Song of Oestend (21 page)

Deacon’s confusion was replaced by a slow smile. “I’m sure not leaving in the dark.”

“Good.” Aren pushed Deacon back down onto the bed, straddling his hips. “How

about if I distract you from the noise?”

It was different the second time. Not quite as gentle. Not quite as much like making

love. Still, it wasn’t the type of sex Aren had grown used to over the years. It was fun, almost playful, and although Aren found himself once again taking Deacon into his body, he found he didn’t resent him for it at all. Maybe it was because Deacon let him lead. Maybe it was because he knew that whatever happened, whether tomorrow they were lovers or friends or nothing at all, Deacon wouldn’t laugh at him. He knew he wouldn’t mock him. How Deacon chose to deal with it in the end would be his own business, but Aren felt secure in the knowledge that Deacon knew him now in every way, and he wouldn’t have to hide. He wouldn’t have to be ashamed.

He pushed Deacon back onto the bed and rode him hard, giving himself up to pure

sexual pleasure.

When he awoke the next morning, Deacon was already gone. Aren took it as a sign.

Deacon had given him his one night, but he hadn’t stuck around for the morning after. He hadn’t even waited so they could walk to breakfast together.

Aren had promised not to pursue him. He debated whether meeting Deacon for

breakfast as if nothing had happened would seem like pressure. In his experience, if men wanted to have sex again, they would find him. He decided the best thing to do was to give Deacon his space until he made up his mind. Besides, the longer he stayed in his house, the more likely the McAllens would be gone by the time he emerged.

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He skipped breakfast completely and didn’t go to the main house until dinner, while

the men were in the field. He rarely visited the kitchen at that time of day, and he was surprised to find the wives sitting around the table together—all but Shay, of course, who had taken her sons and Brighton to visit her family.

“They should have been back by now,” Tama said. “Shay said they were only staying

three nights, which means they should have been back two days ago.”

Daisy waved her hand dismissively. “So they changed their minds,” she said.

“What if it’s something worse?” Tama asked.

“Like what?” Aren asked as he sat down next to them with his plate.

“Wraiths,” Tama said.

“Don’t the Austins have a generator?”

“Of course, but sometimes things happen.”

“Like what?” he asked again.

It was Daisy who answered. “I heard a story,” she said, and there was no missing the

relish in her voice at getting to tell him a good tale. “Several years ago, before Jeremiah ran the BarChi, Old Man Pane sent some men up to the Austin ranch, and they didn’t come home. So after a few days, he sent two more, and they didn’t come home either. And he sent another. And he didn’t come home. So finally, he sent his sons.” She stopped, savouring her moment. “Now, you know it takes two days to get there, right? And there’s a shack in between?”

“Yes.”

“The shack’s at the halfway point, and once you get there, you have to stay. Never

enough daylight left to turn around and come back or to push on to the Austin ranch. That time, turned out a storm had blown the roof off the shack. And each group of men that went up had tried to fix it, but couldn’t get it done in time for dark. Jeremiah said they found all those men dead inside.”

“Holy Saints,” Aren swore. “That’s awful.”

“Exactly,” Tama said. She clearly didn’t find the story as entertaining as Daisy. Her face had gone ashen. “Shay and Brighton could be dead up there at the shack with their sons.”

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“You’re being over-dramatic,” Daisy chided. “You know how Shay is! It’s not like

they’ve never stayed a few extra nights before. We were worried then, too, and it turned out to be nothing.”

“I know,” Tama said, chewing her lip. “But it’s not only that. It’s also what Olsa said.”

Daisy rolled her eyes, flicking her hand at Tama dismissively. “It’s bull dung.”

“What did Olsa say?” Aren asked.

“Well…” Tama’s cheeks turned red. “I said something about Alissa being a better wife

for you than Rynna. I said Rynna was…”

Her words trailed away, but Daisy finished for her. “A spoilt-rotten bitch.”

Tama’s cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. “Something like that, yes. And Olsa said I’d feel bad later for having spoken ill of the dead.”

“That old woman’s crazy,” Daisy said. “You know better than to listen to her.”

