Aren was surprised at how upset he looked. “It don’t matter why!”

It seemed they both had their secrets. He might have wondered if they were the same if he hadn’t seen Deacon’s ready response to the McAllen maids. “All right,” Aren relented.

“I’m sorry.” He was still curious, but he didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to go to dinner with the family, either, but it seemed he had no choice. He looked out of the window, checking the position of the sun in the sky. “I probably do need to get ready.”

“I got work to do, anyway,” Deacon said. “Too many chores left undone with all of us

gone. Two new hands to see to. They’re probably branding them now.”

“Branding the ranch hands?”

“Yup. That’s how they show what ranches they been on.” Aren had noticed some of the

brands when he’d lived in the barracks but hadn’t ever thought to ask what they meant.

“New boys like Frances have to earn theirs,” Deacon said, “but these new men been on

ranches before. They’ll want to do it right away. It’s their way of proving to the other men that they’re committed.”

“Or that they need to be committed,” Aren mumbled.

Deacon laughed. “You been here long enough. You could run on down there and get

your brand too,” he teased. “Show that wife-to-be that you’re tough.”

Aren didn’t much want to impress any ‘wife-to-be’, and having some drunk ranch hand

brand him like he was a blessed cow seemed like way too much pain to try to prove he was macho. “No thanks.”

Deacon laughed. “Turns out you’re smarter than you look.”

Aren laughed. He couldn’t believe how something as simple as having Deacon tease

him could feel so good. “Will I see you tonight after supper?” Aren asked.

Deacon shook his head. “No time.” Aren’s heart sank at the words. He thought he

could have handled supper better if he could have come home to a drink with Deacon. “See you tomorrow at breakfast,” Deacon said, then he grinned wickedly and winked at Aren.

“Unless you’re too busy with your new wife.”

“Holy Saints,” Aren said, laughing, “not a chance in this blessed world.”

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He followed the big cowboy to the door, leaning against the door jamb to watch him

leave, but Deacon paused on the porch. He turned around again, and Aren was surprised at the blush on his cheeks. He let his gaze fall and pushed his hat down so its wide brim hid his face. He pulled a small, burlap-wrapped bundle from the pocket of his coat. “Brought you this, too,” he said, shoving it into Aren’s hand.

He turned and walked away before Aren had even recovered from the surprise. “Thank

you,” he called to Deacon’s back. Deacon didn’t look back, but Aren knew he’d heard from the way he ducked his head.

Aren opened the bundle and stared down at what was inside.

It was a penknife. The ghost had broken his old one more than a week before, on the

day of Miron’s death. After the accident and everything that had followed, Aren had

forgotten all about it.

But Deacon had remembered.

If there was anything worse than being seated at supper between two women who

thought they wanted to marry him, it was having their father try to negotiate a dowry right in front of them as if they were cattle instead of women.

“Jay didn’t ask for any of the farm when he married Tama,” Fred said, “so best I can

offer right now is a third of it, with the possibility of more once the other girls is married off.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Aren said, forcing himself to smile, “but I’m really not

interested in running a ranch. I don’t know the first thing about hogs.”

They were in the Pane’s formal dining room, seated around a table that was way too big for such a small group. On his left, Alissa sat with her head down. She seemed miserable, and Aren couldn’t blame her. On his right sat Beth, doing her absolute best to impress him.

She was nothing but smiles and compliments, and she laughed at everything Aren said as if she found him fabulously amusing.

“Daddy,” she said, “Aren has a house here at the BarChi. Of course he doesn’t want to move all the way to our land!”

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“Well, son, let’s not beat around the bush! Daylight’s burning! Tell me what you think is a fair price.”

Alissa covered her face with her hands. Was she crying?

“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think it’s polite to discuss such things in the presence of your daughters—”

“We can send them out of the room. Beth, Alissa, run on down to the kitchen to finish your supper.”

“Daddy!” Beth protested.

Alissa actually started to stand up, but Aren stopped her with a hand on her wrist. She sat slowly back down, looking at him with such heartfelt gratitude in her eyes, it made him blush. “Mr McAllen, I’ve not yet agreed to marry anybody. I’m only here because Mr Pane was kind enough to invite me for dinn—I mean, supper.”

“But, son,” Fred said, “certainly—”

“Fred,” Jeremiah said, “ya’ll will still be here tomorrow, and so will Aren.” Aren’s heart sank at those words. He’d hoped they were leaving the next day. “No need to rush into things.”

“No need to stall, either!”

“Brighton, Shay and their two sons are up at the Austin place right now, visiting Shay’s parents,” Jeremiah said. “Austins have a daughter to marry off, too. Shay was going to bring Rynna back here for a few days so Aren could meet her before he makes a decision.”

Aren barely stopped himself from groaning out loud at the prospect of having yet

another potential bride to deal with.

Fred slammed his hand down on the table. “All the more reason I should lay all my

cards on the table now!”

“Daddy!” Tama hissed. “You’re being rude!”

“Pumpkin, I’m only—”

“Mr McAllen,” Aren said, doing his best to sound calm and reasonable rather than

disgusted and annoyed, “what I’d prefer is if you’d give me your offer in writing. I’m a bookkeeper, after all, and that way I’ll have time to properly contemplate your offer.”

Fred seemed to consider that for a moment. He nodded. “Yeah, I can see how that

makes sense,” he said.

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After that, the awkward subject of dowries was dropped, and Aren breathed a mental

sigh of relief. But his torment was far from over.

“Aren,” Tama said, “Alissa is a fabulous cook! If there anything you’ve been craving, she could make it for you tomorrow.”

Alissa blushed at the compliment, but she turned to him with a shy smile. “I’m really good at pancakes,” she told him, “and desserts. I could make you a cake.”

The idea of cake did make Aren’s mouth water—Olsa didn’t often bother with

desserts—but he didn’t want to give Alissa false hope.

“That’s very kind,” he said, “but—”

A hand suddenly landed on his right thigh. Aren jumped. His knees hit the underside

of the table so hard that the glassware on its top rattled. Everybody at the table turned his way. Aren felt his cheeks turning red as he pushed Beth’s hand away. “Excuse me,” he said, standing up. “I just realised I forgot to…umm…take something, ummm, to…” They were all staring at him. The women looked alarmed. Fred McAllen looked confused. Jeremiah looked downright amused. “I have to go,” Aren finally said. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

It was all he could do to keep from running as he left the room. As he crossed the grass to his house, he found himself looking over his shoulder, hoping against hope that nobody from the disastrous supper had decided to follow him.

Once inside his house, he bolted the doors. He poured himself a very large drink. He

retreated to his bedroom so that anybody who came looking for him wouldn’t be able to look through his window and see him inside.

One more day
, he thought.
I have to avoid them for one more day, then they’ll be gone.
Of course, then Shay would be back with her sister, Rynna.

He sighed. Was it so odd for him to not want to marry? Deacon was older than him,

and liked women, but he wasn’t married. Why should Aren be any different?

Deacon obviously had his reasons.

Aren was startled by the sound of a knock on his front door. It wasn’t the ghost in the cellar—he knew that sound well enough. Besides, the ghost only knocked on the door at night, and although the sun was low in the sky, it wasn’t nightfall yet.

He also knew the knock wasn’t Deacon. He’d grown just as used to the big cowboy’s

window-rattling knock as he had to the ghost’s. The timid tap on his front door wasn’t him.

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Aren groaned. He sank lower in his chair, as if whoever it was might otherwise be able to see him through the door and the walls and the floor.

He was
not
getting married. If he said no long enough, surely they’d give up.

Eventually.

He hoped.

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