Tama didn’t look convinced, but it seemed she didn’t want to argue about it, either. She glanced nervously at Aren. Although Aren couldn’t deny Olsa was sometimes odd, there was also no denying she had an uncanny knack for knowing things nobody else did. He

didn’t blame Tama for being concerned.

“So what happens?” he asked.

“Jeremiah will give them a few more days,” Daisy said, “but eventually, somebody has

to go investigate.”

“Who?”

“Probably Deacon,” Tama said.

That alarmed him. Why couldn’t somebody else do it?

Of course he knew why. Because Deacon was the best man for the job. He was the best

man for any job.

The next few days were the same. Aren made every effort to give Deacon his space. He

ate his breakfasts late and his suppers early, so as not to force the big ranch hand to see him before he was ready. Those things he could handle. But every evening after supper, as he sat alone his house, he found himself depressed.

He missed Deacon. He only wished Deacon missed him, too.

Many times, he passed him on the ranch. He felt Deacon’s eyes on him. The one time he bumped into him in the kitchen, they exchanged awkward pleasantries. Although Aren did SONG OF OESTEND

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his best to act casual, to act as if nothing had happened between them, he noticed Deacon could not meet his eyes. His cheeks remained red until Aren gave up and left the room.

He’d hoped Deacon would come for him. He’d hoped he’d want more. But as the days

went by, it became more and more clear that Deacon wanted nothing of the sort. Aren felt guilty and alone. He wished he could undo what he had done. He’d been so determined to have a lover for even one night.

He wished that one night hadn’t cost him his friend.

“He’ll be leaving soon,” Olsa said to Aren on Saturday afternoon, as he sat eating

supper alone. Aren didn’t have to ask who ‘he’ was. She could only mean Deacon.

“To check on the Austins?”

“Yes.”

Aren’s heart sank. He hated the thought of Deacon going off into the wild. What if the roof had been blown off the shack again? What if something went wrong?

“You’re worried about him.”

“Of course.” Although he was reluctant to confess how much it mattered. “He’s the

heart of the BarChi. It would be impossible to replace him.”

“So, you two boys are going to keep circling each other forever, pretending like you

don’t know what you want?”

Aren stared at her, trying to determine if there was judgement in her tone. Her sightless eyes gave nothing away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally said.

“Bull dung. You two were peas in a pod one day, and the next day you show up

separate, but covered in each other’s smells. Ever since then, you’ve been giving him a wide berth, and he’s been moping around like a damn fool. I may be old, but I’m not stupid. I can put two and two together.”

Aren resisted the urge to laugh. He’d been foolish to think anything would get past

Olsa. “I told him he could decide what happened between us.”

“And do you think he’s decided?”

“Well, he seems to be keeping his distance, so I guess that’s a decision of some sort.”

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“Bah!” She waved her hand at him. “You’re as much a fool as him! You deserve each

other!”

“Are you saying I’m wrong?”

“Of course you’re wrong, you stupid boy! You think he’s keeping his distance because

he doesn’t want to be with you. You’re waiting on him, and he’s waiting on you.”

“He knows where I live, Olsa. If he wanted to pursue something—”

“Is that how it worked before?” she asked, interrupting him. “Did he pursue you?”

Aren felt himself blushing, but he answered. “No.”

“And with those damn maids at the McAllen ranch? Did he pursue any of them?”

Aren thought back to the night in the barn, and the maids with their unbuttoned

blouses and inviting eyes. “No.”

“He’s doing the only thing he knows how to do,” she said. “Waiting for you.”

“I told him I wouldn’t pressure him—”

“Then you’ll both go on being lonely and miserable, staring at each other with big, sad calf eyes. You make me sick. Life’s too short to waste it on fools like you.” She snatched his not-quite empty bowl away from him and put it on the ground for the dogs. “Get out of my kitchen.”

Aren didn’t try to argue with her. He didn’t get up and leave, either. Instead, he

thought about what she was telling him.

Was it possible she was right? He’d been so careful to give Deacon space, but what if the man didn’t want space? Aren had felt Deacon watching him. He’d felt the silence between them grow heavy and oppressive. Aren had assumed the awkwardness between

them was because he had pressured Deacon into sex, but maybe it was actually because

Deacon was waiting for Aren to make a move again. In some ways, it fitted.

“What if you’re wrong?” he asked.

“I’m not,” she said. “He may not know how to ask for what he wants, but he sure as

hell knows how to take it once it’s offered.”

Aren stopped in the barn on his way back to the house, looking for Deacon, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he planned to do if he found him there. He wanted to test Olsa’s theory, and yet he didn’t want to cause trouble. He was more relieved than disappointed to find the barn empty.

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Back in the old house—he still couldn’t quite think of it as his house—he climbed the stairs to his studio. He’d been avoiding the room and what waited within, just as he’d avoided Deacon. The half-finished painting sat on his easel, and Aren contemplated it.

The skin was wrong. He knew that now. He’d painted Deacon’s skin smooth and

unblemished. He thought of Deacon’s scars as he reached for his paints. The artistic side of his brain took over, mixing colours and attacking the canvas with a fevered excitement, while the other side of his brain thought over Olsa’s comments with cool, analytical detachment.

He’d never in his life been as sexually aggressive as he’d been with Deacon. Months of pent-up sexual frustration had led him down a path he’d never had the opportunity to travel before, and when it was over, he’d sat back, reverting to old habits, expecting Deacon to act like all of the boys he’d known before, or like Professor Birmingham. He’d assumed Deacon would come to him if he wanted more. The idea that Deacon might be waiting for him was almost intoxicating. He thought about it all night.

The next day was Sunday, the one day everybody, hands and family alike, had dinner

together. He was overly meticulous as he tied his hair back into a ponytail—it was finally long enough to be tied back, although only barely—and knotted his tie. One way or another, he was determined to find out whether or not Olsa was right.

Sunday dinners were held not in the kitchen, but in the Pane’s formal dining room.

When Aren arrived, he was happy to find the chairs on either side of Deacon were still free. It had only been a few days, and yet it felt like ages since he’d sat next to Deacon. It felt good to walk up and sit down with him, exactly as he would have done before they’d had sex. He noted the surprise on Deacon’s face, and he didn’t think it was his imagination that Deacon looked pleased.

“How have you been?” Aren asked him, looking pointedly into Deacon’s eyes.

Deacon’s cheeks started to flush, but he didn’t look away. “I’m good.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” Aren said, and even talking about something as mundane as the weather with Deacon felt good.

“It is,” Deacon agreed.

“What do you have to do this week?”

“We’re leaving tomorrow to check on the Austins. But today, I’m just mending fences in the south pastures.”

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The south pastures. That meant Aren could easily arrange to see him, and he smiled at the thought of taking his sketchpad out into the bright sunlight and sketching Deacon as he restrung barbed wire. Like he was reading his mind, Deacon asked quietly, “Will I see you there today?”

Aren smiled. “Maybe.”

The rest of the hands and family had arrived. They barely fitted at the table, all of them scrunched in shoulder-to-shoulder. The wives were still bringing in dishes of food, and the other hands were talking and joking with each other. Aren glanced around and found that nobody was paying even the slightest bit of attention to him and Deacon. They were in a room full of people, and yet it felt strangely intimate.

Aren looked back at Deacon, who was watching him expectantly. It was easy to move

his hand over. Under the table, hidden by the long table cloth, it was so easy to rest his fingertips on Deacon’s thigh. He saw the surprise in Deacon’s eyes, but Deacon didn’t pull away. He held perfectly still.

“I’ve missed you,” Aren said, keeping his tone light.

Deacon’s eyes darted away, but only to scan the rest of the table as Aren had done, to make sure nobody was watching them or listening, then he looked back at Aren with a smile.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Aren moved his hand slowly up Deacon’s thigh. Deacon’s eyes drifted closed, and as

Aren’s fingers traced slowly higher, Deacon spread his knees, allowing Aren’s hand to slide easily between his legs. Aren felt a surge of excitement that seemed to start at the base of his skull. It travelled from his brain, down his spine, straight to his groin. All this time, he’d been waiting for Deacon when all he’d really needed to do was reach out and take him. He slid his hand further up Deacon’s thigh, his fingers only a hairsbreadth from the cowboy’s groin, and he noted the way Deacon’s breath caught in his throat.